Book Review -- THREE HEARTS AND THREE LIONS by Poul Anderson

In 1953 a novella was featured in F&SF magazine about a Danish engineer who was knocked out during a battle in World War II against the Germans and awoke to find himself a famous and legendary knight errant in a fantastic version of medieval Europe. It appeared sixteen years after J.R.R. Tolkien had published The Hobbit, and one year before The Fellowship of the Ring. It was later given the full treatment and published as a novel in 1961.

This work is considered highly seminal in the development of 20th century fantasy. It is credited with having had a very heavy impact on E. Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson, designers of role-playing game Dungeons & Dragons, inspiring the character class of paladin, the D&D alignment system (especially the original Law-Chaos dichotomy), and the D&D regenerating troll that can only be killed by fire.

Anderson structures his plot in a manner similar to A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, with the man-out-of-time-and-place being whacked into a mythic world. He frames the tale as being related by a third party and acquaintance of Holger Carlsen (the protagonist). This frame only really matters in the very beginning and very ending, and the Holger's friend slips into the role of the typical limited subjective narrator. And much like Hank Morgan, Holger's modern scientific know-how gets him out of a few tight jams and saves both himself and his companions--a dwarf and a swan-may with Scottish accents.

All-in-all, the book isn't terrible, but it isn't amazing. Anderson's prose is, I guess, the Asimovian "clear-as-glass" style that so many modern fantasists and science-fiction writers employ. The overall effect is alright, but nothing to write home about. Holger is a pretty consistent character--his earthly experiences have certainly tainted his view of life and events in the fantasy realm in which he finds himself. He's torn between his earthly pragmatism and scientific skepticism as an engineer, and the faith and religiosity of the crusading knight. I can see how he was Gygax's inspiration for the paladin class (people ask him to lay hands on them, for example), but Holger's "lawful" behavior is a product of his earthly training in scientific methodology, not any sort of theological certainty. Indeed, Holger never struck me as a very faithful and virtuous character--just a man who was trying to get home. His courage and bravery, as well as his moral fiber, aren't the stuff of legend, but much more earthy and practical--this makes Anderson's story quite enjoyable and a tad subversive, but again, I see some strain between Holger's character and the paladin of Gygax and Arneson's D&D. Holger's no saint--he's horny and he is a tad unscrupulous, but overall he's honest and a definite do-gooder.

Anderson's channelling of epic medieval romance is excellent. His portrayal of the elves and fairy, his reminder that iron is anathema to them, and the sense of timelessness and chaotic transistasis that the fair folk inhabit is rendered quite well, and helps to create a wonderful sense of atmosphere. Readers should expect lots of magic, enchantment, monsters, spellbound castles, alluring sorceresses, and lots of other staples of romantic medieval adventure.

The ending, however, is a huge let-down. There's all this buildup, but it really doesn't amount to much. The book reads more like the beginning of a saga, which Anderson simply resolves rather swiftly with a brief, forced, and disappointing summary. There's little payoff, and it all comes off as depressingly anti-climatic. What the book really needed was a cliffhanger ending and a sequel where Holger really comes into his own, but we're never given that. All this development takes place throughout the book, but it leads nowhere in the end. Perhaps we're supposed to feel the lurching displacement that Holger himself feels in the end, but I'm not so certain, and I don't think it really works.

Overall, the book is quite enjoyable. It's not very original, it doesn't exhibit breathtakingly epic prose, and the characters (except for Holger) are not especially deep. It's not an incredible piece of fantasy, but it definitely has some value and deserves to be read at least once. I certainly liked it well enough to recommend it.


Three Hearts and Three Lions by Poul Anderson
Style B-
Substance B-
Overall B-

Book Review -- THE DYING EARTH, by Jack Vance

Newton's Second Law of Thermodynamics states that in a closed, isolated system temperature, pressure, and chemical potential will eventually achieve equilibrium. All of the energy tends to even out throughout the system. Sometimes, this is referred to as entropy. When we think of entropy, we usually imagine loss of energy, not necessarily energy equalization. But something is lost when energy is equilibrated. What's lost is vitality, motion. The imbalance of energy permits action, transfer and conversion of energy convey motion and collision. When elements within a system bleed energy off to form that equilibrium, those elements seem to die.

It is this sort of energy death that Jack Vance explores in The Dying Earth. I recently reread my 1960s Lancer SF Library edition of this seminal work of its eponymous genre during school vacation. It's not very long, only 160 pages. Within are six stories set on an unnamed continent in a far, far distant future when the sun has grown dim and the inhabitants of the weary Earth imagine that it will one day gutter and flicker out like an exhausted flame.

Through these tales, Vance explores the theme of innocence--an ironic topic considering the setting is a far distant future where everything is slowly dying. However, through her old age, the Earth has regained a shred of her own innocence, as magic and myth have resurfaced, albeit mixed with science and technology. Vance's language invokes that same sense of the legendary and mythopoeic that Tolkien, Dunsany, and Howard possessed, although instead of dwelling in some mythic past when the world was young, he places his era of legend in a dreamlike future full of nostalgia and misty exoticism.

It was night in white-walled Kaiin, and festival time. Orange lanterns floated in the air, moving as the breeze took them. From the balconies dangled flower chains and cages of blue fireflies. The streets surged with the wine-flushed populace, costumed in a multitude of bizarre modes. Here was a Melantine bargeman, here a warrior of Valdaran's Green Legion, here another of ancient times wearing one of the old helmets. In a little cleared space a garlanded courtesan of the Kauchique littoral danced the Dance of the Fourteen Silken Movements to the music of flutes. In the shadow of a balcony a girl barbarian of East Almery embraced a man blackened and in leather harness as a Deodand of the forest. They were gay, these people of waning Earth, feverishly merry, for infinite night was close at hand, when the red sun should finally flicker and go black.

Countries have strange names, such as Kauchique, the Cape of Sad Remembrance, and the Land of the Falling Wall. We read of "orange-haired witches of the Cobalt Mountain; forest sorcerers of Ascolais, white-bearded wizards of the Forlorn Land," and silk-clad princes of "Cansaspara, the city of fallen pylons across the Melantine Gulf." Vance's prose infuses his perpetually twilit world with a sense of storied history.

The ground rose, the trees thinned, and T'sais came out on an illimitable dark expanse. This was Modavna Moor, a place of history, a tract which had borne the tread of many feet and absorbed much blood. At one famous slaughtering, Golickan Kodek the Conqueror had herded here the populations of two great cities, G'Vasan and Bautiku, constricted them in a circle three miles across, gradually pushed them tighter, tighter, tighter, panicked them toward the center within his flapping-armed subhuman cavalry, until at last he had achieved a gigantic squirming mound, half a thousand feet high, a pyramid of screaming flesh. It is said that Golickan Kodek mused ten minutes at his monument, then turned and rode his bounding mount back to the land of Laidenur from whence he had come.

We may only spend a few pages on the Modavna Moor, but that brief description of Golickan Kodek's ride from Laidenur gives the location weight and feeling, and makes it seem a real and actual place. Though Prince Datul Omaet is only mentioned in passing, the fact that he exists, is a sorcerer, and comes from a city of "fallen pylons" from across a sea makes Vance's world just a little bit richer and more fascinating. Vance doesn't flesh everything out with the thoroughness of a Tolkien, but rather keeps his world open and unmapped like Robert E. Howard or Clark Ashton Smith, enabling him to broaden and expand it at will.

Though the setting has great potential for nihilistic pessimism, Vance avoids that. In a sense, the decay and imminent death of the Earth is an opportunity to rediscover a romanticism. Though the Earth cannot be saved from its ultimate fate, maybe it could be spiritually redeemed through heroism, sacrifice, bravery, and intelligence. Indeed, there's a great strain of optimism that runs through the entirety of The Dying Earth and defies the sun's exhaustion. The mythic lyricism of Vance's prose is very much a return to an older form, and though he's not the master that Dunsany or Tolkien would be, he does a decent job of it nonetheless.

