Night of Knives – Ian C. Esslemont

“Night of Knives” is the first novel(-la) written by Ian Cameron Esslemont set in the Malazan world co-created with Steven Erikson. It’s a much leaner book, 300 pages in the american Tor edition, compared to Malazan standard, and chronologically set between the prologue and first chapter of “Gardens of the Moon”, the first book in the series. Yet, the fans recommend to read the book only before the sixth because of some connections, while I decided to anticipate it right after the fourth, since “House of Chains” deals more directly with the matters of the Malazan empire and I wanted to approach “Night of Knives” when that strand of story was still fresh in my memory.

The content and purpose of the book fit as a retrospective: from one side we get to see what happened in the particular night Surly/Laseen claimed the throne of the Malazan empire while declaring the death of the previous ruler, Kellanved, who had been missing for quite some time giving Surly the opportunity to solidify her position. From the other, through flashbacks, we get a close-up of “The Sword”, the six bodyguards/champions around Dassem Ultor, champion of the Malazan empire, and particularly Dassem’s betrayal that was vaguely commented between Paran and Wiskeyjack in that GotM prologue.

Here comparisons between writers are impossible to avoid since we have two of them writing the same material and aiming for complementarity. So the big question is if Esslemont can match Erikson or at least stay relevant and add something worthwhile, with expectations being very high and not playing in Esslemont’s favor since it’s complicate to debut when the main series is already established and halfway through. That was also my main concern: trying to weigh Esslemont potential not just for this book, but also for the upcoming contributions. The first 50 pages were quite revelatory for me. Esslemont is a rather competent writer, the beginning of the book is well handled, solid prose, written and paced perfectly. There wasn’t anything suggesting it was a debut instead of the work of an established writer. I also thought the style was distinctive and not clashing or conforming to Erikson. Especially, I think Esslemont did a wonderful work on Malaz itself, the city. The place comes to life, the shadowy atmosphere rendered perfectly with its narrow, twisted alleys, the very quiet and suspicious people on the brink of insanity. From Mock’s Hold perched on the cliff (and the inevitable wink to Mock’s Vane), down to the sprawling ramshackle houses. It gives a sense of real place and I still now consider this the biggest quality of the novel. The town being the true real protagonist, interpreting perfectly the understatement of the conflict it gets tangled in. The true heart of the empire, yet far from the celebration of triumph or glory of a capital. It’s a haunted town everyone would get away from, sullying and miserable. So weak and vulnerable, yet caught in the eye of the storm and holding desperately. Reminds me of a place that would fit perfectly in a Lovecraft story, madness stalking behind every corner.

Speaking of tones and atmosphere, I think that, more than Erikson, Esslemont draws plenty and openly from Glen Cook. The whole novel echoes with the first chapter of The Black Company and even more with the whole second book, “Shadows Linger”. Lots of elements in common, the first chapter of The Black Company was similar to an horror story, with the company caught in an unusual situation and slowly drifting toward dread, discovering corpses everywhere while the town they were stuck in descended into chaos, the Hounds of Shadow in “Night of Knives” filling perfectly the role of the “forvalaka”. Same for “Shadows Linger”, also set in a gloomy small town, inside filthy inns and nearby mysterious places. Townsfolk involved in ominous practices that slowly escalate to a disaster. Inspiration here is not a flaw, since Esslemont uses all this competently and functional to the story he writes, without giving the impression of a diminished copy.

There are problems, though. Everything is set perfectly in those initial pages, but as the story progresses it also loses its strength. Instead of escalating it kind of folds without delivering its potential. From my point of view the problem is that Esslemont fails to switch gear when needed. There’s a moment in the story when the spooky “fairy tales” and legends descend, truly, on the real world. Kiska fits well as a POV there, because we have a naive perspective on a situation that is quickly transforming. But when hell breaks loose the story is stuck in the preceding naive tone and the dramatic intensity is underachieved or lost. Esslemont stays too much on one fantastic, dreamy level that is excused when the story is still in the build-up phase and what is to come has to feel distant, the menace being remote. But when it closes it lacks realism and the characters are still lulled by the writer, never at risk, never exposed outside their own cliche. They stay put, characters as devices, their perimeter containing them, and them carefully stepping to never dare becoming real characters. This is the kind of babysitting that never lets the story run wild and deliver. Somewhat like a cheat.

Kiska fails to become a real character, ideally she should be hammered out of her fancy fantasies (echoing Paran’s own “I want to be a soldier. A hero.”) and crushing on reality. She starts wishing to be the heroine, admirably skilled in her dreamy land, but she stays there even after. She glides over everything, undamaged, in truth, beside a few minor bruises. The kid outskills everyone else, she lives her dream in reality WITHOUT EVEN PERCEIVING THE TRANSITION. She enters and exits the novel with the exact same mindset, nothing learned. She’s lulled in her dream as the world comes to coincide with it, instead of her coming to grips with reality. She starts naive, and ends up with all her dreams fulfilled without even once confronting reality. Her role, as cliche, fits perfectly, if only at some point the cliche would be used to spring her (and the escalation of the plot toward dramatic intensity) to a whole new level. Instead the whole structure folds. We have these two levels. The low-ground perception of townsfolk, with all their superstitions, and then the crushing of the convergence, the Shadow Realm that descends on the city itself, becoming very real and tangible. The townsfolk barred in their own houses, praying the dream to end soon, the storm outside. Yet, on the level of the novel, it’s the “reality” that is lifted up to “fairy” level, with magic becoming magic, old wizened and long-bearded guys becoming wise wizards, the heroine being tested through riddles. Lots of blood, corpses everywhere, but it’s just tomato juice on redshirts, come the morning the bad guys are dead, the roads relatively filthy as usual, some fallen bricks and crumpled walls, heroes survived heroically, the heroine got her alluring, mysterious boyfriend. When do I wake up?

Erikson’s work on the series can be summarized as: “Nothing is as it seems”. Here it’s the opposite: everything is as it seems. No subtlety, no tricks on perceptions, no layers. Leading to another consideration. Esslemont’s characterization is actually well done, at least in presenting the characters if not in their development. His overall style of prose, narration and characterization is traditional compared to Erikson, but “traditional” doesn’t mean “bad”. The introspection here is “full-on” and helps leading the narrative. You get into the characters’ thoughts in a way that you never find in Erikson. This meaning that this book can be more readable and accessible, even enjoyable. Erikson’s style, being infinitely layered, prompts you to put down the book and think about implications, Esslemont is more like the page-turner, pushing the story onward, curiosity taking the lead and the reader more involved in the destiny of characters. A more emotive/empathic approach of a character-driven story. The book can be read quickly and is quite fun but it stays on that level.

