Looping Wor(l)d

In the last two years, since I first discovered his books, Erikson has quickly became not only my favorite fantasy writer, but one of my favorite writers among all genres and classifications. And I started to ask myself what is that makes me “click” perfectly with some writers and not so much with others. What have Steven Erikson, David Foster Wallace and Roberto Bolano in common (the three most disparate writers I recently read)? I also got myself an answer: truthfulness. They write on the page things that are true. And I imagine the spontaneously arising question: how can a fantasy story be “true”? It can very well, and “Crack’d Pot Trail” is a most fitting example.

Recently I read a review of the first three novellas (not including this one, that comes fourth) that considered them a bit disappointing because they lacked a “serious” depth or actually gave something more to the characters primarily involved ( the necromancer Bauchelain & Korbal Broach, plus their manservant Emancipor Reese, the real star). This reminds me that the most devious aspect of everything that comes from Erikson’s pen/quill/keyboard is about the approach. Thus my warning, right here: this story of Bauchelain & Korbal Broach takes place, in-truth (and out-spoilers, trust me, for the whole length of this commentary), at the periphery of these characters. It is a story about them, but not featuring them. On the other side you get Erikson. Erikson himself, the writer, who put himself in the story unlike, not like, but still somehow similarly, Stephen King did with The Dark Tower. He’s there in the page and sometimes even pointing his finger and laughing at you, the reader. But, again, I remind you of the devious approach: the laugh is not scorn, just affinity. Sympathy.

The novella has a plot, it has a direction and drive, it moves toward a resolution already from the start. Akin to other fantasy and non-fantasy plots, it is also a journey. But in this case the plot isn’t the idea that truly builds the novella, there’s a metaphorical one that more strongly takes the scene. So two parallel binaries of purpose and narrative intent, both requiring payoff before the end, while also getting entwined enough to not be simply juxtaposed. Succeeding in doing that is not easy task at all. The novella is written beautifully, as I already raved weeks ago, almost to the point of showing off, stylistically brilliant, but in the second half I started having some serious doubts that it could get a satisfying resolution. Doubt that increased exponentially when I had just 10 pages left to read and still unable to see things possibly coming together in a decent way (no matter my own doubts were repeatedly voiced in the story itself by both characters and narrator). Then Erikson is able to pull it, masterly, in like 3 pages. It comes all together in three pages.

While the plot moves in a direction (an hapless bunch of artists, hunters, and champions of rectitude, together in necessity, on the heels of our infamous necromancers), the real story is about the relationship between art and audience. The artist, the critics and the public, seen from all possible perspectives and often metaphorically, but in such a case that a metaphor is, right the story, always executed literally, very real and sound (which I don’t explain here to not ruin the greatest idea/association in the novella). The tortuous relationship is made focus and explored without filters. What, elsewhere, readers often mistake for boisterous arrogance (on the part of Erikson, toward readers) and are ready to jump upright and accuse, is instead a skewed perspective because Erikson never defends univocally one side, and what appears as spite and mockery (sometimes even truly, but healthy, as part of all relationships) is also always parody of all parts included. The audience as well the writer (self-parody as well self-doubt are featured, hopefully not smothered and forgotten after the ending, that does take a side but that shouldn’t be interpreted as the author’s own true belief that erases all doubts before, in a kind of very, you know, un-subtle way, on the part of the reader. But we’re spinning again here and you never know which side you end up facing).

Which falls perfectly in the trick that makes the book, as subjects and objects mingle together and you can’t discern anymore if you are reading a parody or if you are yourself the object of parody, the one who’s laughing or the one who’s being laughed at, or maybe just staring at yourself in a mirror, playing both roles, that also connects with other layers inside the novella, both as themes and plots. Which novella essentially is: a satire, a parody. Totally un-subtle, not even trying. As satires are meant to be: all-encompassing, clever, malicious, deceitful, outrageous, disrespectful, defiant, very politically un-correct. And, essentially: truly subversive at its core since it lacks even a verse. There’s no safe ground. Everything and everyone is subject of scorn as well as compassion. No filters nor prejudices, just a razor sharp sight that spares no one.

Well, no one besides Bauchelain & Korbal Broach, who, you already know, are just meant to win even when they lose.

The premise that founds the story: who’s more useless in the world than an “artist”? (especially a world where first priority is just surviving) And what if, to justify their existence, the artists were made to pay with their own life if their art was judged not entertaining enough?

And what if democracy (voting for: life or gallows) was made of stupids and illiterates who would only reward the worst of the artists?

As you can imagine I loved this novella as much I loved the previous three. It’s not a mad rush as The Lees of Laughter’s End, not as funny and as entertaining, but it has a similar drive of The Healthy Dead and quality-wise I judge it above. Sharper and more outrageous. Plot-wise it only shines toward the end and slacks a bit in the middle, but the payoff in the end redeems that aspect, as long you don’t expect the plot and just the plot to drag you along for 180 pages. As in all cases, you have to be interested in what the writer is writing about, and in THAT case there’s no slacking or word wasted even here.

“So I pose the following provision. Should she decide, at any time in your telling, that you are simply… shall we say, padding your narrative, why, one or both of the knights shall swing their swords.”

It also reminded me I love reading.

P.S.
In the 181 pages there’s also space for zombies (yes zombies, not T’lan Imass) and a good amount of graphic sex that will make you chuckle a lot (in a good way). Oh, and also a god addicted to masturbation.

Third book in the series. I started reading it with very high expectations. I knew from forums’ discussions and reviews that this third book was considered the highest peak in the whole series. I came from the previous two that I loved and, especially, after being AWED by the three novellas of Bauchelain and Korbal Broach. Those that won me over and got my unconditional love for Erikson. The difference is that before I came to the books with expectations to match, after having read the novellas I’m now ready to put aside what “I’d like and expect to read” and just let Erikson bring me where he wants. I’ve learned to respect and admire his work and forget the pettish critical eye of the always skeptic.

When I turned the last page I had three thoughts going around in my mind. The first is a sense of emptiness that isn’t new to me when I finish a book that I’ve been reading for a long time. This book has accompanied me for the better part of four months, reading slowly but regularly as is my habit. When I close the book I have this feeling of emptiness, of characters that I’ve learned to know that remain in my head like echoes, lingering feelings. Like trails whose source I’m starting to forget. I know well this feeling and I know its name: it’s nostalgia. For me it starts as soon as I turn the last page. This time there is so much to remember that the feeling was amplified and leading into another: there is nothing left to read. I mean, there’s so much in this book that it leaves you feeling like you’ve read everything. There’s nothing else that could be written. Like a big “the end”. It’s over. The book embraced everything. Like Iktovian, Erikson seems to say, “I am done”.

This is epic fantasy. The embodiment of the abstraction. This book is like a shell, through which you can hear the sea. That’s the magic. It leads to something unexpected and shows you things vividly. Those last 150 pages are so filled with emotions, so inspired that they feel intimidating now. It’s only after those 150 pages that you understand where Erikson was going, you see the ultimate end. Three books to get there.

But I also have to say that I made this happen. While I read daily 15-20 pages for those four months, for the last 170 pages I sat comfortably on my couch and read without interruption from 1AM to past 5. In complete silence. This is something I consider like an obligation. Reading a book is a one-time event. Unrepeatable. It’s a gift that I don’t want wasted and so tried to get in the best way possible.

That feeling of emptiness, absolute fulfillment and nostalgia was the dominant one. Then I thought that it was unbelievable. Imagining in retrospective, the author that is about to write the first page, and is thinking about the last. You look back now that it’s over, and it’s simply impossible. This is not a human endeavor, it’s just crazy. Insane. It’s unbelievable the goals he set, it’s unbelievable how he wrote page after page, it’s unbelievable where he arrived. A mix of genius, insanity and carelessness. And, obviously, awe on my side.