"Far in the past, far beyond thought, so the legend runs, a race of just people lived in a land east of the Maurenron Mountains, past the Land of the Falling Wall, by the shores of a great sea. They built a city of spires and low glass domes, and dwelt in great content. These people had no god, and presently they felt the need of one whom they might worship. So they built a lustrous temple of gold, glass, and granite, wide as the Scaum River where it flows through the Valley of Graven Tombs, as long again and higher than the trees of the north. And this race of honest men assembled in the temple, and all flung a mighty prayer, a worshipful invocation, and, so legend has it, a god molded by the will of this people was brought into being, and he was of their attributes, a divinity of utter justice.

"The city at last crumbled, the temple became shards and splinters, the people vanished. But the god still remains, rooted forever to the place where his people worshiped him."

Magic plays an enormous part of the setting--both in its romantic nostalgia and in its entropic decay.

At one time a thousand or more runes, spells, incantations, curses, and sorceries had been known. The reach of Grand Motholam--Ascolais, the Ide of Kauchique, Almery to the South, the Land of the Falling Wall to the East--swarmed with sorcerers of every description, of whom the chief was the Arch-Necromancer Phandaal. A hundred spells Phandaal personally had formulated--though rumor said that demons whispered at his ear when he wrought magic. Ponticella the Pious, then ruler of Grand Motholam, put Phandaal to torment, and after a terrible night, he killed Phandaal and outlawed sorcery throughout the land. The wizards of Grand Motholam fled like beetles under a strong light; the lore was dispersed, and forgotten, until now, at this dim time, with the sun dark, wilderness obscuring Ascolais, and the white city of Kaiin half in ruins, only a few more than a hundred spells remained to the knowledge of man.

The spells are described as "so cogent" that characters can only fit a limited number of them into their brains at any given time. Upon casting of these spells, the release of magical energy wipes the formulas from the sorcerers' minds. This is exactly what role-playing-gamers describe when discussing "Vancian magic" in games like Dungeons & Dragons. Indeed, E. Gary Gygax and David Arneson were directly influenced by Jack Vance's setting when they were designing D&D, and elected to try to capture the feel of Vance's magical system in their game. This is obviously how Vance's The Dying Earth found its way into Gygax's heavily influential Appendix N.

This interesting mixture of innocence and romanticism amidst decay and entropy is combined with another major theme that runs through his books--justice and redemption. Characters either surrender to their base desires and lusts for power, or they can achieve a sort of moral epiphany and seek to do right. Such characters as T'sais, Turjan of Miir, Etarr, through love, sacrifice, bravery, and loss manage to achieve redemption and have their courage recognized. Other characters, like Liane the Wayfarer and Mazirian, get a satisfying comeuppance. Though Vance's world is dominated by decadence and dark forces, the just, good, and brave can definitely make a positive difference in the world, and Vance's stories are of those exceptional people who manage to overcome obstacles both internal and external.

One may say that all of these good deeds are for naught, since the sun is fading and eternal night is immanent, but the tenor and texture of the narratives do not suggest that this was Vance's aim. Rather, the author seems to feel that his protagonists really do matter and that their actions truly have a positive impact in spite of the looming heat-death of the world. Though cities crumble to dust and the sun continues to fade, magic and wonder still persists, and the world can still be enchanted, right up to the very end.

The Dying Earth by Jack Vance
Style B+
Substance B
Overall B+

Book Review -- THE SIGN OF THE LABRYS by Margaret St. Clair

I saw this review over at the Alexandrian for Margaret St. Clair's The Sign of the Labrys. What is noteworthy about this novel is that it is one of two by the author listed in Gary Gygax's Appendix N, a list of works that inspired the Dungeons & Dragons game. James Maliszewski over at Grognardia posted a review of her other novel, The Shadow People.

Interest piqued, I ordered Sign of the Labrys used over amazon, had it mailed with my seasonal care package from home to Korea, and put it on the shelf. It took me two days to read it (and the only reason it took so long is because I am so busy). The book barely makes it to its 139th page, which is actually quite short, even as may mid-20th-century pulps seem to go.

The first thing I would like to point out about this book is the back cover blurb:


It claims that this work is "ORIGINAL!BRILLIANT!!DAZZLING!!!...FRESH!IMAGINATIVE!!INVENTIVE!!!" Aside from my amusement at the multiplying exclamation points, I have to say that, while Margaret St. Clair's The Sign of the Labrys was entertaining, I can't say that there is any great deal of originality or all of that.

The story starts out with a pretty compelling setting--it is a post-apocalyptic future brought about by plague in which 1 out of every 10 people survived. Society breaks down, but there are vast stores of food that prevent starvation, so people don't really need to work. A main feature of the setting is a vast underground refuge complex, built in case of nuclear holocaust. Much of the population has become very agoraphobic, and they live spread out from one-another both in the emptied cities and in these large underground labyrinths.

The setting is actually the most interesting aspect of the book. St. Clair combines the post-apocalyptic settings of nuclear holocaust literature with fantasy and gives the collapse of society a totally non-nuclear cause. In addition, St. Clair's humanity learns to survive not by being murderous or barbaric, but completely isolationist. Essentially, most of the characters are hermits that fear other people (mostly because of contagion).

The primary reason to read this book, honestly, is to see where Gygax (and perhaps his players) came up with some of the ideas for Dungeons & Dragons. In this case, perhaps, utility spell use during dungeon exploration and problem-solving techniques. The main characters almost never confront their opponents in hand-to-hand combat, but instead utilize trickery, stealth, and strategy to defeat their antagonists. This reminds me of a story I read on the RPG.net forums:

I played a Magic User in Greyhawk .. THE Greyhawk... for a while. Up to 6th or 7th level when I retired him because I was tired of him and went back to my 8th level fighter.

My favorite adventure was as a 1st level MU. I had heard about an entrance to the 3rd level of Greyhawk and went down. Alone. With 3 HP and a Charm Person spell. Just me. A 1st level MU. In Greyhawk Castle. With Gary Gygax reffing.

I hit 2nd level at the end of the night with enough XP to be one shy of 3rd. I ran, I snuck, I threw lanterns (fire, oil, and a handle in one convenient package!), I ran, and I ran some more. It was still one of the best single evenings of gaming I've ever had.

Attitudes aside, this is what struck me about the characters in The Sign of the Labrys. It was as if they were wandering through Castle Greyhawk with only their wits, a single charm person spell, and a couple of lanterns to throw. The labyrinth in the novel is, in many ways, an archetypal megadungeon. It is laced with secret doors, special rooms, various servitors and defenders, and all sorts of interesting tricks and mechanisms. It is huge and fathomless and full of mysteries.

Unfortunately, the labyrinth is the most interesting part of the entire book. Once you are past the novelty of reading a book that perhaps inspired some of the gameplay and dungeon design of Gary Gygax and his original Castle Greyhawk crew, the book loses a great deal of its charm. Its strengths are in the speed and handling of its pacing and the brevity of its descriptions. However, those strengths quickly become weaknesses as the novel progresses and St. Clair fails to successfully develop the characters or any setting elements beyond the labyrinth itself.

The prose style is rather flat. The book reads a great deal like a lot of mid-20th century science fiction, especially Asimov. The characters are disappointingly flat, and they seem to be somewhat detached from reality. It is almost as if they are simply vehicles to advance the story along.

I turned toward the noise. She wasn't there.

I hadn't heard her go toward the door. I hadn't felt it open. I said, "Where are you?"

"Right here." Her voice was perfectly clear, and it came from the same spot where she had been standing when she had had me turn my eyes away.

"But--I don't see you."

"Look closely."

"I--there's a sort of blur there. But I don't see you, Kyra. You're not there at all."

"That's fine. I haven't done this much recently." Suddenly she was visible, standing just where the blur had been.