Thinking of “purpose”, the story is aimed to shed some light on a crucial point of the history of the empire. The book is filled with juicy details that can please the fans of the series. Lots of “fanservice”, which is a good thing. Yet, this is not a necessary read, nor a recommended one. Concretely, it adds nothing worthwhile. It uses and consumes without creating. We see lots of details about what went on, but they all seem disposable and none really clarifying. The real deep motives stay deep and unrevealed, deliberately untouched in this book. The betrayal of Dassem Ultor is a pivot of the novel, yet absolutely nothing is added to what we knew. We see it happen, but what we see explains nothing about what happened. Another instance of “everything is as it seems”, or there’s nothing more than what meets the eyes. Another big flaw being that the more is revealed, the weaker the story. Instead of enhancing and realizing complexity, it kills it. No surprises, no revelations that open new interpretations and scenarios. The few answers that come only close some dead-ends of the overall plot without producing anything. Lots of potential when it comes to Laseen, but the character is flat and hiding absolutely nothing. She’s merely there and passive, with the lack of active presence hiding absolutely nothing: she’s really doing nothing if not what is plain. Mystery that hides nothing. Same for the confrontation between Claws and Talons, reduced to a confused ninja battle between caped figures. Shadowy capes hiding nothing. Conspirators whose conspiracy is held on plain sight.

From this perspective the book is immature. Not again in the competency of Esslemont as a writer, but in failing to cross that line between adolescence and maturity and everything it represents. The falling of myths and naive dreams, the facing of failure or helplessness. The same done by some “fantasy” (as genre) trying to come out of its stereotype as “young-adult” escapist entertainment, whether it is George Martin or Erikson or whoever else, trying to open up the genre to a more mature type of narration, more complex, layered and unbound from strict conventions and types. “Maturity” or even modernity: no more absolutes, but points of view, layers, perspectives. This book fails to cross that border. The characters are caged into themselves, being plainly what they seem to be and within their narrow stereotype or functional role in the plot. In various occasions the story directly reminds of “young-adult” tropes (here straight from “Neverending Story”):

If she did succeed in returning, Kiska vowed she would head straight to Agayla’s. If anyone knew what was going on – and what to do – it would be her. Never mind all this insane mumbling of the Return, the Deadhouse, and Shadow. What a tale she had for her aunt!

And ending with:

‘Yes, I will. Thank you, Auntie. Thank you for everything.’
Agayla took her in her arms and hugged her, kissed her brow. ‘Send word soon or I swear I will send you a curse.’
‘I will.’
‘Good. Now run. Don’t keep Artan waiting.’

“Don’t keep your boyfriend waiting”. It’s then hard to lift the plot to dramatic intensity when this distance of perception never closes. Brutal fights are witnessed, but so alien and detached (or described through morbid badassness) that they never come real. Threat never getting close if not in a fake way. Kiska never falters, no matter how unbelievable is that behavior even for a prodigious child. Every impossible action or behavior excused by mere exceptionality. Temper, the other POV, is not different. Even here the character is initially very solid and well presented. A paranoid veteran hiding from his past. But all plot points are fortuitous and convenient, and even the flashbacks recount battles between invulnerable champions with a lot of useless redshirts around them. Halfway through the character moves from a well realized one, to click into his functional stereotype. When he exits the story he’s the hero who saved the day whose deeds remain unknown. Close your eyes and shadows become monsters crawling out from under the bed. You wake up, it was a dream. Esslemont fails to play properly with this and switch tone. Everything stays up there, suspended into adolescent mythology. The mythical story described exactly as the cleaned-up myth wants. Nothing being ever threatened or compromised.

The series is not powerful for its mythology and form, but because Erikson, as a writer, instilled meaningfulness into it. Made it relevant for what it has to say and the way it challenges perceptions. But Esslemont doesn’t seem to add something of his own. He delivers the story without delivering a purpose. If Erikson writes to reach far outside mere “escapism”, Esslemont stays strongly rooted into it. The story sits on the surface level, which I guess explains why the fans of Esslemont himself are often those who judge Erikson’s book as overlong and slow. Erikson digs deep on the level of meaning, is concerned about the reason to say something, is tormented for reaching out to the reader and shake him. Esslemont fails to have a drive in this novel. There’s no “necessity” of the narrative intent. Outside the entertainment value, being said or unsaid is the same. Why reading this book? Because it’s still a good read and if you are a Malazan fan you’d want to know more and enjoy the story, but I thought that the mysteries revealed would stay better mysterious and ambiguous. Instead of being revealed so plain. It’s a fun and well executed roller coaster if you enjoy Malazan mythology, but it’s still a roller coaster.

House of Chains – Steven Erikson

House of Chains is the fourth in the 10-books Malazan series. These days, these hours, Erikson is intensely busy writing the last chapters of the last book and bring to a close a journey of staggering ambition. Reading this fourth felt like standing on the shoulder of a very tall (jade-colored) giant. As with similar(?) long series it’s interesting to see the power-game, the ebb and flow of the single book compared to the others. When I was at page 700 or so (on a total of 1000) it dawned on me that this would become, with certainty, my favorite. 100 pages from the end the story proceeded resolute with a sense of finality and inevitability. Like the dramatic ending a movie whose sound is deafened, muted, so that the intensity of what you see comes out unadulterated and with all its power. But it is immediately past this apex, in the very slight and calmer descent that follows, the remaining 30-40 pages, that the more meaningful and stronger revelations are delivered, and the characters reached down for my soul. The book had already gauged his way as my true favorite and was set for a foreshadowed ending. I only expected closure and rest, yet the book still had PLENTY to deliver, and surprise me, and offer emotions to share.

These weeks I spent reading House of Chains were also the weeks of Lost ending season (the TV series), which lead me to draw certain parallels, both thematic and about the plot. Similarities are evident even on the superficial level, and on the forums I was explaining that I was watching Lost for some of the reasons I was reading this series of books. The staggering ambition, the exponential layering, the subversion and reversals in the plot, the continuous challenge to perceptions. The difference, as I already discussed, is that Lost always left me (and many others) unsatisfied. Even the very end left the plot unresolved. With the Malazan series instead it’s a whole different deal. Reading this book, at various points, I thought that if it was to end right there, in the middle of the narrative, it would still feel completely satisfying and accomplished. Erikson as an author is far more generous and I feel that what he does is always honest. I never once felt cheated. Which also leads to the broad theme of “truthfulness”, that Erikson fulfills for me. Reading this series is not an easy task for anyone, but I know that it largely rewarded my effort. It delivers all it promises, then more, far beyond expectations that continue to rise as the story goes and branches out to embrace what you don’t think can be embraced. I am humbled because I know that this is one rare effort that won’t likely be matched anytime soon, if ever. I’m glad that I find it so close to things that matter for me, at the core, and that I seek in a book. It completes what I think and I follow devotedly because it already proved aplenty that this journey is worth all the dedication I can give to it. This to say: Erikson, especially in this book, doesn’t lull and drag you along with vane promises. He delivers, page after page. The physical shape of the book, right there, weighting far more than you think. Worlds that the written word can open, and worlds that, deep down, feed on something true.