Third on the stream of thoughts, was my surprise about a particular aspect. Throughout the book I saw one of his goals and believed it impossible. On the forums I even explained and discussed this point. Often Erikson deals with feelings and concepts that transcend the human level. In order to make a reader “feel” you have to use something that “resonates”. Something that we have in common. Something archetypal that we all know and share, and that we could impersonate again. That’s the only way you reach an emotional level in every form of art. If you read the forums the common complaint about Erikson is that his characters fail to really reach the heart, so it’s easier to appreciate the books through the mind than through the heart. Even his writing style is more rationally involving than is emotionally. In this particular case I’m talking about within the book, Erikson tries to convey a feeling of endless despair that belongs to the T’lan Imass (an undead race in the book). So I was explaining on the forums that I can appreciate Erikson’s goals, I can enjoy what he wants to do and be awed, but this will only work on the rational level since I’m just unable to “connect” with an alien race like the T’lan Imass. At various points in the book Erikson tries to “force” the feeling, and instead I felt like it wasn’t quite working. It was a best effort, but it just wasn’t possible and so felt somewhat “blunt” and failing in the end. Well, the end of the book was able to achieve fully what I felt as impossible. Throughout the whole book it seemed that Erikson was rinsing and repeating, forcing something that wasn’t working well. With the end of the book he succeeds. Those feelings passed through without losing completely those alien traits. The book made me live something that was utmost unique. That single aspect.

That’s why I think the book is the embodiment of epic. It’s insanely ambitious, sets goals impossible to reach, staggering. And gets there. “I am done”. And it’s because he is done that I wonder where he found the energies to write further. There isn’t anything else to write. It’s over. This book reads as the final chapter. The hanging threads are superfluous sophistications that may as well stay there floating in potential. I read book 1, intrigued, though the ending was rushed and too forced in its spectacularity. I had my mind filled with questions that I wanted answered (as after watching an episode of Lost). I started reading book 2 to get my answers. Loved Heboric because as an historian he was the symbol of all my longings. By half of this second book I got most of my answers. By the end of the book all those answers were turned on their head and all my theories fell apart. In fact I was upset because I didn’t think the plot was going to make sense. Too many contradictions. Besides, the last 250 pages weren’t written as well as the rest of the book. The usual convergence felt again a bit too rushed and two of the three plot lines were dull in the way they were presented (as usual I explained this better in the comments to the book). Great book nonetheless, but I was still there longing for answers and to start making sense of the whole thing. Then I read the novellas that suprised me for all different reasons. No more caring much for the intricacies of the plot, but being awed by the *writing* itself, the sheer creativity and surprises at every page. A careful masterpiece, word by word, in a completely different way from the other broader books. I started this third book to get back to the hanging plots left by book 1, once again to get my answers. By half of it I got most of my answers, by the end of it, I didn’t care anymore.

While reading through book 1, 2 and most of the third I was wondering why there weren’t more discussions on the forums about the mysteries and hidden plots. The great majority of readers are much further with the books so I believed that they OUGHT to know more about what I wanted to know. Instead not only they didn’t, but in many cases they didn’t have any clue about *what I was asking*. Like if I was reading an entirely different thing. Well, it was true. There are two aspects to consider. One is that this series is like a parallel to Lost, the TV series. Both use some of the same tricks and Erikson uses some of them even better. One of the tricks is to force the attention of the reader onto something else. You fill a first part with mysteries, then continue to shift the focus till the reader/spectator is enthralled by brand new mysteries and forgets about the firsts. Erikson does some of this through some kind of chinese boxes, and it works great. What you think was a mystery onto itself, reveals to be part of a MUCH bigger tapestry. The box contained in a much bigger box, and the bigger box into another. Those questions and mysteries kind of fall to irrelevance when you realize that all you got was nothing in the bigger picture and you were trying to put together a puzzle of 5000 pieces by matching together just an handful. If you look for Agatha Christie kind of flawless weaving you are going to be disappointed as it is very likely that some of the pieces are mistakes and not just masterful misdirection (and multiple level of meaning, something Erikson does well), but the way he manages these unexpected transitions from a lower level to an emergent one is eminently enjoyable. It’s also with this third book that something changes. In book 1 and 2 you were just trusting the writer and just add more pieces to a borderless puzzle. It was pure chaos as there was nothing conventional or expected. A blank board with a stream of pieces coming in, the reason why most readers are welcomed with absolute confusion and bafflement. The third book instead starts to fill the gaps. After having drawn the horizon, you start to grasp the big picture and “belong” more to the world Erikson created. So starting to understand the pieces, recognize them and play with them. I was saying how the mysteries “escalate” to upper levels so broad that the details fade out, and how Erikson diverts the attention to new “live” threads, making others less important. Secondly, and here we come to the point, it succeeds where he was failing. Characters, emotions. After working so much on the rational level he finally succeeds to bring the characters to the front, and with the ending of this third book all of the sophistications of the plots that crowded my thoughts during the previous books became suddenly less relevant. I wasn’t thinking anymore about why Dujek was contradicting Laseen, or who killed who during the sieges of Pale. I was thinking instead of the characters and the sense of emptiness (nostalgia) they left in me. I was there sharing something with them.

After this endless stream of unbelievable praises do I think the book is flawless? Well, if I have to rate it, it would score a perfect. Simply because it is a success on what it wants to be, and what it wants to be is something I’ll remember for a long time. It doesn’t mean that the book is perfect, but that the problems fade out and I don’t consider them as relevant as in the previous books. For most of this third book I thought that the writing quality and style was overall a little below of book 2 (or at least book 2 minus two plots at the end of the book as I explained in that commentary), I also thought that if I had to rank them I’d put the second on top. That before reaching the end of the third book. Now I really couldn’t put this third book below and I understand all those readers who think that it’s the highest peak of the series. Deadhouse Gates has an overall better execution, beautifully written, but the ambition (and payoff) behind it just can’t compare with what Erikson does here.

There are other aspects I can criticize. The book is, shortly put, wasteful. To those who think that books this long (1100 pages) are unnecessary, I’ll say that these are not 1100 pages written by a writer who’s trying to fill 1100 pages. These are 1100 pages written by someone who’s trying to *squeeze* into them all he has in his mind. The pacing of the book is relentless and those pages without action are the pages that in the end are more important and filled with revelations (so moving the plot). I say this is wasteful because there’s just too much. While the end works on its own and justifies the journey, for the first half of the book Erikson wastes a number of valid ideas without playing them to their full potential. He fires them into the air clumsily and brings them down shortly after. He wastes opportunities. He builds up mysteries only to spoil them two pages later (if not on the same page). The pacing is so sustained that you have no time to let characters and feeling linger enough. A case of excessive creativity and drive. In retrospective I now understand better where this “urge” came from. There was to much to do for the destination that he already had an insane number of balls to juggle in the air. As I said, this book is insane.

At some point halfway through the book there’s an idea extremely interesting. One of the main characters has a crisis of faith and starts to question what he believes in. His words are pure beauty and deep. This is also an extremely important transition in the plot. I’ll quote it again:

And perhaps that is the final, most devastating truth. The gods care nothing for ascetic impositions on moral behaviour. Care nothing for rules of conduct, for the twisted morals of temple priests and monks. Perhaps indeed they laugh at the chains we wrap around ourselves – our endless, insatiable need to find flaws within the demands of life. Or perhaps they do not laugh, but rage at us. Perhaps our denial of life’s celebration is our greatest insult to those whom we worship and serve.