This passage is pretty typical for St. Clair. Something happens, but it is described in the bleakest, briefest manner possible. The two characters are completely static. They don't move. Sam (the protagonist) doesn't reach or attempt to touch the blur. Indeed, the blur isn't even described beyond just being called "a blur." The dialogue doesn't feel natural, and is pretty emotionless and almost clinical.

The way St. Clair handles major revelations, romance, and plot points is ineffectually. Below is an example where all three are combined and it is pretty disappointing to read. Be aware, there are spoilers here.

I rolled toward her and took her in my arms. "Kyra," I said, "let me go back with you when you go. Let me stay on F with you. If you have to stay there, I'll stay. We're close to each other already, darling. Already we're half in love. We could be happy together, even on F. It's an unpleasant place, but we'd be lovers, dear."

She had not resisted my embrace, but she had not yielded to it. "No," she said softly. "I'm sorry, Sam."

I did not let her go. "Why not?" I said. "Don't you feel close to me, too?"

"Oh, yes. But there's a reason why we can't be lovers, Sam."

"What is it? Some sort of prohibition, like the one that makes you stay on F?"

"No, not that. . . . I'll have to tell you. I'm your sister, Sam."

I let her go and she rolled out of my arms. I half sat up, leaning on one elbow, and looked down at her. She looked up at me unwinkingly.

"My sister? Are you sure? How long have you known?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I've known since you first told me your name."

I sat up on the edge of the bunk, my head between my hands. Her tone had brought conviction to me. There would be explanations; she would tell me how this extraordinary thing could be possible.

I did not doubt she had told me the truth. But now my future opened blankly ahead of me.

Casanova Sam is not and he is either gullible as hell or strange things are afoot (as it happens, strange things have been for some time in the novel). Nevertheless, this pivot-point is handled extremely poorly. The dialogue doesn't flow naturally at all. This segment is a great example of how characters end up "just knowing" things without explanation. And St. Clair's coining of terms is lackluster at best. "Unwinkingly?"

Overall, the novel comes off as a kind of cheap, lackluster New Age morality tale. The feminine is accentuated, but in a clumsy, haphazard manner. The main characters are all "witches," although they don't always know it at first. As the story progresses, through experimentation and training, they "discover" their abilities, but the dreary banality of day-to-day existence would normally have prevented them from ever noticing that they were different from anyone else. This whole "I'm special" business is coupled with repeated references to the moon, bronze-age Cretan imagery (such as the labrys--the double-headed axe--and the existence of the labyrinth itself), and dualism (male-female, science-magic, etc.) The "witches" are extremely intuitive and often just "know" things even though they don't know how, weakening the plot, destroying tension and just making the whole thing feel uninspired and lazy.

While some of this might sound interesting, it is executed rapidly and with very little explanation. It comes off as haphazard. When characters just seem to "know" things, it feels as though it is because the author simply needed them to in order to move the plot forward. The dialogue is rather stilted, and the characters personalities are all very flat and uninteresting. The emotional ties between them seem tenuous and ill-developed. The female protagonist-cum-potential-love-interest is thoroughly uninspiring. Everyone comes off as wooden and predictable, like cardboard cutouts instead of actual people--they are simply what St. Clair needs them to be in order to tell her little morality tale. A great deal is left unexplained, partially because the characters constantly end up just "knowing" things. One example is the eponymous labrys sign that is found scratched into walls once or twice through the novel. What the heck does it mean? Who put it there? It inspires the protagonist at two points to take interesting actions, but beyond that, it serves no purpose and is never explained. For some, this might not be noticeable, but for me, especially since it is the title of the book, it becomes a debilitating plot hole. St. Clair never develops it, never explains it. She just drops it in twice and then forgets about it.

All together, it's not a terrible book. It's definitely worth a read, especially if you've nothing going on for a few hours and are interested in seeing where some of Gygax & Co.'s ideas originated. Personally, I found Jack Vance and Fritz Lieber to be far more interesting.

The Sign of the Labrys by Margaret St. Clair
Style D+
Substance C-
Overall C-

Book Review -- THE SWORD OF WELLERAN and Other Stories by Lord Dunsany

It's been almost a month since my last review, but I've not been idle. I simply haven't been in the proper position to give a well-thought-out review of any of the material I've read in the past two months. I've had a lot of personal issues through which I've had to work and a lot of difficult choices I've had to make. However, I've the next two weeks off for winter vacation and intend to use those two weeks to get some more reading done and to bring my blog up-to-date on my reviews. Thus, I'd like to inaugurate this new year (belatedly) with a review of Lord Dunsany's The Sword of Welleran and Other Stories.

Edward J.M.D. Plunkett, the 18th Lord Dunsany, was an Irish fantasist who, in 1905, published The Gods of Pegāna, a collection of short stories set in a fantasy world. This collection would come to heavily influence J.R.R. Tolkien, among other authors. I should also comment that Dunsany was one of those authors cited by E. Gary Gygax as an inspiration for Dungeons & Dragons in the oft-cited "Appendix N" of the 1st Edition AD&D Dungeon Master's Guide.

It's not difficult to see why Dunsany is such a heavy influence. His stories alternate between the mythic, the idyllic, and the nostalgically romantic. I've not read his earlier writings, such as The Gods of Pegāna, or any of his later works, such as 1912's The Book of Wonder, though it's reported to be far more nostalgically wistful.

The Sword of Welleran and Other Stories is infused with a sense of bittersweetness, a sort of pathos that the Japanese call 物の哀れ (mono no aware), a kind of empathy for things passing and ephemeral. It is this sense of passing that permeates all of the stories in this collection, and resurfaces in Tolkien's writings as the passing of all things fantastic and elven from Middle-Earth.

A great example can be found within the first, eponymous story in the volume, "The Sword of Welleran."

And now that the ardour of battle had passed away, the spirits of Merimna's people began to gloom a little, like their leader's, with their fatigue and with the cold of the morning; and they looked at the sword of Welleran in Rold's hand and said: "Not anymore, not any more for ever will Welleran now return, for his sword is in the hand of another. Now we know indeed that he is dead. O Welleran, thou wast our sun and moon and all our stars. Now is the sun fallen down and the moon broken, and all the stars are scattered as the diamonds of a necklace that is snapped off one who is slain by violence."

Thus wept the people of Merimna in the hour of their great victory, for men have strange moods, while beside them their old inviolate city slumbered safe. But back from the ramparts and beyond the mountains and over the lands that they had conquered of old, beyond the world and back again to Paradise went the souls of Welleran, Soorenard, Mommolek, Rollory, Akanax, and young Iraine.

These final paragraphs of the eponymous tale illustrate some of that lacrimae rerum that infuses nearly ever tale in this collection. In the moment of their victory, the citizens of Merimna have saved their city from destruction, but at the cost of their legendary heroes. They knew that those heroes would now never return to them, and though they had a new hero among them, Rold, they still wept for those heroes that they knew were forever gone.

Dunsany's pacing and the rhythm of his prose evoke the same archaic or mythic nostalgia as Tolkien would later do. When coupled with S.H. Sime's illustrations, the overall effect is incredibly powerful. The collaboration between the author and the illustrator, in this case, was incredible. Sime gives a form as mythical to Dunsany's words as the words themselves, especially for such stories as "The Fall of Babbulkund," "The Ghosts," and "The Fortress Unvanquishable, Save for Sacnoth."

The kinds of stories that Dunsany wrote varied throughout the volume. There are elements of fantasy that permeate all of the tales, and indeed, some of these tales are likely to be set in Pegāna, although many take place in the England and Ireland of our world. Specifically, the fantastic, mythic tales are "The Sword of Welleran," "The Fall of Babbulkund," and "The Fortress Unvanquishable, Save for Sacnoth." These are, generally, the most straightforward of the stories. "The Sword of Welleran" and "The Fortress Unvanquishable" are both tales of mythic heroism against overwhelming opposition with the aid of talismanic swords. "The Fall of Babbulkund," however, tells of an impossible city of incredible glory that is the jewel of all the world, and the travelers who seek to find it, only to discover its ruins. The description of the city that the travelers hear only whets their appetite further as they journey toward it, and each time it is described by someone fleeing the doom that will inevitably fall upon it for its decadence and excess.

