The Martian Tales by Edgar Rice Burroughs (Books 1-11)

The Martian Tales are wonderfully predictable; every story involves a skilled warrior rescuing a damsel in distress. He rescues her every time. The villains are despicable, the women are beautiful, and the heroes are honorable. Typos and grammar errors aren’t rare, and the writing is functional and repetitive… so why bother? Burroughs’ imagination is awe inspiring; what he lacks in original story format is made up for by memorable details. In fact, I would argue that the simple format of the story allows greater maneuverability for insane and invigorating ideas.

We know that a beautiful woman will be kidnapped, usually by a disreputable jeddak (that’s Martian or Barsoomian for emperor). The warrior (all men on Barsoom are warriors) will experience countless hardships as he is forced to fight, imprisoned in caves, and shipwrecked in vast wastelands. He’ll usually regain his princess several times only for her to be repeatedly wrenched from his grasp, and he’ll have to foil plans for world domination as part of the bargain. Burroughs makes his characters work hard for a happy ending, but the happy ending is always there. We know where we’re going, so we can enjoy the journey.

Every journey is punctuated by strange cultures and creatures: red men, yellow men, green men, white men, black men, plant men, thoats, calots, apts, banths, kaldanes, Great White Apes. Burroughs introduces us to Mars or Barsoom with John Carter, a fighting man from Earth. The only explanation for his presence on Barsoom is a sort of transmigration with a violent death on Earth implied; Burroughs just leaves it at that and gets on with the story. John Carter is captured by green men who are fifteen feet tall, have four arms, have tusks, and only find death and torture funny. Luckily, the gravity on Barsoom is weaker than Earth’s, so Carter can leap dozens of feet and has godly strength. He teaches a green man the meaning of friendship, acquires a faithful hound that resembles a cross between a Grizzly bear and alligator, and saves the entire planet’s atmosphere. Oh yeah, he also rescues a princess.

This is just the first book that sets off the Martian Tales, and subsequent adventures involve John Carter or a warrior from the race of red men. While Burroughs wrote some of the earlier and later tales in third person, the vast majority is written in first person. A warrior narrates his own travels, and the voice is seldom distinct; the warrior always values chivalry and bravery. The real distinctions come with the details of his predictable journey. He may have to battle strange creatures that can detach their heads from their bodies or track monsters with four legs, two arms, and tusks growing out of their many lidded eyes. He may work for a scientist who specializes in switching brains from body to body or fly around in an invisible ship (until he loses it). The point is each adventure doesn’t try to be anything more than an adventure, and Burroughs joyfully fills in the blanks along the way.

As science fiction, the Martian Tales plays with ideas that may have been censored in other genres during the early twentieth century. Burroughs treats men of all races the same; he grants them intelligence and emotions while Barsoomians are only prejudiced against cowards. Women are admired for their willingness to fight. Anything approaching a religion is treated with the utmost scorn by the narrator. Barsoom is a dying planet with receding waters and an artificial atmosphere. John Carter often sadly reflects that Earth will eventually share a similar fate before becoming distracted by his next adventure.

Selected Stories by Anton Chekhov

I knew that I had to read something by Chekhov after attending a lecture that praised him for his simplicity of language, minimal dependence on plot, and severe commitment to objective storytelling. I had also heard “If there is a gun hanging on the wall in the first act, it must fire in the last” way too many times from other writers to not read Chekhov. Since he was reputed to be a master of the short story, I started my exploration with a collection of selected Chekhov stories. I read these stories looking for the three traits listed above, any firearms put to good use, and pure entertainment.

Many of his stories at the start of the book were ten pages or less, delightful blips of information that captured a situation without twisting it into a plot driven story. The use of simple language was clear in each story, and Chekhov even made gentle fun of characters who tried to use more bookish language. “Bring us half a miracle, my boy, and twenty-four savories,” is how a pompous clerk asks a poor waiter for half a bottle of vodka and some appetizers. Rather than trying to impress and possibly belittle the reader with a wide range of vocabulary, Chekhov speaks plainly, cutting through extra syllables to the content of the story.

Each story strayed away from conventional plot - no sacred quests, heroes battling villains, or a twelve step guide to achieving true love. This style flourished in Chekhov’s shorter stories, where we are given repeated glimpses of a character’s inner thoughts, presented with a situation that may be a conflict, and given slight implications of what situations may follow. “He Understood”, my favorite story in the collection, starts out with a wonderful description of a cross eyed peasant and his ludicrous gun (don’t worry, the gun gets used). As he waits unsupervised in a room of a large house for his punishment for illegally hunting, the peasant notices a wasp flying repeatedly into the window and wonders why it’s too ignorant to use the door. Wonderful moments like these multiply in a few short pages and provide direction without being predictable.