The character here has made a vow to his god and is now wondering if the gods are really caring about these demonstration of faith. Maybe that vow is instead an insult to the gods, what he calls a “denial of life’s celebration”. Why life shouldn’t be experienced fully? Why “our endless, insatiable need to find flaws within the demands of life”? It’s beautiful not just because of how it was written, but because those words have depth, truth (and not, like Gene Wolfe, just a way to “adorn” in fancy, sophisticate words a simple concept).

‘You question your vows.’
‘I do, sir. I admit to doubting their veracity.’
‘Has it been your belief, Shield Anvil, that your rules of conduct has existed to appease Fener?’
Iktovian frowned as he leaned on the merlon and stared out at the smoke-wreathed enemy camps. ‘Well, yes-‘
‘Then you have lived under a misapprehension, sir.’

I won’t spoil the solution of this passage, but I’ll use it as a concrete example of how Erikson doesn’t play many of his ideas to their full potential. This whole transition and character development (and resolution) I’ve hinted here is contained in TWO PAGES. It is beautiful, deep, not at all simple. Filled with potential and interest to my eyes. Kept me glued to the book. But completely contained in 2 pages among 1100. This is the pacing of this book. All the book is like that, filled with different threads and crazy ideas that come and go page after page. Every page is a pivotal point and this rhythm so sustained becomes somewhat detrimental as there’s no way to make all these things “settle” in the mind of the reader. Once again, familiarize.

This is what lead me to write that other commentary about character development. Without “slices of life” or time to familiarize, the readers will feel disconnected from the characters in the book. If deep transitions and shift of motivations happen in the space of two pages, like the Iktovian example here, then it will be hard for the reader to relate to them and share/understand their feelings. At the same time this is a strength for Erikson. His unique style. The journey isn’t a typical, already seen one, the characters aren’t conventional, and they develop in unpredictable ways that demand a big effort to the reader in order to keep the pace and understand this type of complexity. Lacking the redundancy that is typical of the genre (these days I’m reading Goodkind and the parts of it that work well work exactly because of the redundancy). The more I think about the book now that I read it from beginning to end, the more I realize that there wasn’t any other way to write it.

Typical deus ex machina associated with Erikson are part of this case. There are many in this book. They make sense, are part of the world. But the tapestry is so broad and the threads so disparate that when it all comes together in the end you can’t avoid the feeling that all of that was “guided”. This will annoy purists, but in this case the “intent” is itself the reward. There wasn’t any other way. This story told itself. The hand “driving” plot threads and characters along isn’t an intrusion, but just the way the story told itself in the way it should. Iktovian is an example because Erikson builds the character through the book to “get there”. There wasn’t any other way to do it. “Destiny” as a destination that ultimately follows a sequence of steps. Similar to the Greek myths and legends that Erikson uses as inspiration, and whose metaphoric value he tries to give life to. Salvation, tragedy and a whole lot of other undertones. Themes high and low mixed together. Sleight of hand and awe.

Either you follow (and be willingly to follow) Erikson or this whole thing just won’t work. On the forums I read all sort of criticism and a good amount of it is poorly motivated. This leads, even from myself, to claim that those readers “do not get it”. Too often what happens toward the whole genre, and is promptly defended by everyone, happens again within. People attack the book because it has an excessive use of magic, powerful characters, huge battles. Well, my opinion is that these books are great IN SPITE of those. It is when Erikson is most realist and delves deep in his themes that he is most successful. But why using the spectacularity as an argument to diminish the books? It’s “serious literature” vs fantasy all over again. The same mistakes repeated by those who are this side of the fence (appreciating the genre) and that should know better than criticize something through stupid, superficial arguments. It’s diminishing without understanding. So I say that when those arguments are used, readers “do not get it”. Erikson is a lot more than what drifts on the surface. If all you notice is the powerful magic and characters then it means you are gliding on. Losing the great majority of the meaning of those words.

The payoff is then only proportional to the dedication. Erikson will never work too well for the large public. It will never be an easy and almost safe recommendation (like Abercrombie or Scott Lynch). It will never be for a “majority”. It will never work for a variegated public on different levels (and ages). But if you are on the same line and are interested in its themes and intent, then it will be nothing short of grandiose. More than a book, a journey.

This book collects at a (relatively) accessible price the three novellas that PS Publishing published separately. I didn’t know what to expect, how much they were connected to the bigger series, how relevant. If a significant effort with its own purpose or just a diversion intended for the most passionate readers who won’t miss even the minor works. Well, I don’t even know where to start with the praises because this isn’t simply a “worthy” read compared to the rest of the books, but may be as well the finest writing Erikson ever achieved. And by a good margin.

The most impressive achievement is how the writing style changes and adapts to the different form. It is the same Erikson, with the multitude of characters and crazy ideas and inventions at every page, but at the same time it feels as if the constraints to the short form fueled the already wild creativity. The stories and characters seem explode out of the pages, unrestrained. The more they are squeezed tight, the more they come alive and claiming their space. Single sentences that read like poetry and filled with meaning on multiple levels.

Not only Erikson is at ease with the short form, he excels, shines in it. He understands it fully and carves out all the potential there is. It’s not the wild creativity, the crazy characters, the usual convergences that accelerate to a mad rush toward the end. It’s not in the content itself (that has always been seen as THE strong point), it’s in the execution. Here Erikson shows sheer talent. It oozes out of the page. From the first page. From a writer who’s used to publish once a year books with more than a thousand of pages you expect a writing style that is merely functional. Something quick and cheap that gets the job done. Well, here the real protagonist is the writing itself. It’s Erikson at his very best (or worst for some detractors), talking right at the reader in this meta-narrative game:

“But what do we know? We’re no brush-stroked arched brow over cold, avid eye, oh no. We’re just the listeners, wading through some ponce’s psychological trauma as the idiot stares into a mirror all love/hate all masturbatory up’n’down and it’s us who when the time comes -comes, hah- who are meant to gasp and twist pelvic in linguistic ecstasy.”

He’s “loose” and highly pretentious. Condensed, focused awesome. Everything that makes the readers love or hate him with a passion.

I used to say that from my point of view he is among “traditional” fantasy writers the one with the most “literary” intent. For these novellas this intent is shown prominently, but not limited to this show-off I’m celebrating. There are a number of memorable characters, plot twists and plenty of humor. Even if the writing has the predominant role, it doesn’t overshadow or gets in the way of the fun of the more traditional elements. “Over the top”, excessive and raving indeed. But still a masterful execution from every point of view.

It was a pleasure. Not just about what is written, but how it is written. I developed a familiarity with it, absorbed some of it as if it were mine. I really couldn’t ask more.

Blood Follows

The novels are put in the book in the chronological order of the plot, but the second was actually written and published last. This is interesting to consider because it proves again Erikson’s growth as a writer. There’s a steady, definite improvement between the three novellas in the order they were written, so with the second representing the real peak.

With the first one Erikson seems to take confidence with the new format. He shows sparks of genius but it’s still the beginning of a journey. He sets the foundation, starts to present the characters and develop the style (along some recurring habits and quibbles of the characters) that he will fully exploit later. Here he shows an economy of writing compared to the other novels, starts to play with the words to look for an intended effect, using them more for what they evocate than their explicit meaning. Showing a contagious love for the language that shares the similar beauty and lure of poetry.

There are a few memorable scenes, like the very first encounter between Bauchelain and Emancipor Reese and a myriad of details are presented that will only make sense later, following a similar trend of the main series. The first novel is also the one more connected to the Malazan world. The relatively familiar setting isn’t a weight. There are a number of interesting informations and perspectives, but they are used as “flavor”, not as key points.

The tone is far from the realistic one used in the main series. There is still a bleak and dark atmosphere but no restraints for the humorous and excessive side of things. Characters are caricatures, exaggerated in their traits, clever and naive at the same time. In some ways he reminded me more of Abercrombie here, with scenes intended both to to give personality to the characters and to be fun in their own way. Circumscribed situations with their own (often comic) purpose, while also driving the plot.