"The Kith of the Elf-Folk" is the third story in the collection, and perhaps the saddest. It concerns an elf who desires to sing in a church and worship God, but to do so it would have to become mortal and acquire a soul. However, human life is one of pain and suffering, and the elf soon comes to regret its decision, and desires to rid itself of its soul so that it might return to its idyllic state. This story is laden with social commentary, especially regarding industrialism and wealth. Yet it is always viewed through the eyes of the elf who only partially understands its experience in the modern mortal world.

"The Ghosts" is another extremely interesting tale to consider. Modern rationality is pitted against the supernatural. Dunsany places a skeptical gentleman of learning in a haunted place with only his logic and reason to protect him against the malevolence of the spirits there. The conflict is resolved in favor of reason and cold, unfaltering logic--the province of mortal, living men. But the victory is as soulless and discomfiting as the haunt of the poltergeists.

The remaining pieces are also quite interesting, but easier to assess (often due to their shortness of length). "The Highwaymen" is a meditation on honor among thieves and the bonds of friendship and loyalty, even among reprehensible miscreants. "In the Twilight" describes a near-death experience and the revelation of the passage of time and distance when compared to the smallness of the human experience. "The Whirlpool" is an extended boast and warning by a powerful water-spirit and maelstrom, with a rather profound concluding sentence that demands deep consideration. Likewise, "The Hurricane" is a brief, two-page discussion between natural forces that ends with the heartbreak of one. "The Lord of Cities" regards the debate between different natural features in a sort of Aesopian tale, ending with the spider's triumph. "The Doom of La Traviata" illustrates the afterlife of a licentious courtesan. Finally, "On the Dry Land" is a very unhappy allegory of the kindness of death and the cruelty of love.

I cannot emphasize strongly enough the sense of lacrimae rerum that flows through all of these stories--some far more strongly than others. This entire volume seems to be one great meditation by Dunsany on the themes of loss and the bittersweet. He approaches this sense of loss from a much more natural standpoint than someone like Hemingway. Indeed, Hemingway's sense of loss was always personal, but Dunsany's loss is something else. He seems to view the world as growing less magical and more mundane--a theme that, as I wrote earlier, would resurface in Tolkien's work in force.

I can't really do this work much justice in the space that I have here on this blog. But there is a great deal among all of these stories to analyze. Each one is a different meditation that shares many of the same themes as the others, but is unique in its specific subject matter. And when I say unique, I certainly mean so. The subjects are all very different--ghosts and the rational, mythical cities being toppled, an allegory about love and death, an elf desirous of mortality so it can worship God, an unconquerable fortress, etc. To each, Dunsany applies similar themes, and this gives the stories far greater meaning. Man is mortal and temporary, but that mortality is juxtaposed against the passage of myth and magic with the advance of the modern, the industrial, and the coldly rational--all things that are within the domain of Man. Dunsany wrestles with this dichotomy as a good romanticist should.

The Sword of Welleran and Other Stories
Style A+
Substance A+
Overall A+

Book Review -- THIEVES' HOUSE: TALES OF FAFHRD AND THE GRAY MOUSER by Fritz Leiber

About a month ago, I logged in my review of Lankhmar, the first volume of White Wolf Publishing's Borealis Legends collection of Fritz Leiber stories concerning Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. That first volume was primarily comprised of origin stories written decades after Leiber originally published "Two Sought Adventure" (now titled "The Jewels in the Forest") and tie-ins.

Thieves' House picks up chronologically where "The Jewels in the Forest" ended in volume 1. It is comprised of most of Swords Against Death and Swords in the Mist, Leiber's earlier (and more well-known) anthologies. The stories themselves vary in quality, but there is very little in the way of tie-ins now that most of the backstory has been dealt with in the first volume. The stories also vary in time of writing, and Leiber's voice changes with them. His prose is more turgidly purple and forced in the later stories (such as 1970's "The Price of Pain-Ease"), although his sense of humor has, by then, developed more keenly. It creates the impression that Leiber might very well be lampooning himself an his characters as one reads through the stories.

The eponymous tale, Thieves' House, is the fifth Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser tale published by Leiber, and opens up this particular volume. Chronologically, the two adventurers find themselves returning to the Thieves' House, although for Leiber in 1943, this was his first foray and it is likely this tale saw editing in order to better fit the author's timeline. As Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser stories go, this is nearly as excellent as the later novella Ill-Met in Lankhmar, and the main reason is because of the Thieves' House itself. Leiber managed to create a labyrinthine setting come to life in less than 40 pages, filling it with secret passages, crypts, and dungeons enough to make the reader want to go in and explore, and then sprinkles a deep, lengthy history of the Thieves' Guild into the setting, spicing it further.

"The Bleak Shore" (1940), Leiber's second publication for the two heroes, wasn't bad but it disappointingly ended just as soon as it was getting good. This story had more of a pot-boiler quality, and the final premise and ultimate villain were both weak. Though the action was well-described, it felt as though it was cut short and would have benefited from a slightly longer and more developed climax.

"The Howling Tower" (1941) is quite nearly as pulpy and good as "The Jewels in the Forest." Leiber touches on some of the darker workings of the inner soul here, examining how fear, hate, and loathing can fuel evil, and how evil begets more evil. Not a profound work, but interesting, still. Sorcery in pulp is simply at its best when it is driven by dark obsession and tragedy, and in that regard, "The Howling Tower" delivers.

"The Sunken Land" (1942) was mediocre. Leiber gropes for a mix of mythical Atlantis and Lovecraft's R'lyeh, but falls short. However, the ending could have been the inspiration for the cloaker in Dungeons & Dragons. The problem here, as with "The Bleak Shore," is simply a problem of development. A Viking longship hell-bent on plundering the riches of lost Atlantis and finding R'lyeh instead is a fantastic idea. But Leiber doesn't develop enough beyond the two roguish protagonists for us to feel anything about the Northerner crew or their fate. Only a few pages are devoted to exploration before the just desserts are served, leaving this story pretty flat at the end.

"The Seven Black Priests" (1953) sees Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser wandering through the mountains of the cold north. Fafhrd gets to carry around the idiot ball, but in this case, it's actually a real Mac Guffin. And it doesn't really make him stupid, just... malleable. Lots of combat and near-misses, although, again, Leiber disappoints by not developing the villains enough. The story ends with the reader wanting more.

"Claws in the Night" (1951, originally titled "Dark Vengeance") is a superb example of how Leiber can excel. The story is artfully woven together by the author, who writes a tightly paced tale, full of intrigue, mystery, and suspense. It is a story in which nothing is wasted--Leiber satisfactorily utilizes every single plot element he introduces to assemble a great tale that's excitingly paced. Fafhrd and the Mouser are well-defined by this tale, and both work together and play well off one-another's strengths and weaknesses.

"The Price of Pain-Ease" (1970) comes off as pure filler, much like "The Circle Curse" (1970). We've just been through several stories in which Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser have never once mentioned or dealt with their tragic loss experienced in Ill-Met in Lankhmar. Why Leiber felt it necessary to include this tale is something I don't really understand, but it doesn't really accomplish much for the characters. By now, the reader sees their losses as having shaped their personae and doesn't need the author to come down and fix it for them. So much for the flimsy purpose of the tale, the premise is just far-fetched and poorly executed. What could have been a journey into the underworld (like in Homer's Odyssey or Virgil's Aeneid) was too brief and undeveloped. Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser's "wizard mentors" come off more annoying than helpful.