However, as the stories lengthened, this minimal dependence on plot took on a feeling of aimlessness. This became apparent with Chekhov’s story of novella length called “Three Years”, which chronicles the extended relationships between family and friends. Yes, there were interesting ideas about the fluidity of love, but the situations upon situations grew tiresome. I felt like Chekhov gave me repeated glimpses of a display case filled with pristine rifles that may have been fired. After fifty pages, I had an urge to hate any character, view a confrontation that went beyond harsh words, or make more connections between each event, even with the risk of the story appearing contrived. Perhaps dependence on plot isn’t such a vice for works of increasing length?

Chekhov’s commitment to objective storytelling came through with a stream of consciousness style. The inner thoughts of each character carry their distinctive voice while still remaining thoughts that anyone could have. In this way, Chekhov presents us with the possibility that people do different things for the same reason or the same thing for different reasons. The same thoughts don’t always lead to the same action, so how do we pass judgment? Of course, Chekhov isn’t purely objective, but his ego definitely kept its distance, careful to cast as small a shadow as possible. I found this difficult and refreshing as a reader since I wasn’t sure what to think. “The Darling”, the last story in the collection, is about a woman with an immense capability for love who adopts the opinions of those to whom she is closest. In the absence of opinions and close relationships, she is miserable. I hope to offer some possible opinions in my work without looming over the page.

Go Mutants! by Larry Doyle

Go Mutants! follows a stereotypical, young adult novel storyline. An adolescent male must pursue his dream girl and deal with bullies while trying to fit in to the world of High School. However, Larry Doyle provides an original frame for this awkward state with an alternate timeline. Earth is made publicly aware of alien visitors during the 1950s. The main character is J!m Anderson, a High School junior with a bulging brain, blue skin, potential powers, and unseen genitalia. Approximately one-tenth of his High School peers can be classified as humanoid or other, and this minority status takes teenage discomfort to a heightened level.

Doyle achieves a satisfying mix of quaint, old timey references (Drive-in theaters and classic rock lyrics) and bewildering, futuristic technologies (gyroscopic school buses and a nationwide multimedia system with unlimited energy). Several chapters contain screenplay-like introductions that flirt with and reverse Hollywood monster stereotypes before guiding them in Doyle’s chosen direction. Stereotypes are Doyle’s stomping ground since he uses society’s extreme prejudice against “mutants”, certifiably non-human beings originating from alien planets or government laboratories, to follow patterns of McCarthyism, race riots, and religious persecution along his revised timeline.

In a world whose technology is several centuries ahead of our own, children and adults can still be relied upon to act out of fear and distrust. J!m’s last stages of puberty escalate this widespread paranoia and encourage martial law. During this electric journey, Doyle tests many limits while presenting our prejudices in an alien light. Thus, I found it frustrating that the book ventured halfheartedly into the topic of death. Sure, a few faceless characters ultimately die, but there are at least five instances where a major character seemingly dies but then miraculously comes back to life. This eventual predictability did not help the ending, which felt hastily constructed and too convenient. Despite this slight disappointment, Doyle expertly maintains an omniscient narrative, adding depth to an original storyline built on stereotypes.

All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy

All the Pretty Horses provides a highly romanticized but startlingly brutal account of a young man’s travels on horseback in Mexico. The traveler, John Grady Cole, is both unremarkable and fascinating. I believe this feature can be attributed to his words versus his actions. The dialogue between him and his two traveling companions is sparse and repetitive, but his actions concerning love, horses, and war are flamboyant. I believe this is part of the attraction for reading McCarthy; it’s almost as if one is reading the work of two distinct writers. There is lush language describing the majestic Mexican landscape side by side with matter of fact descriptions of eating meals or buying supplies from a store.

In a previous review on a McCarthy work, I fixated on his sparse use of commas and other punctuation marks, but I now believe that could be a misguided attempt to mix style with content. Yes, cutting down on unnecessary punctuation marks will help with my writing, but swearing off commas isn’t going to have me writing like McCarthy. While the man in undeniably talented, I wouldn’t want to write just like him. However, I do believe the contrast achieved in his writing is an aspect in which I could truly use more practice.

McCarthy’s attention to detail when describing the plants, animal life, and natural landscape of the Mexican setting is superb. An attempt to add these details to my own work will help with my obliviousness to my surroundings as both a writer and as a human being. McCarthy also describes important human interactions without getting bogged down in dialogue and editorializing body language. I can definitely learn from that.

There were times when I found the descriptions of setting too effusive and the human dialogue too clipped (i.e. John Grady trading so few words with his best friend when they both realized they had survived), too much of a contrast when a middle route wouldn’t have been a sin. McCarthy is a great writer in showing me that contrast may be a consistent option to balance my writer weaknesses with my strengths.

The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler

Chandler’s novel is another work (in addition to Agatha Christie’s Poirot series and a Neil Gaiman story) that has convinced me that I must write a detective story. I have been analyzing what draws me to the detective story, and I believe it is the detective’s personal endeavor to connect seeming unrelated details into a bigger picture that appeals to me as a writer. Chandler gives us the detective Marlowe, who gravitates toward the big picture in a stoic yet compassionate manner.