Maybe it’s the reason why I thought the end was not completely satisfying. With so much focus on the “performance” itself, what was being performed didn’t have the best denouement possible. This worried me since also for book 1 and 2 in the main series I was partially deluded by the ending. Maybe I really had a problem with the way Erikson ended his stories. The reasons of the disappointment were due mainly to the fact that some plot threads and characters seemed to pass by without a definite aim. Or better, the novella was so rich that it built a number of expectations that lead nowhere by the end of it. There were characters and plot threads that ultimately revealed to be dead ends, or still not used fully or significant enough for the potential I saw in them. As if I saw more in what was hinted than what revealed to be the real intent.

Still, the journey was fun and I developed a lasting sympathy and fondness for the characters that is only comparable, again, to what I felt for Abercrombie’s characters.

The Lees of Laughter’s End

It represents the high peak and the one case where I can say: there are no flaws.

100 pages of condensed AWESOME. Everything and then more happens, including the assault of a god. The ending is a mad dash in typical “convergence” style, only this time the convergence all starts and ends in the limited space of a ship. You’ll be amazed at how many stories tangle there, without even an ounce of the confusion that sometimes can be found in the main series. It’s all sleek, cleverly assembled. It’s a celebration of all things Erikson.

This time all the expectations built along the way were fully realized and even surpassed. The ending is great and fitting, without leaving that feel of incompleteness. In those 100 pages he sets up the scene and wraps it up perfectly.

He even conjures an external narrator in the form of a child and her old mother, who live completely alone in the crows’ nest of the ship and observe from far away everything below. They become at times the narrators of the story, some kind of abstract, symbolic figures, playing with different tones and registers, only to have their own patterns broken in some incredible way. Nothing is safe, not even an omniscient narrator.

This sent chills down my spine and one case where Erikson surpasses Gene Wolfe at his own game. It happens in a few pages and yet is extremely powerful and not at all vague. It plays with your expectations and breaks them, turn them on their head. Whatever you take a granted, breaks apart. And then again and again.

The Healthy Dead

Erikson meets Pratchett. This novella reads like satire, with plenty of wit and paradoxical situations.

It is the least “Malazan” of the three and also the one more “over the top”. It even uses some fantastic elements that do not seem to fit or belong perfectly to the world. Its explicit intent is also more driven and specific. It isn’t “loose” like the others, it doesn’t follow its own pattern and consistence. To understand it you need to draw parallels with our “modernity”. It’s fantasy fiction but working only in direct contact with what we live every day, which is what the satire is supposed to do with its metaphorical value. This purpose is already manifest in the disclaimer in the first page (and in those quotes I extrapolated):

Warning to lifestyle fascist everywhere. Don’t read this or you’ll go blind.

The novella brings to the front a different style. How to convey the most disparate thoughts through a story made as a vehicle. The plot and characters, including our protagonists, aren’t here the ultimate destination, they are means to an end.

It also marks a structural difference compared to the more usual worldbuilding. The majority of fantasy writers shape a world around the story, so that the world is functional to the story, or the intent behind it. Erikson instead shapes his world as a frame that can contain all possible stories. It’s a “world” in the true sense because it’s not one-directional.

The world is the frame, the characters are his “voices” and the stories his meaning.

But even if in this case he has a definite purpose and thesis he wants to prove, despite the whole novella pivots around “expedients”, it’s still a gorgeous, utterly fun read. The usual trio feels almost out of place at the beginning, as if those Malazan characters finished into a different, impossible world. But that’s also what fuels it all and makes those characters even more appropriate. Both Bauchelain and Emancipor become perfect vehicles for the message as if they were created and meant just for it. And, more, they came out even richer.

—
If you expect these novellas to integrate the main series and say something vital you’ll be disappointed. If you expect them to be throwaway little-efforts, forgettable digressions, you are also absolutely, terribly wrong. This book swiped away all the reservations and doubts I had of Erikson as a writer. He may show up and lows throughout the whole main series, but I am now sure he has an indubitable talent. As James Barclay put it in the introduction to the second novella:

The Lees of Laughter’s End is a splendidly outrageous offering. It is utterly fearless and compelling. Most of all, it is hugely entertaining. Erikson in this mood is a joy to read.

The big problem I have now is that while reading the novellas I couldn’t wait to move onto Memories of Ice, considered Erikson’s masterpiece. Now that I’m 200 pages into Memories of Ice I feel… nostalgic. I’m developing a serious case of withdrawal from the novellas and the 1100 pages of this new book aren’t helping much. I’m addicted to those novellas, to the wit, the superb writing style, the memorable characters. So every time I sit down to read the new book I actually take in my hands the novellas and read some random pages. It’s like being in deeply love with someone of whom you’ve left just a photo.

Deadhouse Gates is the second volume in the “Malazan Book of the Fallen” ten volumes (now sixteen) planned series. The eighth, Toll the Hounds was recently released in UK.

I finished the first book wanting more, while this one left me tired and drained. It’s a demanding read, denser and deeper than the first volume. I let a few days pass to write some comments because I wanted to figure out some parts. The border between awesomeness and mediocrity is incredibly thin, this is another book that asks the reader a lot of faith in the writer. Erikson delivers, but in many cases that faith is put at risk and I can easily understand why some readers come to hate this series.

For me this second book is difficult to judge because the last 200 pages went in a direction I didn’t like at all, so that conclusion undermined and made be doubt retroactively of the whole thing. Outside that particular aspect I loved the book. Without that questionable conclusion I would consider it the very best fantasy book I read, far above all the rest (even if I don’t have this huge experience in the genre, so my superlatives are relative). It’s interesting to consider the sharp turn represented by those last pages because of various reasons. The first is that in my opinion the quality of the writing and the style are worse than in the rest of the book, more forgettable, less imaginative, too rushed. On the other hand the majority of readers love the ending, so this is a contrast of my opinion versus the consensus.

It’s interesting to consider this dynamic because of how it is repeated. There’s a part in the book not only exceptional on its own, but that delivers one of those powerful epiphanies that makes so many pieces of the puzzle come together in a smooth way, all at once, all in the mind of the reader. You drop the book and the mind does the rest, and this out-of-text experience is so much more interesting than the usual passive reading. Not only there’s the satisfaction coming out of it, but a lot of parts that made no sense in the first book are suddenly well motivated,. It’s a so charming experience that made me retroactively appreciate the first book much, much more, as it is immensely satisfying to go back and find obscure parts of the text that acquire a completely new meaning and relevance. Sleight of hand, wonderfully realized in this case.

So you can imagine how much I was pissed when by the end of the book all those theories fell apart. Erikson fills your hands with broken pieces that look like useless garbage, you wonder why. Then with perfectly executed sleight of hand he makes you realize out how the pieces match, and the emergent, beautiful result. You spend a lot of time admiring that, repeating to yourself how cool Erikson is, and then he kicks it and sends pieces in all directions. What you get is another pile of garbage. And this time it looks very unlikely that things will come together again. It just can’t happen. My trust in the writer went down at the point. Sure, if he’s able to take those pieces and repeat the trick without contradicting every other part of the text then the outcome would be even more awesome than the first go. But I don’t see how it is going to happen. I finished the book with that skeptical eye. The thin line separating awesomeness from mediocrity. A matter of trust, sure, but also a matter of *earning* that trust. Building trust throughout the book, to then shatter it to the end isn’t the best strategy if you care about the reader. Rather risky. Success or failure? Genius or amateur?

Consider, though, that this whole dynamic happens out the text. Especially because it’s all about making sense of the first book, and the theme itself isn’t touched in this second book. So all this speculation only comes if you are actively doing it yourself, but it isn’t part of the text or theme of the book. And as it often happen the speculation is only fun if your trust it is motivated and well founded, because if you discover that you only imagined the whole thing yourself, well, it sucks. Not only it ruins that moment, but also everything that came before.