This, for me, has nothing to do with the notion of escapism. At least if you don’t consider escapism the illusion of the discovery of something meaningful, that matters. And so the thematic aspects. I guess that this couldn’t be more misleading. “Themes” make me think of very boring books that have nowhere to go and preach on banalities or feast on rhetoric. Or the celebration of some sort of morale. I have a natural tendency to oppose and refuse these things because I always find them trite or partial. Erikson instead makes these aspects very real and makes surface their contradictions. The narrative is driven by purpose, a lucid intent, that doesn’t lead recursively to itself, going nowhere. Turning a wheel that turns and turns but goes nowhere. Those themes, taken as abstraction, are always brought back to the ground. They don’t wander on a detached level, different from the plot. They are intricately woven and matter on a concrete one. The biggest revelations can please a reader just for what they are, the fun of following an engaging story filled with unexpected twists. The last 70 pages of this book are a frenzy of plot threads that get tied and resolved one after the other. And each, if not to be carried away by this surging tide, turning the pages, would make you look back with unprecedented clarity. The thematic aspects here bind the narrative.

‘The stigma of meaning ever comes later, like a brushing away of dust to reveal shapes in stone.’

The structure of this book is slightly different from the preceding ones. It starts with about 250 pages from a single point of view instead of jumping all over the place. I think this choice is perfectly placed. It’s not easy to have the story move again after the ending of ‘Memories of Ice’. Starting from a blank point, apparently unrelated, offers the narrative the possibility to gain momentum. Especially because all we learned through three books here becomes the cipher of what is going on behind the curtain of deception. An higher level of awareness that you have, as a reader, above the level of the narrow point of view. An second-level of observation that reveals a bigger truth, as you are yourself, as reader, deceived in turn, when you thought your position let you see clearly where the deception actually was. A clever trick indeed. But again, done to understand the story on a deeper level, and bring the reader right into it, with an active role. Not so many books do this. You may think this is some ‘mental’ stuff I imagined, but no. This is why I said the book is generous. It has not the esotericism and bloated pretentiousness of Pynchon, this book BEGS you to understand it. It doesn’t hide for the simple pleasure of obfuscation, nor it lulls lathering in redundancy.

‘In any case, to speak plainly is a true talent; to bury beneath obfuscation is a poet’s calling these days.’

Now this review is coming out rather abstract and vague, yet I’ve pages of notes about specific aspects but I don’t think I can go anywhere with them. This book offers a myriad of suggestions that you can taste and elaborate any way you want. Take for example the book of Dryjhna. It’s a story that starts in book 2. This is Erikson doing his typical play on some established fantasy conventions (and in book 2 he resolves it delivering a spectacular surprise). In this case the ‘book of prophecies’. We’ve had these plot devices dealt in every possible way in the fantasy genre. Here the running joke is that prophecies are left vague because through this very quality they can be pragmatically adapted to the changes of time. A way to keep them relevant and useful for those who actually wield that power for their own secular purposes. In the end prophecies are nothing more than excuses to exploit a population. But it’s the real revelation of the truth (or better, the deceit) behind the book that makes it ultimately worth saving. The book is revealed as a fraud, but this revelation makes the book valuable for what it actually is, which consequently infuses it of the power it lost. A full circle, but, as it closes, the power of the book goes from misplaced and false, to something true and valid. It got somewhat cleansed in the process. This I’ve just explained is a very minor plot thread, almost invisible. Maybe two pages in total name it, yet, by ways of Erikson, what this book (of prophecies) represents echoes with everything else that goes on the major level. Everything intricately woven together at different levels.

There are certain plot threads, on a second inspection, after the tide of the last 100 pages passed, that seem somewhat spurious. Though this is typical of Erikson as the plot branches out to previous and following books. They are the most obvious links. But the reason why they are there is because they are part of larger loops. They are meaningful in the single book, have an impact and purpose, but the story arc isn’t brought to conclusion right there. When I finished book 3, I thought that Erikson was at his maximum possible reach. Controlling so many characters and plot threads while delivering a so huge conclusion was absolutely spectacular. House of Chains is on a somewhat smaller scale and more personal. It continues directly from book 2 and draws from the qualities found there. Yet, this smaller scale was only apparent and Erikson shows here a stronger control of plot. He still improves. Book 3 had from my point of view a more uneven quality compared to the 2nd, even if as a whole it came out far above just because of its impact and staggering ambition. House of Chains shows a tight control and a clear intent. It is lucid in a way no previous book was. More effective and straight to the point. Every aspect I can consider is overall improved. The prose itself stays terse as is typical of Erikson, and gains efficacy. No wasted words, no lingering, yet also not as wasteful as it happened in Memories of Ice. On some of my notes I wrote how in books 1-3 we saw an expansion of the plot. An exponential multiplications of different factions and factions within factions. House of Chains instead represents a kind of contraption that doesn’t reduce the reach of ambition of the plot, but that actually leads to an absorption of the various branches into an unitarian mythology. The nature and truth of many things is revealed, and this revelation draws everything together. It all makes sense and even sheds more light on previous books in a way that makes them shine even more. Following books improve the previous in retrospective, add significance. Especially in this case for book 2, that was already excellent. House of Chains is an open celebration of Deadhouse Gates, yet this doesn’t put it in its shadow in any way. They just contribute to each other.

Want one flaw? Named characters lead the story. Yes, there are A LOT of them in that “named” list, but the terse style of Erikson lacks some naturalness if you care for it in a book. I’ve pointed this out in the past. There are no slices of life scenes here. No getting used to the characters or lingering with them for the mundane. This story has momentum and moves on. We don’t get to see what isn’t strictly relevant. Yet, this also means that these plots are sometimes too neatly wrapped up. Too coincidental and convenient. Everything pivots exactly where it should, and no matter how HUGE is the landmass itself, characters that travel seem to ineluctably constantly bump into each other. Sometimes it feels as if the “real world” is missing. As if the plot was eradicated from its natural place and made an example of. I doubt you could tell such story in a different way, though.

I loved this book. Not just because it has an excellent execution, but because I loved it also on a more personal level. The biggest mystery is how Erikson is able to gather the strength and will to start again from a blank page after such a huge showdown. I’m merely a reader, yet this was exhausting in a positive way. So much was brought to a satisfying closure. No idea where this will bring me next, but I have trust in the writer that it will be more than worth it.

The last few lines of the epilogue, in italics, are probably the biggest and more powerful revelation ever. Sustaining the whole series. (hopefully enough to keep Erikson himself afloat)

Again on Ascendancy

Few more spurious quotes from the very end of House of Chains. Relatively spoiler-free.