"Bazaar of the Bizarre" (1963) is actually one of my favorite stories, although the Mouser ends up grabbing the idiot ball halfway through the story and runs with it as hard and fast as he can. And Leiber suddenly bursts out and uses an obscure word at least twice ("coolth"). The tone is nearly Pythonesque, and it is annoying seeing the Mouser and Fafhrd reduced from skilled thieves and cunning rogues (like in "Claws of the Night") to teenage errand-boys for the two wizards. Nevertheless, the idea of such a bazaar is pretty cool, and through the two annoying wizards, Leiber describes who built it, why, and why Fafhrd must destroy it. The combat is exhilarating and the description of the bazaar itself is keen and fascinating (at least, the bazaar the Mouser sees).

"The Cloud of Hate" (1963) was taken from the Swords in the Mist anthology, as was "Lean Times in Lankhmar" (1953). The former was acceptable, although, again, the villain's motivation was unclear, and a lot of questions remained undealt with (such as, how could such a temple, with such a huge congregation, go unnoticed). The Mouser and Fafhrd are the highlight of this piece, as their banter is enjoyable to read and their cunning and resourcefulness makes for a sharp, climactic action sequence.

The latter closes this particular volume on an extremely high note. "Lean Times in Lankhmar" is a long story that takes its time, develops fully, and blossoms into fruition. Leiber punctuates certain passages with purple prose, but the prose is not turgid enough to be grotesque, but rather comical. This story is probably one of Leiber's best. It is also a pretty thinly veiled commentary on religion, but that does not stop it from being a great story with a near-perfect ending.

Leiber's characters rarely carry around the idiot ball ("Bazaar of the Bizarre" notwithstanding), although Fafhrd's stubbornness and the Mouser's recklessness and hubris, though not as overwhelming in the previous volume's tie-in stories, are still enough to get them into lots of trouble. They display a resourcefulness and adaptability that keeps them one or two steps ahead of their opponents, and a kind of selfish interest that makes them believable rogues. The overall theme of sadness and loss is not present in this volume, despite the presence of "The Price of Pain-Ease." Leiber's more recent stories are written in a much less serious or adventuresome tone, instead being nearly comical and at times nearly lampooning itself. This detracts from the overall sword & sorcery feel of the book, slipping it into a more lighthearted self-mockery approaching the styles of Terry Pratchett or Douglas Adams.

Leiber's biggest weakness as a writer is that he cuts off more than he can chew with plot premises. This is why stories like "The Sunken Land" and "The Price of Pain-Ease" fail so dismally, especially when contrasted with his well-developed and excellently-paced tales, such as "The Jewels in the Forest," "Snow Women," "Lean Times in Lankhmar," and Ill-Met in Lankhmar. "The Sunken Land," perhaps, should have been expanded and better explored; similarly, "The Price of Pain-Ease" could have provided more internal conflict and eventually peace had it been done differently. When Leiber shines, man does he shine. But when he doesn't, he's lackluster. I got the feeling that many of these stories were simply written for a paycheck because they don't evince the love and attention-to-detail that some of his more well-developed tales. Leiber's a great storyteller, but it seems to be only when he wants to be. The rest of the time, he's an okay storyteller.

What redeems these lackluster stories are the characters themselves. Leiber can write Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser well. By the 1950s, he knows quite well who they are and how they interact, both with one-another and with the world around them. Cagey fighters and lethal swordsmen, there is a reason the Mouser and Fafhrd are two of the most iconic sword & sorcery characters ever to see print. When you read the stories, the two characters get along like old friends and compatriots. They feel real, have conversations with one-another that are believable, and know one-another inside-and-out. Their combat styles dovetail beautifully; Leiber scrawls fight-scenes where the two adventurers are constantly rescuing one-another from danger, deflecting lethal thrusts, and skewering opponents attacking the other's blind-side. Leiber's creations have aged well, I should add. Though I'm much older than I had been when I first read these stories a decade ago, I find them to be just as exciting and interesting today, as I did then, despite the flaws my more trained and literary mind detects.

Thieves' House: Tales of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser by Fritz Leiber
Style B
Substance B
Overall B

Book Review--LANKHMAR: TALES OF FAFHRD AND THE GREY MOUSER

When legendary science-fiction/fantasy author Fritz Leiber first put pen to paper, it was with the intention to create a duo of fantasy adventurers that were far more realistic than many other, similar characters that could be found in the pulps and novels of early 20th century American fiction. Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser were birthed in 1939, with the publication of "Two Sought Adventure" (subsequently retitled as "Jewels in the Forest") in Unknown. In the years immediately prior to the American entry into World War II, Leiber went on to publish two more stories, "The Bleak Shore" (1940) and "The Howling Tower" (1941). During the 1940s, only a few more Fafhrd and Gray Mouser stories saw print, "The Sunken Land" (1942) and the novella Adept's Gambit (1947).

It wasn't until the 1960s and 1970s that Leiber began to prolifically produce stories of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. Soon, they became iconic of the post-Tolkien pulp-fiction world of the mid-to-late 20th century. Scoundrels, self-serving, and yet each possessing a heart of gold, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser adventured across the surface of their world, Nehwon, but were always called back to mysterious Lankhmar, the City of the Black Toga, the City of Sevenscore Thousand Smokes.

When, in 2000, White Wolf Publishing, makers of now-discontinued Vampire: The Masquerade, decided to repackage and republish Leiber's original stories in slightly different collections, it was tied into the upcoming release of Exalted as a sort of inspiration source for their forthcoming product. Indeed, as inspirations go, the tales of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser provided inspiration to E. Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson in their creation of the fantasy role-playing game Dungeons & Dragons (see my entry on Appendix N).

Lankhmar: Tales of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser by Fritz Leiber
Contained in this volume are only a handful of Leiber's stories. Most were written late in Leiber's career, and as tie-ins to explain the origins of the characters and their purpose for adventuring. Originally collected together in a volume titled Swords and Deviltry, White Wolf also chose to include the first two stories from Swords Against Death. For a first-rate assessment of these first two volumes, check out Justin Alexander's review on The Alexandrian.

The quality of each of the stories varies as much as the tone, but generally, the overall theme is one of sadness and loss.

The collection starts with a map of Nehwon and two poems entitled "The Gray Mouser: 1" and "2," followed by a brief "Introduction," in which Leiber, in fanciful style, describes the world of Nehwon. Its primary purpose is to set the mood and prime the reader's imagination for adventure and exploration.

Then the actual storytelling begins, with "The Snow Women" (first published in Fantastic, 1970). Leiber describes a people that seem an amalgam of Viking and Inuit, merging the piracy and fierceness with simplicity of life and adaptation to a frigid wasteland environment. Fafhrd is introduced as a youth of eighteen years, not yet considered a man, but plagued by his controlling mother and her coven of witch-women. The tale is one of tragedy and liberation, and is brilliantly told. Fafhrd's dilemma between love and wanderlust, between duty and repression, is exacerbated by the treatment he receives at the hands of many of the other tribesmen. In the end, Fafhrd gets his freedom, but at a price, and he learns of deceitfulness and treachery.

The second story, "The Unholy Grail," is much more straightforward, much less full of twists, turns, and is also much shorter than its predecessor. In-all, it isn't as good as "Snow Women," but it succeeds at explaining the Mouser's origin satisfactorily and sets the stage for his meeting with Fafhrd.

"Ill Met in Lankhmar" is, perhaps, one of the best stories I've read. Although it was penned quite late in Leiber's career, it is, nevertheless, one of the most iconic adventure stories I've ever read. It is the undoubted inspiration for every sort of cityscape adventure devised for Dungeons & Dragons, and is one of the tales that most likely necessitated Leiber's inclusion into Gygax's illustrious Appendix N. Lankhmar is described more in feel and tone than in actual physical design. The names of streets and the description of the smogs that perpetually blanket the city create a tone and atmosphere at times reminiscent of London, and at other times ancient Rome at her decadent height. Leiber's writing is at its tightest and most solid. There is never a wasted word throughout the story.