The ambivalence contained there explains how it’s hard to judge the book. High stakes. Either it goes one way or the other. And you see it stagger a lot.

Suspending the judgment on these out-of-text considerations, there are other aspects I didn’t like and that don’t have similar justifications. Two of the storylines are rather badly told in those last 200 pages. One is about Fiddler and company arriving at the Azath and the other about Kalam arriving at Malaz Bay. From that point onward I thought the writing was weak and redundant. There are a number of repetitive fights that could be spared to the reader (if the reader expects more from a book than some cheap action scenes) and that are ALL resolved through a number of unmistakable “deus ex machina”. So there is: redundancy, lack of originality, and the break of the suspension of disbelief as scenes are resolved too many times through artificial last-minute savings. You can imagine how this all felt like if I suddenly was reading a wholly different book as it contrasts sharply with the grittiness, bleakness, dryness (in a good way) and realism of the rest of the book.

I also didn’t like those scenes from the stylistic point of view. Battles between rats, bears and flies. Bleh. It isn’t imaginative and the ordinariness kills for me the “epic”, fascinating atmosphere. I’d expect something more original and cool looking, instead it feels like a zoo. Same for Kalam versus the ninjas. Like a bad b-movie. When Erikson uses conventions he usually spins them in some original, unexpected ways. That whole part with the ninja fight instead it’s just deja-vu, predictable and cheap. And in both cases those are battles thrown in the book just to offer some badly described action scenes. Like if it went from a movie with a soul, to some Hollywood summer movie. There were some similar scenes even earlier in the book that didn’t annoy me, but when at the end of the book you get one after the other, endlessly, well, it’s too much. The redundancy is boring and kills completely both the interest and the sense of urgency and danger that the writer wants to push, and fails there. Then the insisted and unforgivable use of “deus ex machina” to resolve those scenes give it the last stab. Bah, from Erikson I expect (and was taught to expect) way, way more.

I’m underlining here how bad is the last part also to explain how good are the previous 700 pages (and more, since of those 200 only those two storylines are bad, while the rest is consistent through the very end). Far, far past my hopes and expectations. I knew that the first book was considered the weakest and this second one the second best just behind Memories of Ice, but still the very best for a lot of readers. Now that I’ve read the book I can say I agree. They all said the writing and structure was improved compared to the first book, but they didn’t explain how much. From an objective point of view, the execution is immensely improved on every aspect. Structure, pacing, characterization and, in particular, the writing itself.

If you read the first book and hated the style, this second one probably won’t make a different impression. It’s the same style, but executed much better. I could understand if someone said the first book was entertaining, but made hard by the writing. In this other case not only the writing doesn’t get in the way, but it’s one of the first reasons why I loved reading it. It’s so evident that Erikson matured and is trying to push the bar up instead of merely trying to reach a quality level. The first ten pages of the prologue are some of the best I’ve ever read in fantasy. A masterpiece. The second part of the prologue is actually more spectacular and bloody, but those first ten pages are genius.

One of the biggest and easy to recognize differences between modern and classic writing is how today television and cinema influenced it. We have descriptions that imitate cameraworks, action scenes that reply the blurring, slo-mo, zooms, dollys, fly-bys. The language continually changes and mixes between mediums, and Erikson isn’t stranger to this. Gardens of the Moon was born as a screenplay and it’s filled with tricks belonging more to the cinematographic language than literature. For example how he plunges you in the bloody aftermath of a huge battle, only to show the battle itself a moment later, through a flashback. Erikson loves to play with these tricks and keeps a creative approach to the way things are presented and how the plot is structured. What makes those ten pages of the prologue so special is that he does one brilliant trick that is impossible with the cinema and that is pure “literature”. So not only he is aware of how the language changes, but he is also able to take the best from both and use all that creatively.

I’ll explain. Those first ten pages simply describe a priest of Hood, shrouded in a mass of flies, walking down a path toward some chained-in-a-row slaves. Among those slaves there are a few new characters presented, and Felisin, someone who never appeared in the first book but that was still introduced and closely related to one major character (being Paran’s sister). Now, if this was a movie scene you would imagine an “eye” that fixes and follows this horrific hump of flies approaching the slaves. You would see right there who are the slaves, who are the guards. The characters speak, you see where they are and guess their roles. The “image” presents and delimits them, the scene defined. But this is instead *written* text, you don’t have to expose and spoil as much. You can select what to expose and what is eluded. The “eye” indeed follows the priest of Hood, is witness of the reactions of the guards, and then moves to the reactions of the other characters. Felisin and Heboric, one of the slaves. The attention is focused on the reactions they have toward the priest of Hood, the reader’s attention there as well. But the surprise that comes later and that is the pivot isn’t about the priest and its role. But it’s in the revelation that Felisin too is a slave, chained to Heboric and Baudin. That came as a bit of a shock to me because I didn’t expect Felisin there in that role. I imagined her among the guards, or just as an onlooker in the scene. The “trick” was about playing with the “unwritten”, deceiving the reader to think of a situation, only to reveal a moment later with something akin to a chill that one of the characters already introduced and active wasn’t an external observer, but one of the “victims”. A sudden overturn that also makes you go back a few pages and reconsider the whole situation. Coupled with a mystery (the Hood’s priest and weird things he inspires) that is chased and replaced by an even more powerful one (the purge and subplots related to Tavore and Laseen).

This is why I loved this book and also an example of something that defines the whole Malazan series. The misleading, the reversal, the retrofitting, the, once again, sleight of hand. Erikson doesn’t simply tell an interesting story, but he invents and executes skillfully all sort of interesting tricks. He isn’t simply master of *what*’s written, but, especially, *how* it is written. And for me that’s essential in reading a book. I need a certain use of language that grips my attention. He writes these huge tomes in ten months, you expect the writing being perfunctory, with all attention focused on what’s written and the tangles of the plot, but Erikson also plays with the structure and the execution, and there is no trace of rushed work. He dares and pushes a lot, is immensely creative at different levels. He knows he’s writing a *book* and he takes advantage of everything written words can do and that is unique and different from other mediums. Today everything is a blur. Books become TV, movies, games, songs. Nothing is really circumscribed. Erikson doesn’t simply write something cool, but he fully understands and exploits the specific medium he is using.

In that prologue he continues to amaze. One bigger wonder stacked on top of the previous. First the priest, then Felisin revealed, the the politics about the empress, then the introduction of a character that wouldn’t fit better: an historian. And not just a normal one, but an heretic, knowing things that cannot be said and that remained a longed mystery throughout the first book. In that moment you crave for answers and Erikson hides them within an heretic historian, the figure that can tell you all you want to know, making you cling to everything he says. Gripped. And when you are there, longing for more answers and revelations, a total mess explodes in a climax and steals your attention. That’s how you hook a reader, but with the downside that those hooks are subtle, and only effective if you are paying attention and “wanting”. The risk is that instead of being hooked, you’re just confused. Erikson doesn’t lead by hand nor spoon-feds, and if you’re lost, he doesn’t look back to help. In a way, he is akin to Gene Wolfe. He says things only once, and the important ones don’t even stick out. Either you are quick to jump on the train, or the train departs without you.

On the matter of structure, this book is easier to digest compared to the first. The groups and characters that have a part in the novel are still present in staggering numbers, but mostly grouped around four main storylines that proceed separately. So easier to follow as for most of the book they stay delimited and don’t overlap. But this is also one of Erikson’s most successful ploys as he persuades you to think within bounds, only to discover later the subtext. How everything is actually linked, how layered and filled with allusions to what comes later is the text. Sleight of hand. Masterfully executed, but only for the attentive reader.