The proportions had begun wrong. From the very start. Leading her to suspect that the proclivity for madness had already existed, dark flaws marring the soul that would one day claw its way into ascendancy.

I have walked into the Abyss.
I am as mad as that goddess. And this is why she chose me, for we are kindred souls…

This is another good example that illustrates what Ascendancy truly is and how it is regulated. Even if it’s a theme of the book making the process more blurred and defying categories, since at the core “Ascendancy” is strictly linked to the ambiguous production of meaning. Dancing on a edge to keep a fine balance.

He did the best he could – with such honour as to draw, upon his sad death, the attention of Hood himself. Oh, the Lord of Death will look into a mortal’s soul, given the right circumstances. The, uh, the proper incentive. Thus, that man is now the Knight of Death—’

Even here Ascendancy is the result of both convenience and kinship. A wicked sort of reward. The honor of failure. There’s no salvation in Ascendancy. There’s no glory.

This is why Ascendancy is symbolized by T’lan Imass. Immortality made into failure.

T’lan imass / glory & ghosts

‘The glory of battle, Koryk, dwells only in the bard’s voice, in the teller’s woven words. Glory belongs to ghosts and poets. What you hear and dream isn’t the same as what you live – blur the distinction at your own peril, lad.’

Karsa’s expression soured. ‘When I began this journey, I was young. I believed in one thing. I believed in glory. I know now, Siballe, that glory is nothing. Nothing. This is what I now understand.’
‘What else do you now understand, Karsa Orlong?’
‘Not much. Just one other thing. The same cannot be said for mercy.’

‘The heart is neither given nor stolen. The heart surrenders.’
The bonecaster did not turn round. ‘That is a word without power to the T’lan Imass, Onrack the Broken.’
‘You are wrong, Monok Ochem. We simply changed the word to make it not only more palatable, but also to empower it. With such eminence that it devoured our souls.’

The very last few words that conclude the book, in italics, deliver not only the answer to all this, but also a huge revelation that hit with all its power. Neither of the three preceding books ended on a so high note.

How to start a book? (I don’t like the first word of ‘The Way of Kings’)

It seems there’s some stir today as Tor begins to promote Sanderson’s latest and most ambitious epic. I’m enjoying the atmosphere, honestly. In spite of all the seemingly negative things I’ve written about Sanderson I still said I plan to buy the book on day 1 and read it. I also expect at the very least to enjoy it. But if it doesn’t offer something that stands apart the next volumes will probably sit back on the reading pile.

Anyway, part of the promotion are the first 50 pages or so of the book, right now. Or at least Prologue and Prelude, the rest requires some sort of registration.

I haven’t read that, and I will likely wait for the full book before commenting, but that first word is a very bad way to start a book, especially for something that is going to span 10 books.

This isn’t really criticism to Sanderson, it’s just that I always thought it’s awful to open a book with a first name. “Kakak rounded a rocky stone ridge”. Why should I care? First names are something you acquire. They are meaningful when they define someone you know. But throwing the name before everything else is like an unnatural thrust into a character that expects you to know him already. It’s like forcing familiarity to the reader without earning that familiarity.

Let’s make examples. I have recently written about Pynchon, so take Gravity’s Rainbow:

A screaming comes across the sky.

That’s a hell of way to start a book. It sets the tone and definitely lacerates the curtain to let the reader in. (I appreciate the present tense)

Another of Pynchon I have here:

“Now single up all lines!”

Yeah! Let’s fly!

Philip Roth:

She was so deeply imbedded in my consciousness that for the first year of school I seem to have believed that each of my teachers was my mother in disguise.

I guess literary guys know how to begin their books.

James Joyce, Finnegans Wake.

A way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.

No comment.

Gene Wolfe’s New Sun:

“It is possible I already had some presentiment of my future.”

It couldn’t have set the tone and eccentricity any better.

David Copperfield:

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.

Well yes, I’m unfair. You can’t beat that.

R. Scott Bakker:

One cannot rise walls against what has been forgotten.

That’s Bakker. It’s him telling it’s him. “Hey, it’s me.”

Glen Cook:

There were prodigies and portents enough, One-Eye says.

This gets a first name, but as you see the precedence is given to what is being said, which fits.

Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead:

Howard Roark laughed.

OK. First name. BUT IT IS AYN RAND. If she isn’t allowed to open a book with a first name than no one else can.

Which naturally leads to Terry Goodkind:

It was an odd-looking vine.

…Huh?

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Everything is linked

I am onto something.

I was supposed to write this more than a week ago but never did it. Nothing really relevant, just something I enjoy. I already said I like to follow links between the most disparate things, find correspondences. I also said that in literature I look for “truthfulness” which I consider the most (if not only) relevant quality. I was actually struggling finding a definition because I was absolutely sure I found something I wanted the moment I found it, but couldn’t pinpoint what it was that some books gave to me and some other didn’t. Something more visceral like a deeper form of accord. I agreed to define it “truthfulness” since it’s strictly related to the use of language and has a well defined opposite that is “rhetoric”. Or: tell me something that is true.

It’s on the same line of a comment I wrote to Erikson’s blog:

I’ll just say that it’s also one significant strength of your series if it’s not just ambitious, staggering and broad in scope, but also personal, and so not a safe or steady, unfailing journey. Without that, its echoes would be echoes of emptiness.

It’s the reason why while reading “Infinite Jest” by David Foster Wallace, a completely different book, I arrived to similar conclusions and similar feelings coming out of it. In the end the purpose of fiction, and other forms of art, is to say something truthful. Nothing else matters. So you’re right in what you imply: your crisis feeds this narrative, and your lack of definite(-ive) answers is itself a more important truth. Lots of writers had to come to terms with their craft (or at least those who explore uncharted lands). Some didn’t survive, some other found their hands empty and just felt helpless. It’s a kind of obsession.

It’s also why “magic”, even if it makes a significant impact, never comes ahead of the narrative. In the end it is all “fluff” if it’s not somewhere and somehow deeply rooted into something “true”. Creating fictional worlds gives that type of conceit and delusion, you think you are creating something other and independent, but it would be all truly meaningless if whatever level of abstraction wouldn’t come back on the ground to feed on something true.

At some point I was convinced that “feeding on something true” means that things are ultimately linked, because if something is true, then it should also be universal in a way or another. So you dig and enjoy the discovery.

Sometimes links are fun if relatively harmless. For example this. I ordered two books. Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon and its companion since I read it’s good and I always enjoy to tap on more insight and have more ways to understand a text. For me, the more the better. If I enjoy a book I could as well read about the book forever, especially if it allows for this depth.

Gravity’s Rainbow is a book that should do that. Being much more staggering than its physical shape. Like Erikson or DF Wallace. Books that aren’t simply contained in this world, but that actually seem themselves to contain the world. The display of the omnipotence of literature. Actually, I don’t know if GR does this. I bought the book because I hope it does.

