Christmas Reads

Well, I had to read something on the airplane, didn't I?

The Carpet Makers, by Andreas Eschbach. (Written in German; translated by Doryl Jensen; introduction by Orson Scott Card)
In the city of Yahannochia, as in all the other cities of the world, the social structure, economy, and religion are geared toward the production of incredibly finely-woven, intricately patterned carpets made out of human hair. Each carpet is the work of a finely-skilled carpetmaker who uses the various-colored hair of his wives and daughters to weave a design which takes him a lifetime to finish. The carpets, we are told, are to decorate the Star Palace of the Emperor, who is revered as a god. This is their sacred duty, as well as their livelihood. Those who doubt the god-Emperor, or question the production of the carpets, or attempt to deviate from their hereditary calling, are blasphemers and heretics who attack the very basis of their family, their nation, their God, and are treated accordingly.

The premise sounds bizarre, but Eschbach develops the economy, religion, and social customs of his world in meticulous and plausible detail. We see it through the eyes of generations of sympathetic and believable characters, both natives and offworlders. We see their lives being shaped and controlled, and on occasion brutally destroyed, by this culture and its singleminded economy.

Meanwhile, in a parallel storyline, rebels have deposed the Emperor and occupied his enormous, sprawling Star Palace. There's not a single hair carpet in sight. No one has even heard of such a thing. But from the fringes of known space come reports from perplexed scouts who keep discovering planet after planet after uncharted planet, all populated by millions of human beings who profess religious loyalty to the dead Emperor, all frantically producing fabulously labor-intensive human-hair carpets by the hundreds, the thousands, the millions.

The answer to the mystery of the hair carpets may lie somewhere in deep space, or somewhere on a planet where uncountable human lives are expended over thousands of years to produce these strange works of art. Or it may lie buried somewhere in the vast, convoluted imperial archives, which no rebel can even begin to unravel.

I won't reveal what's going on, but the ending is profoundly affecting and disturbing. Eschbach is one of those rare writers who can create situations in which a mere two-word statement can leave the reader mentally gasping as if a chasm of gaping eternities has suddenly opened up beneath his feet.

Highly recommended. It's unfortunate that this appears to be the only book by Andreas Eschbach to be translated into English. I hope that does not remain the case.

Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Ishiguro

This is one of those futuristic books by a lit'rary author which are not classified as science fiction because... because... well, just because. Like Brave New World or Nineteen Eighty Four or The Handmaid's Tale, it's social science fiction in everything but its spine label and marketing campaign. Because everybody knows that authors of Serious Litrachoor don't write science fiction, now, do they?

It begins innocuously enough, with a group of intelligent, healthy and talented young people growing up in an idyllic boarding school. They experience all the things that growing adolescents experience: friendship, heartbreak, the first stirrings of romance, the frustrations of failures and the satisfaction of successes. And, of course, they are baffled and intrigued by the mysteries of the adult world and the motivations of those older than themselves. Along the way, they gradually learn what the adult world will expect of them, and what they will be expected to sacrifice. And, just as in other coming-of-age stories, they accept it.

There are darker currents flowing beneath the surface, but you should discover those on your own. They sneak up on you through the course of the novel, just as they do to the protagonists. I can't even recall whether the fundamental premise of the novel is ever explicitly stated, or whether the reader, like the three protagonists, must piece it together by being "told and not told". The most disquieting part of the novel is the way the protagonists passively accept their destiny, even as they desperately, hopefully weave fantasies and myths that might allow them to escape from it. Like the emotionally straitjacketed butler of The Remains of the Day, they obediently march toward the abyss because it's what they believe they're supposed to do, what they were taught to do.

I would try to go into more detail about my reactions to the book, but I find that this reviewer, from Reason magazine, has already said most of what I would wish to say. (Beware of spoilers, though. If you plan on reading the book, do so before reading that review.)

Death cheats us all in the end, doesn't it? And aren't we supposed to accept that, taught to accept that? A cynic might say that we invent desperate and hopeful fantasies to allow us to escape our fate, too.

Recommended.

(Next up: Fiendish Books.)