This is not just about foreshadowing, it’s not one-directional, but it also goes back, as history and myths here have active roles. They are alive and actual. The fun is in those nuances that are easily missed by the distracted reader. You need a trained mind to make a sense of the different levels, the personal character’s issues amid the overarching plots, the web of plot threads. Erikson demands attention, and by demanding attention he also takes the risk of failure, as explained above. The ambivalence and risks that come with the ambition.

This “device” is also interesting because of its two different uses. The first for structure and pacing, the second as build-up. The convergence as a concept. Thematic and stylistic. Usually in fantasy novel the party starts together (in a small “corner” of the world to better present the story and make it the “escalate” toward epic), then splits up. This creates that alternation where one chapter follows a group and the following another, so that expectations are made and the reader hooked. Erikson spins that concept and uses it in a stronger way. Storylines start separately, but you know that everything will come together later on. This not only gives structure to a big novel (the alternation of plot threads), but it works well to “accelerate” toward the end of the book. Toward an explosive cliffhanger.

An interesting theme in the book is about the relationship with the gods. This was already touched in the first book, but is here greatly expanded. While the first book only looked at certain specific aspects, in this one the theme is observed from all the perspectives possible. What happens in a world where the existence of gods isn’t just assumed, but proven? The first consequence is that those gods are “questioned”. In our world people can be classified between believers and unbelievers, with various degrees. But if you believe, then you try to follow what the god says the best you can. If you don’t believe, you don’t. The only distinction is about believing or not. In Erikson’s fictional world “unbelievers” are uncommon. Gods’ existence is taken as granted, but it’s because of this that the theme is richer. What if the god is lying to me? What if he’s using me? What if the god is selfish? And so on.

In the case of the book people are suspicious of their gods. There’s a hint of desperation as the relationship is one of subtlety and power. And even more interestingly, gods’ presence is always in the air. Perceived but never sure. So we have both the perspective of gods as real, interfering entities, and gods as “impalpable” presence. Both the certainty and the uncertainty. It’s even more faceted and complex than how the real world is perceived. This is not just an original idea thrown in the book like many others. It’s instead an anthropological device that strongly impacts the cultures of that world and influences the way people think and behave. It all links to one strong skill of Erikson about the “worldbuilding”. Not simply the complexity and number of elements, but about how deep they go and affect people. About how strongly the fictional world is made “real”, while also different than ours, while also tightly connected. A way to explore humanity from unconventional perspective. All this wonderfully realized.

I’ve read recently that Erikson complained his readers care too much about the facts and plots, while he hoped that the focus was actually on the themes explored. This can be perceived in the book. The characters are vehicles of emotions and strong themes. What happens is a way to explore those themes. The plot is only “enabling” to reach that point. As Erikson himself explained, the fantasy genre allows to make a metaphor real. Experience things without filters. It’s not a case that the characterization in this book is so much stronger and deep. Not only some characters are delved inside, but they also evolve in unexpected ways. In directions that are rather daunting. So not just a matter of all around, deep characters, but also the way what they are and what they live makes them change and become something new, to the extreme consequences.

Something similar can be said (and it’s actually illuminating) about those scenes with the lapdog. I bet those who read the book are already chuckling. When I read the last scene of the Chain of Dogs I thought that Erikson had outperformed in epicness everything epic till that point. It’s not about the scale. Big armies, big battles, big dragons, big explosions, thousands of deaths. Erikson has those but also shows how the “epic” feel is born around the emotional impact, around the human level. So the most important scenes aren’t just spectacular visually, but they are poignant and moving. The sub storyline about the lapdog is the most epic in the book. Really. Filled with meaning. Another demonstration of what matters, another demonstration of inventiveness and characterization. Of a dog. A metaphor within a metaphor. Men so hardened by what they experienced that even their dogs go through an evolution.

A loud yapping bit the air at the vanguard, and as the historian trotted to join the gathered officers he was startled to see, among the cattle-dogs, a small, long-haired lapdog, its once perfectly groomed coat a snarl of tangles and burrs.
‘I’d supposed that rat had long since gone through one of the dogs,’ Duiker said.
‘I’m already wishing it had,’ List said. ‘That bark hurts the ears. Look at it, prancing around like it rules the pack.’
‘Perhaps it does. Attitude, Corporal, has a certain efficacy that should never be underestimated.’

I recently read someone saying that in his opinion Erikson was the one having most “literary” ambition among fantasy writers. From my limited perspective I definitely agree. This isn’t a book limited to entertainment (not that entertainment has a “lesser” value), but it instead tries to move you, make you think, make you go through a similar evolution to the one the characters have. If he succeeds, that experience is unmatched and filled with value. In various parts of the book I had gone through similar reactions that I had with “The Road” by Cormac McCarthy. Parts that made me think and made me feel engaged in those themes.

I also read that some parts are pushed too far. That there’s too much forced philosophizing even among regular soldiers. I had noticed and observed this but in this book it is kept below a certain threshold and consistent. Those who voices the deeper thoughts are those who realistically are enabled to (like the Historian). Moreover this critic is a theme of the book itself. Another attempt to defy conventions. Regular soldiers are not to be underestimated:

What makes a Malazan soldier so dangerous? They are allowed to think.

Since I’m fair I’ll also point hot that not always this is smooth. Like the specific case of captain Lull who, after having half his face torn apart, is still standing and talking with sarcasm instead of laying half-dead somewhere. That’s a case where Erikson pushes too much, and it is particularly awful because that scene was supposed to be the one closing an important part, so finishing on a dramatic tone that didn’t work well at all for me. Too pretentious and unbelievable.

There are many more themes that are worth discussing and not so suited for a monolithic “review”. This is why Erikson’s fans appear like a cult. Either you are absorbed by what he writes and the insane number of threads hanging, or it just falls flat and doesn’t work for you. These books produce polarized readers, but they are well worth a try.

The first book was hard to read because of the surprise effect, the approach. You laid loose and lone pieces of the puzzle. This time instead the thing starts to take a shape. You add pieces, put some things together. Yet it grows in so many more directions. It mirrors somewhat in structure the first book. There’s a “core” theme that starts and ends within the novel. Then a number of side plots that works as anchors between the various parts. In both cases (first and second book, fete and Chain of Dogs) the core plot is the most solid, satisfying and better executed, while the side plots are more disconnected. Sometimes they go nowhere, are anti-climatic, a bit too forced. Inconclusive. And they are meant to, since they are used as links to the other books, and whose mysteries are meant to stay in the longer term and slowly build the tapestry. Where this feels weak is in the feeling that the overall story arcs are less consistent and well played compared to the tighter plots within the single novel. So what’s meant to contain and be stronger (the overall plots and schemes) feels more watery than what is within (the core, conclusive themes in a book).

From another point of view: the sidesteps feel more solid and interesting than key events. In fantasy series this is a new thing. You usually have boring “filler” between key scenes that move the plot, where those key scenes are kept well spaced between them to justify a very long tale. Here it’s the opposite. Strong themes within a book that are the heart of the series, with side plots looking more like forced afterthoughts to justify the thing together. But that is also another proof of how Erikson’s work is layered and can be seen from different perspectives.

This book is, in a word, rich. And makes you richer if you read it. It reminded me in some obscure ways “Runaway Train”, a movie that I watched when young and that shocked me. Even in that case “we get a study of what defines a man”. And that’s also the part of this book that is most successful.

P.S.
If you want to find the specifics of what I babbled about in the beginning of my commentary, look here.

The story so far:
It’s a tale of two warring factions. It starts in the middle of the campaign of a Roman-like empire ruled by a mysterious empress, moving to expand her territorial control beyond what’s reasonable. The other faction being the “free cities”, who form an alliance to try to fight back and preserve their independence. Two opposed groups. The rest of the plot is about the insane proliferation of sub-factions.