Marlowe is the classic, hardboiled detective for whom smoking and drinking is part of the investigative process. However, he doesn’t subject us to bland philosophizing on dangerous dames or mention his special .38 revolver every other page. Yes, Marlowe uses guns occasionally, but they usually find their way to his reluctant hands from acquaintances who didn’t use them as wisely. And yes, he meets dangerous dames, but the sexual tension is frequently ridiculed as a flimsy filter between Marlowe and the bigger picture.

The Big Sleep is written in first person past tense. There are some limitations to this approach since the reader is privy to Marlowe’s musing on the case at certain junctures but then shut off from his conclusions that could spoil the surprise. Chandler limited this isolation from Marlowe’s intentions at very specific points, so the reader felt as if they were solving the case alongside Marlowe for the most part. That being said, I’ll still try writing my first detective story in third person to avoid those difficult contradictions.

Chandler throws temptations of the flesh and of the bank at Marlowe but always in a way that contributes to the detective’s search for truth. There is no shortage of murders in this book, but many of them reveal Marlowe’s own mortality, giving a believable edge of danger to every step of the case. I won’t spoil the ending, but when Marlowe finds his truth, he keeps it noble but not self righteous.

Changing Planes by Ursula LeGuin

A dedicated fiction writer is driven to create a world of fiction. In Changing Planes, Ursula LeGuin creates worlds of fiction, sixteen to be exact. In our world or plane, a young woman named Sita Dulip initiates this interplanary travel or world hopping after becoming stuck in a constipated airport where her flight is repeatedly delayed. Apparently, the conditions for such travel are extreme boredom and discomfort, a nice touch. Once despised travel hubs, airports become departure points for interplanary tourists. LeGuin takes a tantalizingly anthropological approach to each realm, which is filled with vivid detail, stunning imagination, and biting satire.

As a science fiction nerd, I wanted more detail about changing planes. For example, LeGuin lets the reader know that each plane has an airport-like waiting room to facilitate our journey back while alluding to different but still discomforting and boring techniques that inhabitants of other planes have for traveling. The passage of time is also different for each realm; a traveler with a two hour flight delay might spend a worthwhile day in a tropical plane. However, she does not let the reader know what happens to the travelers’ bodies; do they vanish completely or merely remain in a semi-coma in their own plane while experiencing an extraordinary trip.

Each plane provides a rich history, a fascinating situation that placated my inconvenient question. LeGuin also manages to turn each situation into a smaller, representative story through her first person narrative. Changing Planes is LeGuin in top form working with compelling ideas: inhabitants whose dreams are communal, a land primarily populated by Royals where commoners are celebrities, a conversation over maize soup with a waitress who is four percent corn, and an island where immortality might be achieved through a single fly bite. This is just a small list, but LeGuin hints at an infinite number of planes; the planes aren’t created but discovered.

Occasionally, LeGuin’s biting satire threatens to consume the original content present in each plane. The satire present is an essential component in defamiliarizing us to our “rational” practices, but I’d rather have fewer messages and more planes. Mrs. LeGuin has thought provoking ideas about corporations, sexuality, and war, but she left me greedy for more worlds of fiction.

Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman

Gaiman uses Mr. Nancy or Anansi (a character from American Gods) to create another story full of epic references. Anansi, the Spider god has died, and his son, Fat Charlie, is torn from his normal life as his father continues to embarrass him from beyond the grave. Anansi Boys is a less complex book than American Gods, but I think this simpler, less epic structure allowed for a more humorous tone. Gaiman reveals a fondness for the trickster, emphasizing cunning and smooth words instead of brute force.

Every story has already been told. This statement makes me think of myths, legends, fables, or other ancient stories that have unjustly stolen my relatively new ideas. Gaiman isn’t intimidated by these tales; he uses them as inspiration for impossible figures in modern circumstances. Anansi Boys isn’t quite an adaptation of African folktales but a continuation in present day London, Florida, and the Caribbean.

Gaiman also plays with the idea of parts being greater than their original sum. Fat Charlie has a godlier twin brother. This trickster component of his personality was exorcised when Fat Charlie was a small child. When a starfish is cut in half, each part will grow into another starfish. Anansi Boys combines this image with role reversals as the brothers meet and inhabit each others’ lives.

The only unsatisfying part of the book was the ending. It felt too convenient with an ancient power struggle resolved and happy circumstances achieved in one fell swoop. I believe the implication that a similar conflict would arise in another time and place was there (every story will also be retold), but a hint of uncertainty could have added to the cyclical nature of these epic references.

A story with a god and his offspring as the main characters is likely to have bizarre series of events. Anansi Boys is no exception, but Gaiman’s humorous tone turns these events into a wonderfully embarrassing but necessary component of Fat Charlie’s struggle to become his own starfish. In my own writing, I’ve been asking the question “how much is too much?” Won’t it be taken as a joke past a certain point? Perhaps I need to find that point, since some of the best stories don’t need to be taken seriously.