GR is also itself made of links. Which makes it challenge definitions and boundaries. Defy whatever limit you put in front of it. It’s “just” 776 pages, but they can sure bite your ass.

Anyway, the harmless links are to “Lost” (the TV series). This was still happening a few days after Lost finale, so everything echoed nicely. The very first page that starts with a quote:

“Nature does not know extinction; all it knows is transformation. Everything science has taught me, and continues to teach me, strengthens my belief in the continuity of our spiritual existence after death.” -Werner von Braun

Quite fitting since we were dealing with the afterlife after Lost finale. From the companion:

“I believe… that the soul of a Man is immortal and will be treated with justice in another life respecting its conduct in this.” -Benjamin Franklin

Even more fitting, don’t you agree?

Pynchon’s depictions of technological, psychological, and paranormal research all demonstrate how modern culture secularizes that redemptive hope.

I’m actually convinced that “culture” is our true redemptive hope. And the book in question is so defined:

American Pop and material culture, the occult, varieties of pseudoscience, real science, vernacular geography

Or:

Perhaps if you smashed together the dozen best novels of Philip K. Dick you would have something that approaches it – a pulpy low-culture version of Gravity’s Rainbow, it’s tempting to say, except that not the least of Pynchon’s revolutions is how he obliterated the distinction of low and high culture, at least for anyone paying attention.

Lots of stuff, apparently un-linked. Good stuff. Coherent with what I wrote here and before. Don’t let genres and boundaries limit your perception. Reach out and enjoy something true, no matter how outrageous or absurd it appears. You are your own limit.

This should be fun.

P.S.
No idea if there’s some truth, but my first thought about the rocket on the cover was that it symbolizes a… pen. The writing seen as the ultimate truly subversive or catastrophic activity.

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Hypocrisy! It’s surrounding! (on genres and categorization)

So, blogger I overall admire writes about “myopic” points of view, and to illustrate his theory he shows how myopic is himself. I can’t comment in detail because I’ve not read most of that stuff, but:

R. Scott Bakker, The Prince of Nothing and The Aspect-Emperor series – Bakker is a friend of mine, and while I do enjoy his erudite take on epic fantasy, his is not (as he’ll readily admit) a story that’s going to have mass appeal outside of certain gender/age demographics and online forums.

I haven’t read Bakker in detail, and while it’s obvious that his series doesn’t have a “mass appeal”, it’s the qualification to be rather hypocrite. “certain gender/age demographics and online forums” shows some serious generalization and prejudice. Why the need to build these sharp boundaries and categories? There are surely more useful considerations to make instead of deciding in advance who could or couldn’t enjoy a particular book or writer.

Steven Erikson and Ian Cameron Esslemont, Malazan books – Although each has some interesting anthropological perspectives that enrich their shared-world setting, I wouldn’t think of these books as being anything more than just continuations from what Glen Cook, Jack Vance, or Michael Moorcock has done with their epic fantasy/sword and sorcery tales.

Huh? No really. I’ve read Erikson. Saying that his books have the same intent of Glen Cook or Moorcock (haven’t read Vance enough to say) is some silly claim. Glen Cook inspired Erikson directly, he took and played with certain aspects of those books and the terse prose, and of Moorcock there’s only a vague similarity of mood. But that would be the same as every writer out there who read and was inspired by someone else. Is David Foster Wallace irrelevant or lessened because of William Gaddis or Thomas Pynchon? Really? So we can roll all those writers into a generalized “Don DeLillo”? They all do the same stuff and so are not relevant to be considered on their own terms? They write a genre and are limited by it?

You really think literature is that powerless and strictly bound? You really think that those writers merely stand in someone else’s shoes? That’s ungrateful for every name I made, the same as with Erikson and those other names. For them it would probably be the biggest offense you can make.

Then there’s the link to Werthead’s article. Which is pretentious fluff:

THE STATE OF MODERN EPIC/SECONDARY WORLD FANTASY

The ‘new fantasy’ is much harder to pin down. Broadly it refers to fantasy which is either grittier and more realistic than previous ‘safe’ authors, or to traditional epic fantasy which has taken on some of the ideas and tropes of steampunk and the New Weird (a fantasy movement sparked off in 2000 with China Mieville’s PERDIDO STREET STATION but which has now more or less merged with fantasy in general). Or indeed, both.

“It refers”? You mean you stumbled on a piece of paper that had “new fantasy” written on it and you started to wonder what it may be about? Nothing refers to anything, especially “made up” words. It refers to whatever you want it to mean, and as long you persuade enough people to agree on that definition.

Here you make it sound like you gawked at the sky to discover some kind of truth pertinent to a category of books.

a number of more ‘old-school’ authors who reject some of these new ideas in favour of a solid story, well-told, are also incorporated into the movement, leading to the conclusion that ‘the new fantasy’ is nothing more than fantasy works simply published in the last few years.

The mind boggles. So you’re saying that “solid story, well-told” is antithetic to “New Fantasy”. This new fantasy must really suck if it’s qualified by a weak story badly told.

But, HEY, it seems there are also good writers that found themselves into this new genre, so I guess it’s not possible anymore to claim: New Fantasy = CRAP.

So, basically, here we learn: Beware, not all New Fantasy is crap.

The following is a list of authors who may be said to work in this movement:

“May be said”. By who we’ll never know. It must be some mythical creature who tells the writers in which “movement” they are supposed to work. And don’t dare contradicting the Beowulf, or it swallows you whole.

Follows a list of relatively well known writers and his overall opinion about them. I wouldn’t criticize this all that much because it’s supposed to just give a general idea so that a reader may then look further if there’s something that gets the attention. I could argue endlessly about what he says, for example calling Abercrombie’s first novel “very traditional” gives a very wrong idea of it. If it was “very traditional” the book would’ve never ended in my reading pile and I wouldn’t have read it and considered it excellent. Daniel Abraham gets the benefit of the longest description and a summary, probably because he’s his current “protege” that needs promotion since the first series didn’t sell enough and the last book didn’t get the mass market edition. He defines Bakker as “adventurous”, which is really perplexing. Martin is “Martin’s A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE remains the dominant work of epic fantasy in the genre”. Dominant of what or who? Sales? Aren’t sales consistently lower than, say, Jordan or Goodkind? I’m really asking. I know the series sold a lot, but I don’t think it “dominated” the sales of the whole genre. Or maybe those are too old? But wasn’t “New Fantasy” the fantasy released in “the last few years”? Martin released one book in the last 10 years. I doubt he “dominated” anything at all. But in general I wouldn’t mess or argue too much with opinions. Everyone is entitled to his own and they are good for a more specific discussion. It’s when they are set as absolute canons that they are dangerous.