Each of these two big groups is divided into a number of internal factions, with their own hidden history and plans, often not aware (or completely aware) of each other, often not even aware of where they stand. From there rises the emergent complexity of Erikson’s world. And not only we have a number of factions criss-crossing each other, but then even the gods enter the fray. Adding more foreshadowing, mystery and forgotten history. Everyone messes with everyone else. With the added principle at the foundation of it all: power draws power.

The result? A convergence. There’s a high number of sub-threads in the plot due to the interaction of these many factions, all converging to a point. Not only conceptually, but also geographically. Thankfully Erikson is coherent, so everything is well explained and makes sense, and the reader has the feel already halfway through the book that everything is moving exactly toward that point, and that it’s gonna be a real mess.

That’s the structure of the book. A really good structure. It starts with a bang, a powerful scene that is admirably handled (first you see the gruesome aftermath, then you are brought right there). Then there’s the calm after the storm, and, for the 500 pages between that first part and the climax, Erikson meticulously builds up his dominoes just so he can blow everything up later in a handful of pages.

While it moves on, there’s a whole lot of showmanship. Fireworks. So much that maybe you can find them a bit too excessive. So much stuff, characters and plots are presented that they could easily fit a fat trilogy. Still, the book doesn’t feel like moving too fast, because you know that all it happens isn’t resolutive but just another step toward the final reckoning.

There’s a guy half Marilin Manson, half Sephiroth from Final Fantasy 7, who goes around sitting on his moon-shaped airship. There’s a Jaghut Tyrant, who lifts his index and a volcano rises out the earth, that flicks his thumb and turns everything to ashes. Armies of zombies (kinda), all kinds of weird creatures like flying insects used as helicopters, a winged monkey, a chaos-powered wooden puppet. There are named swords with particle effects, powerful mages, a fool who walks through dreams, demons, dragons, other dimensions, gods.

Continuously, powerful forces who can destroy and enslave worlds are mentioned. You think that this scenario is complete? That these are the “villains”? No, because before the end you discover that the forces at play are just “diversions”, and that bigger players are just about to come in.

Now, I deliver death.

An endless stream of “you’ve seen nothing yet” and it almost feels like the Dragonball of fantasy literature.

But don’t get me wrong, because all of this is awesome. The worldbuilding is consistent, gritty and realistic. It has a strong sense of wonder, but it doesn’t slip on it and it’s probably the best setting ever. Brave and ambitious. Inspired and visionary. There’s attention to the different cultures and how all these uncommon aspects can affect what’s around them. The concept of gods walking among men is about how the perception of people change, when they know that gods aren’t an abstract, dubious ideas, but they are concrete, and affect visibly the world around you.

As with Tolkien, there’s history to the world going back for thousands of years. Unlike Tolkien, history here isn’t just a distant horizon, but instead comes back to take its toll. And knowing history means having an advantage, being ahead of your enemies. Gods, being immortal, have patience. Men, being mortal, are continuously on the edge.

On top of all this goodness, if you like its taste, there are a number of flaws. I often read complaints on the forums and now I can comment with my own experience. For the most part those flaws exist, but are marginal details that don’t get in the way. On the other side there are certain aspects that are more relevant.

To begin with, Erikson uses a tone that doesn’t change much through the whole book. For Glen Cook this worked because he used a single POV, for Erikson this works less, because he offers the POV of just about everything, included anthropomorphic animals that appear a bit silly. With so much display of power it is counterproductive to show every POV because you diminish the sense of wonder and have a normalizing, flattening effect on everything. The “flat” tone also makes the “voices” of all characters also flat, so making them all too much alike.

This gets worse as it loses a lot of the charisma of the characters and the novel feels distant. You aren’t easily drawn in as you fail to understand and sympathize with the characters. You always feel a separation and this works against the interest when powerful scenes are depicted. They kinda happen, they are pretty, showy, but fall a bit short because of the lack of emotional involvement.

Another flaw is that Erikson is abrupt with descriptions. When he says someone is “tall and lean” then he’s already giving out too much. All the characters seem a bit like black shapes, not because they lack a distinctive characterization, but because Erikson doesn’t linger to explain and describe. He moves on, only handing out a couple of words every hundred pages. The characterization is actually there and works, but you have to extrapolate it by yourself.

This is painfully obvious if you come from reading something like Abercrombie. In that case every phrase and word is carefully studied to give a particular feel of a character. Detail. Emergence. Here the grand scope and ambition makes characters cower. They are crushed by the plot.

There’s a love story hidden in the book that is completely developed in the background. A lot of readers complained it doesn’t make sense. The truth is that it’s very consistent, but it happens in ellipsis. It’s veiled. Like the rest of the characterization, you have to infer it. And for most readers this just means that it never happened, as it was never clearly exposed.

These two (flat tone and weak characters) are the two biggest complaints. I recognize the first as a flaw, but the second is more a choice of the writer than a flaw. In the case of the love story there was so much going on that exposing it would disrupt the pace of the book with a scene completely inappropriate. That love story represents a plot shift, but it was outside the themes of the book. And, thinking about it, Erikson dealt with it in the best way possible.

Another minor flaw I recognize is about the Deus Ex Machina. There’s a whole lot of it. I see how people are gonna hate this, but for the most part, it’s excused in the plot. Deus. Gods. In this book there are gods. They exist as part of the plot. They bend the plot as they like. They ARE Deus Ex Machina. Because they can.

This is actually one of the best realized aspect of the book. In Greek mythology gods were personifications and projections of human weaknesses, desires, ambitions and so on. Erikson takes inspiration from that. Gods weigh in everyday life, they are characters themselves, involved directly in the plot and not just abstract entities. Erikson has all of this, but his way is unique and charming in its own way.

The gods in this book intervene in everyday life in subtle ways. For example there’s the classic scene of someone who suddenly sees a coin on the ground, crouches to grab it, and doing so dodges a dart shoot by an assassin. A so classic scene that is completely ineffective and unbelievable. Ruins the consistence. But here it’s not a coincidence. It’s not chance, it’s Chance. It’s a god manipulating things.

What makes all this interesting and unique is that these gods don’t just intervene in subtle ways, pulling threads as they like, but that they are promptly detected by “normal” people who use magic. These characters can sense the presence and activity of the god, so discover who’s moving things behind the scenes. What makes this so interesting is that, while detected, the presence of the god isn’t directly explained. People can detect gods but can’t detect their intentions. And all this leads to a kind of passive observation filled with fears, because if a god is there and is meddling, then no good things can come out of it. Power draws power and soon it will be a mess for everyone. And if you want to live, you have to anticipate the gods’ moves.

It’s like a labyrinth. You on a side, a god (minotaur) from the other. You can’t see through walls, so you can’t see where the minotaur is moving. But you KNOW it’s there, and you have to find the exit all the while avoiding to face the minotaur.

This means that for the most part the Deus Ex Machina is inside the plot itself, and not an external intervention of the writer. But there’s also a part, 2/3 into the book, and then the end itself, with a row of fortuitous encounters that are a bit too convenient and feel forced. So there’s still a bit of external leading and “lucky” intersections, which is an even bigger flaw because the plot was already solid enough to not need it at all.

The relationship between men and gods is, after all, the theme. Erikson is an archaeologist and deals with the effects of cultures. With gods all around, men don’t have the control of their own lives. They are preys. Tools. They feel desperate, hopeless, with a sense of doom. At the same time they still fight the hopeless war. And being hopeless makes them unpredictable. Leading to acts of sacrifice and heroism. The quality of men versus gods.