"The Circle Curse" comes off as a brief interlude linking the younger Fafhrd and Mouser to their older versions Leiber wrote of in later stories. The problem is, the story is basically filler with little or no real purpose behind it. Leiber summarizes the characters' first encounters with their curious wizard-mentors along with a montage of places they journey and a few things they witness during the three-year tour of Nehwon they make. Then, they reluctantly return to Lankhmar. Though this chapter serves as a bridge between the prequel stories and Leiber's earlier yarns, it does so by placing all of the dramatic weight at the conclusion of "Ill Met in Lankhmar" on the chopping-block. The character's flight from the city was charged with emotion, but to go from a highly detailed adventure to a brief summary of places and images is just disappointing. Leiber boils three years of travel down to a few paragraphs that leave the reader wanting more than what is given, in the end, leaving him feeling robbed that the majority of events took place offstage.

"The Jewels in the Forest" closes the book on a brilliant note. Being Leiber's first Lankhmar story, originally titled "Two Sought Adventure," it was the 1939 debut of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser. The tale begins in media res, which serves well, because all of the lead-up to this particular excursion is summarized skillfully in conversation and through the Mouser's own thoughts. The characters come off as extremely archetypal of themselves, which is fitting since this was their first appearance in print. There is a fantastic mix of swashbuckling action, mystery, and exploration to keep the reader engrossed. Leiber scatters clues throughout the yarn that leave the reader guessing until the end--some of the guesses will be invariably incorrect due to a few false clues left by the author in order to ensure the surprise at the end of the tale.

Leiber writes in a style that almost parodies himself and his subject-material. It keeps his stories fresh and entertaining, ensuring that a more lighthearted tone prevails, despite the tragedy the characters might experience. There is a certain humor to the work, especially considering that, though Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser obviously take themselves far too seriously for much of this volume, the author does not. He does not descend to puns or absurdity (such as Piers Anthony's Xanth novels, or Terry Pratchett's Discworld) series. The lightheartedness keeps the pace of the stories in motion. Leiber doesn't let the low-points in the characters' lives encumber him or the reader. Instead, their pain and suffering provides drive and direction to characters' actions.

This theme of tragedy, however, doesn't seem entirely characteristic of Leiber's earlier work, if "Jewels in the Forest" can be judged as typical of his early works. Indeed, although the overall lighthearted tone seems to be at odds with the general aura of misfortune that surrounds the characters, the two flavors don't clash, but instead play off one-another. The overall voice is optimistic; Leiber is leading up to the main events, which are inaugurated with "The Jewels in the Forest." The tragic backstory is a vehicle to provide drive, purpose, and determination for the two rogues, and to explain their deep friendship and camaraderie.

It seems that Leiber is a bit of a misogynist. Women throughout this collection are not depicted in a very positive manner. In "The Snow Women," the women of Cold Corner are depicted as jealous and petty. Fafhrd's mother, Mor, in particular, is especially vindictive, having used her magic to "punish" her husband with death when he climbed a mountain against her wishes. Her ice magic nearly kills her own son repeatedly. She is incapable of bending, and unwilling to see how her behavior is literally driving her son away from her and towards civilization. Similarly, Fafhrd's girlfriend, Mara, is repeatedly overcome with petty jealousy, and sets her brothers to beat (and perhaps kill) him, then regretting her behavior once she realized the danger she had placed him in. In "The Unholy Grail," Ivrian is a weak-hearted, easily manipulated, cowardly girl with absolutely no spine. Once she is paired with Vlana in "Ill Met in Lankhmar," the two women cajole and humiliate Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser into making an ill-advised foray into Thieves' House that nearly kills them (however, it also saves their lives from strangulation). Leibers' females are depicted as fickle, ruled entirely by their passions. They are portrayed as vindictive, petty, jealous, manipulative, or callow, but never as strong, brave, intelligent, or trustworthy.

The development of the main characters themselves is handled brilliantly. Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser are not static characters. Indeed, as earlier mentioned, Leiber doesn't take them as seriously as they take themselves, and this is nowhere more apparent as in "Ill Met in Lankhmar," which is probably the best story in the entire book. Fafhrd and the Mouser are very insecure about themselves and their relationships, and this insecurity translates into bluster and bravado. The Mouser, especially, takes great pains to try and impress Fafhrd upon their first meeting. Coupled with their beloveds' goading, the two scoundrels attempt to infiltrate the Thieves' Guild. Their cocksure attitudes are fueled by their exceptional combat skills (in addition to Mouser's acrobatics), but it is evident through their behavior that they lack wisdom. The guildsmen see through their feeble disguises, and the Mouser runs off at the mouth where a much wiser man would have shut up and chosen his words much more carefully. The insecurity, bravado, and verbosity is quelled, however, once tragedy strikes, and except for a single comment, the two characters are completely silent for the remainder of the tale, during which they exact what vengeance they are able. This change persists, even into "Jewels in the Forest," where the two rogues are no longer so insecure, and no longer needing the esteem and approval of others, but are obviously comfortable with their skills, more realistic about what they can and cannot achieve, but still a little apt to bite off more than they can chew now-and-again.

This book provides a delightful introduction to two very iconic characters that have had a powerful effect on the sword & sorcery genre since their creation. They were birthed in an era immediately following the demises of Robert E. Howard and H.P. Lovecraft and the retirement of Clark Ashton Smith, and inaugurated a new age of fantasy writing that would generate the likes of Michael Moorcock and Roger Zelazny.

Lankhmar: Tales of Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser by Fritz Leiber
Style: B
Substance: B
Overall: B

Book Review -- THE GUNS OF AVALON by Roger Zelazny

Several months ago, I slammed through this short book and intended to write a review on it, but never did get around to it. Zelazny's first volume, Nine Princes in Amber, I have already reviewed here. It's a pretty short novel, running only about 223 pages in length, so it's pretty typical of a mid-20th century fantasy/science-fiction novel in that regard.

If you've read my comments on Nine Princes of Amber, then you'll know what to expect here. Zelazny mixes a lot of literary styles, but seems to focus primarily on the fantasy aspect of the series in this novel. Corwin, our protagonist, still talks like a hardboiled detective at times, and at others like a knight from an Arthurian romance (occasionally in the same sentence), but as I stated in my other review, this is just a feature of Zelazny's setting, not an anachronism. His prose isn't fantastic, though he occasionally shines in certain places. He writes with the fast-paced rhythm of the pulpy adventure that dominated so much of the 20th century. His descriptions are sparse, almost anti-Tolkienesque in flavor, leaving much to the imagination of the reader. He focuses more on describing fencing technique and combat, or clothing and accessories, than he does location or setting.

As for the story itself, it picks up shortly after Nine Princes of Amber ended. When we last left Corwin, he had vowed to claim his brother's throne and see guns brought to Amber--a place where gunpowder does not ignite. But Corwin has a plan, and the bulk of this book focuses on how he carries this plan to fruition.

If that were all, the book would be hum-drum, but Zelazny set up a wrinkle at the end of Nine Princes when it appeared that a new road to Amber had opened up through Shadow--one related directly to Corwin's curse that Eric's reign would not be easy or peaceful. Throughout the book, Corwin must confront the consequences of his curse, which appear to escalate in intensity to the point of nearly causing him and his brother Benedict to fight to the death. The full impact of his short-sightedness and selfish behavior do not make themselves fully clear until the very ending, when Corwin faces something that could potentially destroy Amber and bring Chaos to the entire multiverse that Amber governs.

Corwin is something of a scoundrel, an ultimately selfish and narcissistic character, but then again, so are all of his siblings. He is very typical of the 1960s-70s fantasy anti-hero, cut from a similar cloth as Moorcock's Elric. However, Zelazny is not about to let him get away with it, and Guns of Avalon is about reaping what one has sown. Throughout the novel, Corwin travels through lands and encounters people where his past threatens to catch up with him, and his current deeds will bring consequences before the novel ends. Despite all of the challenges he face, the greatest threat to Corwin isn't from the darkness that cuts through Shadow, or from his brothers, but from himself and his own indiscretion.