But the discussions on genres and classifications are ALWAYS stupid for the simple reason that it’s implied that a “genre” is a strict definition that corresponds to an objective “Truth”. So the need to define absolute canons and even a neatly organized ladder from “most relevant” writer to the least. With the illusion that this is actually something more than a very personal opinion.

We have from a side one who claims he can define objectively “The state of modern epic/secondary world fantasy”. The supreme judge. And on the other side one who criticized the first for being myopic because his view of the genre is too narrow in scope. This is not a problem of scope, this thing is stupid because these are irrelevant generalizations that have no place in reality. They represent your, and only your, limit and consequent necessity of simplification and generalization.

Hint: “genres” do not exist. They are created and used to simplify things. They are tools, not canons, to reduce the world out there to a manageable state. Like words in general, “genres” are arbitrary categories where you put whatever you want. It means that what you put in there is decided by you, not by any objective rule. There are no sharp boundaries if not those you arbitrarily make, so there’s no correct or better definition of a genre. Debating whether a book is in or out a certain genre is like debating in which bookcase of your bedroom this or that book goes. It’s the same of someone who argues aloud with himself. So if you are the one who makes the choice have at least the courage to take the responsibility of it. It’s not “THE STATE OF”, it’s “my opinion on some stuff I read recently”.

Define the market if you want, since the market follows certain concrete rules, facts and categories, but do not try to categorize and define culture. The boundaries and limits only exist in your head.

You want to make a blog about “fantasy”, or whatever definition of fantasy that is so broad that includes everything, go on. The god of Language won’t come to take its toll. I titled my own blog “Cesspit”. You can be sure that everything can fit in.

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Personal bias ever surfacing (Ascendancy in the Malazan series)

See my eyes rolling in consternation again.

I enjoy reading Larry’s reviews, no matter what he reviews. Then he links a forum I’ve never seen and I check there from time to time to read other points of view on his reviews of Erikson’s books. Guess who’s posting also in that place? Werthead. There’s no place on the internet even vaguely related to fantasy and SF where you don’t see him strutting about.

Which is actually a good thing. He spends quite a bit of time everywhere evangelizing about the genre, and you can’t have enough of that. We should be grateful. There’s nothing negative about answering questions and making people aware of this or that less known writer or book. Nothing negative at least till what he’s spreading is somewhat accurate and honest, but there are certain instances that are not, and so he goes on spreading some twisted and inaccurate interpretations that can’t be in any way useful.

This is a recurring habit of him with Erikson in particular, it seems he can’t write a comment without putting some venom or spite in it. It just can’t be helped. I point your attention in particular to this reply he writes. Someone asks some specific questions about Malazan and he’s kind enough to answer. The reply he writes is actually good and to the point, helpful. Only he had to let some of that venom of him seep through, and so we get this:

People ‘Ascend’ when they become unstoppably badass. That’s about the only criteria that can be found. When they become powerful enough they will ascend to become Ascendants, who are effectively demigods.

That’s exactly the moment when my eyes went rolling, especially because this is a recurring bad habit of those who try to diminish Erikson as a writer by drawing a parallel between his series and role-playing games. I don’t need to discuss the association because I’ve done it already in the past, the point here is that, no matter how you see it or personal opinion about Erikson as a writer, what he says there is simply inaccurate and WRONG. Yes, there’s always this argument that says I don’t qualify to comment since I haven’t read the whole series yet, but now I’ve read some 3400 pages, I guess I should have an idea about how this thing works.

In those pages I read there are plenty of cases of individuals becoming ascendants. We see the process in various instances. Yet I can’t remember A SINGLE ONE that went in the way Werthead described it. Not only there’s not a pattern like the one he described, but there’s not even a single case that went like that.

If one has to define a pattern (and a pattern is not easy to find here for deliberate reasons), it’s one that is the exact opposite of “becoming badass”. In most cases people in the books “ascend” after they went through some extreme suffering, or suffering that can be interpreted in some symbolic way. Saying this would still be imprecise and limited, but THIS is the only generalized criteria that one could honestly deduct.

When I think about this I remember these words by Erikson that I quoted recently for something entirely different: the flaw is one of sequence.” Indeed. People become badass AFTER they become ascendants, as a consequence. They do not become ascendants BECAUSE they are badass. This happens because ascendancy is in general the process of creation of myth in the malazan world. This process includes different typologies because it’s here that Erikson deals with the entire spectrum of myth, from pragmatic and concrete gods, to religious beliefs. What in the beginning seems to have the most disparate origin is then shown to have a shared one. And this is a rather broad and deep theme that is already expanded and explored from various perspectives in each book.

This process draws directly not from the fantasy genre and its canon (even if these are used to play some tricks), but from REALITY. The process of creation of myths and gods is, in the Malazan world as in our real one, entirely symbolic. The meaning as a sign. Or a sign that evokes meaning. This is why it’s possible in the Malazan world that gods appear disguised or take the place of other gods to deceive and twist followers. This kind of “game of thrones” is a game of ambivalence of meaning. It’s a disguise of power, through meaning. Take for example this revelatory part with Heboric from House of Chains:

Then another voice spoke, louder, more imperious: ‘What god now owns your
hands, old man? Tell me! Even their ghosts are not here -who is holding on to you? Tell
me!’
‘There are no gods,’ a third voice cut in, this one female.
‘So you say!’ came yet another, filled with spite. ‘In your empty, barren, miserable
world!’
‘Gods are born of belief, and belief is dead. We murdered it, with our vast
intelligence. You were too primitive—’
‘Killing gods is not hard. The easiest murder of all. Nor is it a measure of intelligence.
Not even of civilization. Indeed, the indifference with which such death-blows are
delivered is its own form of ignorance.’
‘More like forgetfulness. After all, it’s not the gods that are important, it is the
stepping outside of oneself that gifts a mortal with virtue—’
‘Kneel before Order? You blind fool—’
‘Order? I was speaking of compassion—’

The only gap between the Malazan world and ours is that Erikson makes the process concrete and tangible. In the same way, for example, in Lost the players make the rules (and make them real) as they go, here the representation of a god makes it real. “Meaning” that dresses itself as tangible power. Meaning that transforms itself into magic. Accepting and embracing meaning makes it real and part of the factual world.

‘It is believed,’ he said slowly, ‘by the bonecasters, that to create an
icon of a spirit or a god is to capture its essence within that icon. Even the laying of
stones prescribes confinement. Just as a hut can measure out the limits of power for a
mortal, so too are spirits and gods sealed into a chosen place of earth or stone or
wood… or an object. In this way power is chained, and so becomes manageable.’

‘Do your bonecasters also believe that power begins as a thing devoid of shape, and thus
beyond control? And that to carve out an icon – or make a circle of stones – actually
forces order upon that power?’

Understanding this leads to understanding how ascendancy works, and define a pattern if we really want one. In most cases, people don’t become ascendants, but they get picked by a god. In most cases (all) without their consent. The relationship is not a simple one, because it’s reciprocate influence, and in order to use powers, the gods are subject to influence from the outside.