This book isn’t simple to get into. Both because it’s multi layered and because of some of the flaws explained above. But it also sets in motion a truly epic saga that is evocative and fascinating in all its parts. With a powerful imagery and epic scope that is unparalleled in the whole genre. The end of the book, while accelerating to a maddening speed, manages to both wrap the plot in a satisfying way and lay the premises for at least the next two books, so that it puts in you the curiosity to follow through.

It requires more than the usual attention and work from the reader. Tolerance to apparent dead ends and continuous POV changes. To unclarity, opaqueness, hidden purposes, misleadings. Faith in the writer. That’s a lot to ask, but it pays back with a setting with an unprecedented scope and depth.

He drew another satisfied breath of steamy air. “We must needs await, at the end, the spin of a coin. In the meantime, of course, wondrous food beckons.”

Second book of a trilogy, but also part of a series of ten books in total. I didn’t comment the first book, but I read it. It was wonderful.

In order to explain what I think about this second book, I have to explain a few things about the first, because I started reading with some expectations and those expectations had a weight on my opinion about the book. The fact is that I loved the first book. For its setting, its pace, its structure. It’s from many points of view a “perfect” book. Every piece fits together and it’s masterfully planned and executed. In 310 pages Glen Cook wraps up an epic campaign that other authors would pan for thee books of 600+ pages. And this without leaving you feeling like you missed something.

The structure (first book, not this one) is probably the very best quality and what sets the book apart. Seven chapters, about 60 pages each. Each of these chapters are “standalone”, in the sense that you could read one in the middle of the book without feeling like you are missing a piece of the story, and so can’t understand what the hell is going on. Each also has its start, development and conclusions. So each chapter feels like a novella on its own. This isn’t all, the real quality is that not only the story is wrapped up perfectly around this structure, but that each chapter/novella adds plot elements and characters that contribute and move steadily onward the overall story that spans the whole book. It feels as modern as possible, like it happens now with the most successful TV series, that need, from a side being self-contained to be accessible to who didn’t follow every episode and remembers every detail, and from the other plot elements that link all the episodes together, giving the series its continuity and overall development. So no stalling. The Black Company follows the same principle and Glen Cook executed this masterfully in this first book. It couldn’t have been plotted and structured better. I had a few minor complaints (like how some “spoilers” were handled) but they are just small details toward the end.

I consider that book exceptional because it’s as steady as possible. There’s no slacking, no slows down, no weak parts. In 310 pages the author shows how he has perfect control over his story. And it’s very good, with plenty of unexpected and clever twists. With an end that doesn’t disappoint. The story could have just ended there, but it didn’t.

I don’t know if more books were planned from the beginning, the flow of the second book isn’t perfectly smooth, but still coherent enough to not give the feel of something artificially excused. The real problem is that the structure that made the first book wonderful, was completely discarded for this sequel. Instead of long chapters and self contained stories, we have this time a linear plot developing through the book, and organized with very short chapters (often just 4-5 pages) and an attempt to do different POV. I honestly didn’t like this choice as it gives a too fragmented feel. On the other side the chapters are so short that you keep turning the pages and read more as the next “exit” point is just two pages away, and the end of one chapter always making you wish to turn the page and look for other developments.

Gone the mastery of the structure, but also gone the overall “feel”. No more the militaresque campaign, but a bend toward a “spook”, supernatural theme, leaving you with the impression you are reading a fantasy version of Dracula. I was disappointed because I wanted more of the same, and instead I found something much different, with a plot much, much less inspired and deep. In fact I was much deluded by this second book, but as I went on reading it captured my interest more.

The first 2/3 of the book present two plots, one encapsulating the other. The book wasn’t a complete disappointment because I think Glen Cook achieved his purpose. This purpose was to make readers care more about the inner plot, instead of the outer. Without spoilering much, there’s an “outer” plot still about the Lady and the Dominator fighting each other, with the Black Company caught in between, just trying to survive and choose the lesser evil. With the Dominator rising his castle near a small town lost up the north of the world, forgotten by all. The “inner” plot is instead about the day-to-day miserable life of the people of that town. These two plots initially made distinct also geographically as the scenes with the Company happen at the other side of the world, also used to show how the Lady uses liberally the Company, tossed from one side of the world to the other. You start reading with all the hype once again on the Black Company (the first scene is superb, from the point of view of kids to return the reader the sense of wonder and badassness of the Company), but progressively the focus moves toward those who look like minor characters, and that instead become major ones. In fact Glen Cook artificially zones out the Black Company itself to narrate a “covert” operation with just a few members of it, that are “flown” far away. So there’s already here the will to move away from the theme and execution of the first book.

Even in this case, though, the trick that holds the second book is the same of the first: small things affecting big things. Just applied to a different context. The whole coolness of the first book was “watching” the normal men of the Black Company walk among much powerful beings. Giving the impression of gods walking among men. But gods made of flesh, powerful and intimidating, but with their own weakness. And then the fun of watching clever men fuck with the power of these gods. Because you shouldn’t underestimating the Black Company. This shift of power and point of view from the bottom was what made the first book awesome. In the second book this theme is applied differently, there’s less the same kind of direct confrontation, but the mess-up that feeds the story is still about some smallish acts that generate a disaster. Just think at the miserable people of this lost town, just thinking selfishly how to survive the next winter, stealing money to each other, all caught in their personal dramas… While a black castle is growing just over their shoulders, growing on their filth and miserableness.

And then you have the climax: huge glowing balls rolling around, invisible giant feet stomping the ground, flying carpets airstrikes, eggs exploding into fire and a black castle made of goo and smelling pretty bad too.

Before it all happens, though, there’s another strong point of the book, that is the return of the Company into the scene. And also the demonstration of why and how they are cool: Get things done. Quickly. Efficiently. Competently.

Then the mess. And, as you may guess from my words above, a really weird mess. Even if helped by the strong realistic way Glen Cook has to describe things. While the scene presented is so surreal to be silly, it’s still described in a “serious” way that makes it still consistent and believable. Even if I have to say that the descriptions of the first book were more inspired, beautiful and better written. The prose of this second book in general has a slight dip in quality.

Those five immediately encountered the portal from elsewhere that expelled the cold breath of the infinite. They all perished.

And once again it’s interesting the contrast. The weird magery stuff from a side, and the concreteness, down-to-earth approach and mindset that the Company has.

Another aspect I was thinking about but that isn’t underlined in the book, is how there’s a sort of meta-fiction. The book you are reading that you have in your hands, exists also in the fictional world as a physical entity. In fact it’s written in first person, and the protagonists writes and “records” what happens, as it is his other duty within the Company, the annalist. So sometimes there are references at how the book itself was saved from danger. Because it’s implied that if you have it in your hands, then it would have been saved somehow. As if the Company really existed.

Last thing about the style: as I said the book is written, like the first, in first person. But feeling like third. Even more so in this book than the first Glen Cook plays with this concept. It’s not present tense, as the events are “recorded” by the annalist, and this time there’s an attempt at different POV, so scenes where the writer isn’t directly present, and so written in third person. It’s a book written in first person but where the writer is not the protagonist, only an “observer” that, due to the context, is also sometimes present physically and doing things. It’s interesting.

All in all the book disappointed me because the militaresque feel I liked and the cleverness of the plot is mostly gone, replaced by an unimaginative spook theme that was kept throughout the whole book (instead of occupying just one chapter and then moving on, as in the first book). The writing is a bit worse, the structure and plot not as good. But at the same time it’s not as deluding as I initially thought. It’s as if Glen Cook started from an awful concept, but managed to still pour good things into it. I don’t consider this an exceptional book, especially because I keep comparing it with the first and in no way it can stand that comparison. But, on its own, I enjoyed reading it and the Company has still not lost any charisma.

Glen Cook has less aces up his sleeve, but he still knows how to play the game.