In the end, Corwin triumphs, but his triumph is hollow and meaningless, because he is inheriting the very curse that he bequeathed upon his brother. Corwin conquers every challenge set before him except those he has set before himself.

This novel is very obviously a bridge. It's setting up the next installments, wherein Corwin will undoubtedly confront his own creations and face the consequences of his actions and his decisions.

But none of this should suggest that Corwin is not a sympathetic character. He's an Amberite--he is stronger, faster, and more intelligent than people who live in Shadow. He has lived for centuries, and in those centuries perfected his combat abilities and his knowledge and skill in military affairs. As a strategist, he is second only to Benedict, his elder brother and former warmaster of Amber. There's good reason for his aloofness and narcissism. During his sojourn on our Earth, Corwin had learned that beings from Shadow were not simply toys or mindless dolls to manipulate, but that we had feelings and were fragile in mind, body, and heart. Corwin had learned this by the beginning of Nine Princes but he hadn't quite gotten over his narcissism, and, indeed, by his treatment of his lovers, one can see that he still has a way to go.

As with Nine Princes, the author's inspiration is eclectic. Zelazny takes us through worlds invoking chivalric romance and Arthurian legend, on chases through strange landscapes, and a brief jaunt to 20th century Earth. Great squadrons of mounted knights charge into monstrous hordes of foul beasts, evil creatures cackle in dark towers, and heroes with shining swords do battle against the forces of chaos. Like most of the pulpy fantasy writers of the 50s, 60s, and 70s, the great enemy isn't simply evil, but is chaotic (this would come to heavily influence Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson in their creation of fantasy role-playing games, such as Dungeons & Dragons). The final chapter features modern riflemen engaging in a decisive battle that could remind readers of Jared Diamond's Guns, Germs, and Steel. The book is, like its predecessor, an exciting journey through imagination--something that pulp writers do best. It's not a work of amazing literary merit, but it is surreal enough to be thoroughly magical.The Guns of Avalon by Roger Zelazny
Style B
Substance B
Overall B

Book Review -- NINE PRINCES IN AMBER by Roger Zelazny

A man wakes in a hospital bed with no memory, except the knowledge that he's been kept drugged up for quite some time. He doesn't know why, but he's determined to escape and find out. Thus begins a fast-paced, imaginative adventure that is, in many ways, emblematic of the new wave in science fiction and fantasy. It starts off almost like a hardboiled detective novel, and indeed, there are certain character elements (including first-person narration) that seem lifted directly from a Raymond Chandler story. But it is dynamic and imaginative fantasy nevertheless.

If you haven't heard of Amber, nor read any of Zelazny's Chronicles, then I'm loath to give away any of the story. So I'll try to cut out as many of the spoilers as humanly possible while still discussing the strengths of the book.

First, the tone shifts back and forth between dense, chivalric language and modern slang, almost to the point where it can be quite jarring:

"I did not know this," I said. "My memory is so screwed up. Please bear with me. I shall miss Benedict, an' he is dead. He was my Master of Arms and taught me of all weapons. But he was gentle."

"Screwed up" right beside "an' he is dead," this mixture of wording and idiom can be somewhat shocking, but it actually makes sense, given who the protagonist is, and shows that Zelazny is actually a much more versatile writer than we think.

I walked among Shadows, and found a race of furry creatures, dark and clawed and fanged, reasonably manlike, and about as intelligent as a freshman in high school of your choice--sorry, kids, but what I mean is they were loyal, devoted, honest, and too easily screwed by bastards like me and my brother. I felt like the dee-jay of your choice.

It makes perfect sense that the protagonist's long sojourn on our Earth (and in the United States, for a time) has had a profound effect on his thinking. As the novel develops, we can see that the main character's fondness for our world has changed him on a number of quite fundamental levels. Yes, given his ultimate background, he has every reason to be haughty, superior, and to see the average person as little more than servants and/or cannon-fodder. However, his experience has given him compassion and empathy, and as he regains his memories, we learn what horrible tragedies he has seen, the wars he fought in, and the agonies he has suffered. These experiences set him apart from the others like him, and give him a deeper understanding of the "little guy."

This mixture of language styles and idioms supports the idea that the hero is caught between two lives--the one he ultimately lived in, and the one he recently experienced on our Earth (right before he awakes in the hospital bed). His character could be simply flat and static, and in many ways, he might seem so. But Zelazny's use of idiom and his subtle reminders of the protagonist's past experiences (through brief flashes of memory), as well as his compassion for underlings, creates a stark contrast between him and his peers.

Due to the brevity of the work, the other characters don't get much time to develop, but Zelazny does a good job with the barest of spaces that he uses. For example, Random lives up to his name--he's impulsive and unpredictable; Moira comes off as cool, in control, confident, and serene; Eric as hard, determined, and ruthless. Other characters, however, don't come off so well. Deirdre could be played by Random Blonde #5, and Caine and Gérard are poorly defined and very interchangeable, but they could all be much better depicted in later books. The characters are all pretty archetypal at this point in the tale, but the book is only 175 pages long so I guess it can be excused.

Zelazny is also quite light on the description, so your mental pictures are a bit smoky and ill-defined. The magnificent city of Amber only gets a brief sentence of description when seen from a distance, which will be quite surprising and perhaps disappointing to readers weaned on Tolkien or Robert Jordan.

The mountain that faces the dawn, Kolvir, which has held Amber like a mother her child for all time, stood perhaps twenty miles to our left, the north, and the sun covered her with gold and made rainbow the veil above the city.

You really don't get much more than that. Zelazny doesn't want to slow down his story for the sake of description, but that means that your mental picture is little more than a pencil-sketch without a lot of color. You have to fill in most of the image.

What Zelazny does describe are events--especially fights. The reader would be advised to brush up on some of his fencing terminology, because Zelazny uses it, frequently during sword-fights. His action is fast, bloody, and brief, but you can easily visualize the swashbuckling style that made guys like Errol Flynn famous. There is one sword-fight that takes place in a library that is only a few pages long, but is far, far more exciting than reading a Robert Jordan duel, which ends up being a list of inscrutable blade techniques with names like Lakota chieftains.

The use of amnesia and the regaining of memories serves as a great vehicle for introducing the world and the setting to the readers, rendering info-dumps as an integral part of the storyline and making them far more interesting to the reader and more emotionally meaningful to the protagonist.

Many refer to The Chronicles of Amber as Zelazny's magnum opus, and I can certainly see this being a solid foundation for such a work. The book is populated with allusions to history and literature, which make the story both familiar and new at the same time. For example, the Forest of Arden is lifted from Shakespeare's As You Like It, and there are elements of the War of the Roses infused in the rivalry for the throne of Amber. The Trumps themselves make for a great setting/story element. Each turn of the pages reveals more and more of Zelazny's mysterious universe.

Good fantasy, like good science-fiction, is often about the imagination, and the creation of believable systems that enable the writer to do whatever he/she wants. Zelazny's book is a pretty good flight of fantasy. Unfortunately, character depth isn't all that impressive for the most part, and Zelazny's lack of description is somewhat disappointing, because when he does decide to describe something, he seems to do so effectively enough:

The archway loomed ahead, perhaps two hundred feet distant. Big, shining like alabaster, and carved with Tritons, sea nymphs, mermaids, and dolphins, it was. And there seemed to be people on the other side of it.

How much does Zelazny really need to say about an archway? He sums it up with two sentences. But something like the city of Amber itself deserves a bit more. The strength of this pulpy language is to keep the story moving and keep the reader interested. But I feel as if there were areas where more description was warranted, even if it did slow down the narrative a bit. Zelazny wisely chooses to explain why Amber is so magnificent and wonderful through the actions, words, and thoughts of the character and keep the story flowing. However, we could certainly benefit from a more extensive physical description of its magnificence. I honestly must say that I have no idea what Amber is supposed to look like, except that it's on a mountain and beautiful. Maybe gold. I could tell you all about what it represents, but I really can't say a single thing about what it looks like. For something so central to the story, I feel that it deserves a bit more.