How does a god choose an ascendant? Through symbols and convenience. Again I say that “combat proficiency” never came to play in the choice in all the examples I’ve seen. What comes to play and defines the choice is “likeness”, “kinship”. Gods pick their ascendants through symbolic analogies. Through some kind of reflection between themselves and those they choose. Some kind of abstract link. This is why for example the Crippled God (Chained One) picks his followers among those who suffered and were chained in ways similar to his (in the same way in Lost the black smoke tries to find allies by exploiting some affinity with them). Gods make ascendants through affinity of spirit, or in some twisted interpretation of it. And this is why Heboric himself, cripple and blind, also is chosen. A man who only felt miserable and whose only escape from suffering was through drug. Are you telling me that his transition to ascendancy happens through badassness? Come on.

I don’t think Erikson would have any interest in creating a magic system or a pantheon established on arbitrary assumptions. What Erikson puts in his books is definitely “fantasy”, but always grounded on something real and true. The fantastic element is purely of transformation. Metaphoric. But in the end, it needs to connect back to something true and real in order to be relevant and meaningful. Which all makes me think about Brandon Sanderson “bragging” for his The Stormlight Archive series how “there are thirty magic systems in this world, depending on how you count them”. Which is cool, but just “fluff” (as Dan Abnett would define it) if these magic systems are not used as narrative devices with some purpose. Thirty magic systems, or sixty, or one, or zero. Who cares? It’s what you do with them and why, to matter. What they represent, what is the message. It’s a book that you’re writing, not a role-playing gaming system.

Which is the point.

House of Chains + Lost: doing same things

I keep finding common aspects between Lost and Malazan. These are two examples that surfaced recently.

I was reading an article by Jeff Jensen recapping the last episode of Lost when I came to this part:

Rest In Peace, Charles Widmore. The quick-tempered billionaire enemy of DesPen love — a pharmaceutical magnate with a penchant for prog-rock-inspired construction projects — joins a long list of Lost characters who get offed from the show with pitiless dispatch and leave behind a mess of unresolved questions. This season alone: Dogen, Lennon, Ilana. Before them: Faraday, Charlotte, Patchy. This is too much of a trend to not wonder if there’s a point being made here. Death comes suddenly. We all leave the world unresolved to various degrees. It’s all deep and meaningful… and yet even I felt a touch unsatisfied.

I read that and I was absolutely sure I had read it before somewhere else. I couldn’t remember where but the idea was exactly the same. So I started searching. At the beginning I thought it must have been something I read in House of Chains, so I started looking in the book but the more I searched and turn the pages the more the possibility seemed unlikely. There were similar ideas, but not exposed as clearly as I remembered. So I went looking for another article by Jeff Jensen I had read in February, I reread it again but found no trace of what I was looking for. Then I thought it must have been something in Infinite Jest, or an article about Foster Wallace. Nothing, yet I was absolutely sure I had read something before.

In the end the quest was successful and my first guess was indeed correct. It’s a quote from House of Chains:

The only journey that lay ahead of him was a short one, and he must walk it alone.
He was blind, but in this no more blind than anyone else. Death’s precipice, whether first
glimpsed from afar or discovered with the next step, was ever a surprise. A promise of
the sudden cessation of questions, yet there were no answers waiting beyond
. Cessation
would have to be enough. And so it must be for every mortal. Even as we hunger for
resolution. Or, even more delusional: redemption.

Now, after all this time, he was able to realize that every path eventually, inevitably
dwindled into a single line of footsteps
. There, leading to the very edge. Then… gone.
And so, he faced only what every mortal faced. The solitude of death, and oblivion’s final
gift that was indifference
.

As you can see, these two quotes are mirrors of each other. In Malazan the theme is explored fully and directly, but even Lost can be considered rather deliberate about it. The theme in common does exist.

The second examples comes instead from a recent (and long) interview with Carlton Cuse and Damon Lindelof, but I can’t quote it because it’s a video.

@ 6:20 they show a clip from the second season where Locke tries to convince Jack to “press the button”, the theme is the one of “faith”. In the follow-up video @ 1:50 Lindelof explains how what happened in that scene is then mirrored in this last season of the show, in the scene in which they are on the submarine and it’s this time Jack who tries to convince Sawyer not to pull the wires on the bomb, saying “nothing is going to happen”, taking Locke’s role, while Sawyer is this time the pragmatic one (and ends up not listening Jack and pulling the wires). The line being said is the same and after a silly joke they talk about how they play in the show with this sort of “echo” of scenes, dialogues and themes. That scene in the sub closes an ideal loop, and this kind of mechanic is at the foundation of how the show has been built.

All these ideas have been explained in the exact same way by Erikson. Take for example one of his recent blogs that I have quoted before:

In a general sense, I write elliptically. By that I mean I open sections with some detail I want to resonate throughout the entire section, and through the course of writing that section you can imagine me tapping that bell again and again. Until with the final few lines, I ring it one last time – sometimes hard, sometimes soft, depending on the effect I want, or feel is warranted.

While the narrative infers something linear, as in the advancement of time and a sequence of events, in fact the narrative loops back on itself again and again. And each time it returns, the timbre of that resonance has changed, sometimes subtly, sometimes fundamentally.

We can look further back (2003) and we’ll discover that this has been Erikson’s style from the very beginning. This is one old interview from Larry’s blog, probably one of the best ever:

Across the ten book series, within each novel, within each section, each chapter, each scene. I write in loops, starting with the small ones, which together make up bigger ones, and closing each loop is a matter of echoing whatever opened the scene/chapter/section etc. That’s my actual writing. I plan in the opposite direction. Insane, ain’t it?

House of Chains, Lost (-1), Infinite Jest: mysteries, chains and choice

Last week I commented the Lost episode mixing it with considerations about the Malazan series. This week the Lost episode was shallow and just moved the pieces to position them for the finale, culling some useless characters, but it didn’t have anything meaningful to say. So I’ll focus on just Malazan.

This is a kind of minor side-story. Happens in just five pages or so, where the focus is actually on something else. It’s a good example of Erikson’s style, filled with hints that it’s up to the reader to put together and find a meaning. But the meaning is absolutely there (just continue read). The story can be understood without previous knowledge, yet is intricately woven with the rest. Karsa and his temporary Jaghut companion are walking up a hill nestled close to a bigger hill that protects the smaller one from harsh winds. On top of this smaller hill there’s a big tree. Moving closer Karsa notices that there’s an ancient Jaghut (female) that is kind of “embedded” into the tree. The wood passes through the clavicle of the Jaghut to then reunite with the main trunk.

What distinguishes Malazan from Lost, is that in Malazan mysteries are continuously unveiled. With generosity. And the strength of the mystery isn’t in it being hidden and unsaid (like Lost’s smoke and mirrors), but in the secret it holds. It isn’t a fraud. The strength is in the revelation, not in the continue pushing back of the mystery itself. Karsa’s Jaghut companion is like a physical manifestation of something that Lost would never tolerate. Remember in Lost how all questions are systematically dodged through typical tropes, such as: “You aren’t ready to know.” “It’s not time yet.” “Every question I answer will lead to another question.” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” And so on. There are endless variations. Instead in Malazan we have this:

(Jaghut) “Why, you ask?”
(Karsa) “I do not bother, for I know you will tell me in any case.”
(Jaghut) “Of course I shall, for I am of a helpful sort, a natural proclivity.”

And:

“Of course you must. It is your nature to leave no word unsaid.”

Refreshing when compared to the stubborn and pointless opaqueness of Lost, grown to parody levels.

So Karsa’s Jaghut companion narrates the mystery of this other Jaghut imprisoned in the ancient tree. This tree isn’t simply very old, it’s hundreds of thousands years old. It’s the only one left of its species in the whole world. How did the ancient female Jaghut end imprisoned in the tree? The story begins when this Jaghut was just a child with her mother. Jaghut (as a race) were indiscriminately hunted by another race, the Tlan Imass, so this family of Jaghut was found and slain. The child was spitted on a lance and left there, with the lance thrust in the ground. The wood of that lance was the same wood that originated the tree. For some extraordinary reason it sucked the life from the child and grew roots and developed in a tree. At the same time it transferred its life to the child, who was also kept alive. Now it’s not explicitly told in the text, but it is obvious that the Jaghut story is the story of that tree, meaning that the Jaghut’s whole life has been there, imprisoned. For hundreds of thousands years.

“Same for Phyrlis, whom you will meet tomorrow. She can never see beyond the leaves
in front of her face, though she ceaselessly strives to do so, as if the vast panorama
offers something other than time’s insectile crawl. Empires, thrones, tyrants and
liberators, a hundred thousand tomes filled with versions of the same questions, asked
over and over again. Will answers deliver their promised solace?”

The meaning of this story is then left to the reader, because there are here echoes of themes that define Erikson’s work. Elliptical patterns and loops. Refractions of light. In this case the story of the Jaghut echoes with the story of the Tlan Imass. In a way, the spear saved the life of the Jaghut, only to imprison her for eternity. Was that a blessing or a condemnation? The central point is how the Tlan Imass decide to exterminate the Jaghut. There are reasons for this, but here we see the perspective of a child. So the perspective of someone that represents innocence. Tlan Imass exterminate Jaghut indiscriminately. Including killing kids. This Jaghut in this story not only represents innocence, but also the lack of choice. Her imprisonment is obligated. And her fate echoes frighteningly with the fate of the whole Tlann Imass race:

“I am forced into continuation.”

Previously in the book we have witnessed to the destiny of some Tlan Imass, whose head was the only part to survive, condemned to consciousness for eternity and with the only desire of being placed at least on a vast natural panorama that would sweeten this sentence of continuation. So there’s this echo between the single Jaghut child, whose destiny was forced by Tlan Imass, and the destiny of every Tlan Imass, as a race. With the difference that the Tlan Imass have embraced and shaped that destiny for themselves. They’ve chosen it. Something that echoes even with Infinite Jest, the part with Marathe:

“No, but this choice, Katherine: I made it. It chains me, but the chains are of my choice.”

If you have read Infinite Jest you KNOW that line is central to the book. If you’ve read “House of Chains” you know that the theme of the chains is central to the whole Malazan series. If you’ve seen Lost, you know the smoke monster makes chain-like noises. The monster is being chained to the island, can’t leave, is imprisoned. The meaning in these three disparate mediums is essentially the same. Tapping onto something true.

The (one of) theme(s) in the Malazan series is how Tlan Imass, in order to fight against the abominations of Jaghut, become themselves a worse abomination. In “A Game of Thrones” the driving theme of the book and the most shocking one is how “doing the right thing” doesn’t always lead to an happy end. In Malazan we see deep in the corruption of goodwill. In the true twisting of intentions. The twisting of faith and belief. Also the lack of absolute truths, and the delusions that accompany them.

“Misleading” and deception aren’t just plot devices in House of Chains. They are its theme, down to a meaningful level. Mysteries that reveal terrible truths. And the lacerating tragedy embedded in those truths.

As it happens, in Malazan truths are contained within bigger truths. So, just a few pages later, we discover that the story we’re told of the Jaghut imprisoned in the tree is only one part. Because the reason of the extraordinary event is that the lance was being thrust into the ground where existed a dying Azath house. It was the Azath that gave the life to both the wood and the Jaghut child. With another link to Lost. A theme used in Lost is how there must be balance in power, and that balance has to be maintained. Malazan answer to this is a kind of natural event. Whenever on the world there’s a convergence of power that rises to threaten the world itself, an “Azath” forms to imprison that power. Like an antibody of the world. In this particular story the Azath was antecedent to the Jaghut/tree, so why there was an Azath in that place and why was it dying? Who was imprisoned in the Azath? In Malazan answers come by just turning the page: it is revealed that Gothos was in there, another Jaghut. The reason why the Azath was dying was because it was assaulted by Icarium (Ghotos’ son), trying to free his father (who didn’t want to be saved, again the theme of choice and chains/imprisonment).

Icarium’s own fate echoes again with the ones of the Tlan Imass and the Jaghut. Icarium is one of those Jaghut with immense powers and who used those powers to annihilate an inordinate amount of other beings and other disasters. He himself represents the kind of reason why Tlan Imass decided that Jaghut had to be completely exterminated. In order to stop him they made him lose his memories. Like a brain reset. Like forcing him becoming a child again. Becoming innocent. Like the Jaghut imprisoned in the tree.

Icarium’s own condemnation is then linked to the stories already told. It’s again deeply woven with the theme of choice. Icarium also can’t choose, because he can’t remember and without awareness there’s not choice. And without choice there’s no guilt. He doesn’t deserve his fate, because he’s also innocent. And his deepest secret is kept by his friend who never separates from him. The friend who knows the truth but can’t reveal it to him in order to protect him from that dangerous truth. Icarium is condemned to unawareness, against his choice. He’s also chained, arguably for a good reason. It is then consequential that Icarium’s obsession is about “time”. He builds complex machines to measure time and he’s brought again and again to that hill with the tree and the Jaghut imprisoned within, because the wood of that tree is the most durable material that can be used to build his machines. Unaware that he has been there before, unleashing destruction. And this closes an ideal loop.

That’s how the Malazan series works on a general level. It’s a good example of how plots and themes are woven and why secrets and revelations are meaningful when they originate from something true. Mirrors and refractions of ideas, used in meaningful ways. Mysteries that truly hold secrets that is worth to unveil and understand.

This was a side story.