All together, this is a fairly solid, pulpy book and a decent contribution to the swashbuckling angle of the sword & sorcery genre. It's certainly a fine example of "big concept" writing (with Amber itself being the concept), and it's full of action, suspense, and atmosphere galore. Zelazny writes events and situations remarkably well, and he certainly is a master at creating atmosphere and tone, but he makes an Iphigenia of physical set descriptions in order to propel the plot forward on winds of action and suspense. Nevertheless, it is definitely recommended.

Nine Princes in Amber by Roger Zelazny
Style B+
Substance B
Overall B

Appendix N, Nostalgia, and Contemporary Fantasy

Nearly every single gaming-related blog has a little bit to say about Gary Gygax's "Appendix N," a list of inspirational reading for players and Dungeon Masters found in the Dungeon Master's Guide for first edition Advanced Dungeons & Dragons. So, I'll probably be making reference to "Appendix N" as time goes on, much like many of those other blogs do. This isn't necessarily to copy them--it's actually kind of a necessity. "Appendix N" is the bibliography for Dungeons & Dragons as listed by Gygax himself. (What I'd give for an "Appendix N" written by Dave Arneson!)

Minus the introductory text, the reading list is as follows:


Anderson, Poul. THREE HEARTS AND THREE LIONS; THE HIGH CRUSADE; THE
Bellairs, John. THE FACE IN THE FROST
Brackett, Leigh.
Brown, Fredric.
Burroughs, Edgar Rice. "Pellucidar" Series; Mars Series; Venus Series
Carter, Lin. "World's End'' Series
de Camp, L. Sprague. LEST DARKNESS FALL; FALLIBLE FIEND; etal.
de Camp & Pratt. "Harold Shea" Series; CARNELIAN CUBE
Derleth, August.
Dunsany, Lord.
Farmer, P. J. "The World of the Tiers" Series; etal.
Fox, Gardner. "Kothar" Series; "Kyrik" Series; et of.
Howard, R. E. "Conan" Series
Lanier, Sterling. HIEROS JOURNEY
Leiber, Fritz. "Fafhrd &Gray Mouser" Series; et of.
Lovecraft, H. P.
Merritt, A. CREEP, SHADOW, CREEP; MOON POOL; DWELLERS IN THE
Moorcock, Michael. STORMBRINGER; STEALER OF SOULS; "Hawkmoon"
Norton, Andre.
Offutt, Andrew J., editor SWORDS AGAINST DARKNESS Ill.
Pratt, Fletcher, BLUE STAR; etaf.
Saberhagen, Fred. CHANGELING EARTH; etal.
St. Clair, Margaret. THE SHADOW PEOPLE; SIGN OF THE LABRYS
Tolkien, J. R. R. THE HOBBIT; "Ring Trilogy"
Vance, Jack. THE EYES OF THE OVERWORLD; THE DYING EARTH; et 01.
Weinbaum, Stanley.
Wellman, Manly Wade.
Williamson, Jack.
Zelazny, Roger. JACK OF SHADOWS; "Amber" Series; et of.
BROKEN SWORD
MIRAGE; et of.
Series (esp. the first three books)

The most immediate influences upon AD&D were probably de Camp & Pratt, REH, Fritz Leiber, Jack Vance, HPL, and A. Merritt; but all of the above authors, as well as many not listed, certainly helped to shape the form of the game. For this reason, and for the hours of reading enjoyment, I heartily recommend the works of these fine authors to you.

I've read a few of these, particularly some Zelazny, Moorcock, Howard, de Camp, Anderson, Vance, and Tolkien, to name just a few. When asked if he'd change anything, or add new media, Gygax generally responded with a "no," barring the addition of one or two new publications that have emerged since the late 1970s/early 1980s.

This is significant because it indicates that Gygax's vision of Dungeons & Dragons, and perhaps role-playing in general, evolved very little after his initial co-creation of the role-playing hobby with Dave Arneson. However, I found his comment a bit disturbing.

Essentially, Gygax all but completely ignores the emergence of "high fantasy." While this, in-and-of itself isn't surprising, because he often under-reported the influence of Tolkien on D&D, it shows a bit of closed-mindedness toward different developments in the genre of fantasy fiction. One of the major themes one cannot help but notice throughout Gygax's "Appendix N" is that not a single book in the list breaks the 250-300 page mark (with the exception of Tolkien's works). In other words, the books tend to be short, exhibit a tight economy of prose, develop quickly through rapid pacing, and are of limited scope. Indeed, some of the authors penned only short stories and novellas, never full-length novels. Gygax seemed to eschew the sort of world-shattering conflicts that were the hallmark of post-Tolkien high fantasy that emerged during the very late 1970s and became quite vogue in the 1980s.

That post-Tolkien fantasy is rife with problems, I'll admit--the greatest of which being their tendency toward overt imitation. Nevertheless, there are quite a few writers that Gygax has completely overlooked which could easily provide inspiration for a great many gamers and Dungeon Masters. A number of authors have produced some fantastic work in the past 15-20 years that deserves to be noted, but seems to have been completely ignored by many in the gaming community (particularly the "old school" community) in favor of many "Appendix N" books.

These include (but are not limited to) Steven Erikson, Ian Cameron Esselmont, R. Scott Bakker, Dan Simmons, and Tad Williams. During the 1980s, Raymond E. Feist emerged with incredible books, like his two-volume Magician and the ultra-imaginative A Darkness at Sethanon, but it appears he had almost no impact on Gygaxian roleplaying. Why is this the case?

Well, first, it is apparent that Erikson's/Esselmont's and Feist's worlds may not have an impact on roleplaying because they, themselves, originated as roleplayed settings. Nevertheless, they still deserve notice because of the magnitude of imagination that went into the creations of their worlds and the atmosphere of adventure, magic, and wonder that surrounds everything that takes place within those settings. Erikson, Esselmont, and Feist inspire me to roleplay far more than Zelazny or Moorcock. I think these authors took a lot of what inspired Gygax, and indeed took roleplaying itself, and developed it further. Like it or not, roleplaying has actually impacted fantasy literature, and I am not talking about Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman. I'm talking about how fantasy literature and roleplaying are part of a continuum--changes in one can, should, and do impact developments within the other. It's a living and breathing system.

Fantasy writing is not, and should not be, stagnant, but should develop and change with the times. Nostalgia is great. I remember playing old school Rules Cyclopedia D&D with friends in middle school. The books we read had a massive impact on our gaming. The creation of self-contained worlds that made perfect sense wasn't as cool as having random characters and creatures from all of the different and disparate fantasy novels you've read make guest appearances. We weren't old enough to demand logic and continuity from our gaming worlds yet. As we got older, though, we started to expect settings to behave more rationally, and a bit of the magic slipped out of our play.

I still look back at those days as an awkward pre-teen playing in whimsical, Wonderland-esque games where our characters could have an ale or two at the same table as Conan, Raistlin, Elric, and Gandalf. But I wouldn't want to really play in that sort of game anymore. Nostalgia isn't now. It is a longing for things past and gone.

I think that a lot of the old school renaissance is fueled by nostalgia. In itself, I don't think it is destructive at all. I have serious problems myself with where roleplaying has gone. And I may sound a bit hypocritical when I criticize the impact of video games on table-top roleplaying when I applaud the relationship between roleplaying and fantasy literature. But I think that, in it's desire to return to the original roots, old school gamers have thrown the baby out with the bathwater in terms of fantasy fiction. There's too much of a focus on "Appendix N" and not enough of a focus on more recent sources of inspiration that can enhance and enrich one's role-playing experience.