Book Review: Dark Matter

Dark_MatterDark Matter was one of those books I saw trending on Goodreads that piqued my interest… not for any specific reason but I just liked the sound of it. I finally saw it in Waterstones recently and took the plunge.

I’m glad I did – Dark Matter hooked me from the first chapter! The scenes of normalcy it built up – Jason Dessen, a physics lecturer, popping out for an errand, leaving his perfect, happy family, only for this normalcy to be breathlessly subverted as he is abducted on the way home. It hooked me quickly, wanting to know quite what happened leading up to this moment – what made Jason Dessen special – and how the narrative goes from there. It’s an intoxicating, intriguing opening that really hooks you in; certainly did for me!

I can’t say I wasn’t a little concerned with the science-fiction aspects. Dark Matter is billed a “mindbending” and deals with the theory of multiple universes coexisting with our own. I was a little sceptical – this concept can be quite high and dry indeed. I was worried as I advanced through the book as to whether this science-fiction aspect would not hit the mark with me and leave the plot out in the cold.

Fortunately, this was not the case. The multiverse theory is dealt with quite deftly I thought – Jason’s abductor is revealed to be Jason from another universe where life turned out very differently. This Jason – Jason2 – is the inventor of a strange box that allows him to travel with ease between the multiverses.

This development later on in the book explains some of the mystery surrounding the first third of the book and it sets up some satisfying twists. Crucially, Dark Matter doesn’t hammer home the multiverse theory at its root too hard; it’s easy to wrap oneself up in the theory. I’ve recently been reading the Long Earth series by Stephen Baxter and Terry Pratchett; those books deal with a similar idea to Dark Matter but I found that as the “space” in which the story can take place – multiple worlds, or multiple “instances” of Earth – increases, the narrative pacing just dilutes out to fill that space. It collapses like a souffle.

Thankfully, this fate does not befall Dark Matter. Instead the scientific principle at the root of the story doesn’t weigh it down – the story provides a great, and thankfully finite, context with which to explain a complicated theory. That’s what, I feel, Dark Matter did so right – it focussed on the characters it proposes for a thrilling mystery. It also explores the multiverse theory, the idea that “things are the same but a little bit different” through the lens of massive macro changes to the world as a result but it better focusses through Jason’s micro perspective – his wife and son.

Now I can’t really comment on the accuracy (or lack of) in how Dark Matter portrays the multiverse theory; it’s a bit beyond me. However, the projection of the theory that Dark Matter presents fits the story nicely and doesn’t overpower the narrative. It fits the mood and the tone of the story. Dark Matter has the breathless, pacey feel of a movie (an adaptation of the novel is planned)… I’d rate it highly along Lee Child’s work, with a twist of Michael Crichton and Andy Weir. It’s just the sort of book I like to read!

All of this is wrapped up in crisp, tight prose that was a joy to read – it definitely propelled me through the story and made Dark Matter a brisk, enjoyable read! The strong characterisation throughout, and toward the end as the mystery unravels, was aided by the strong writing. The complex theory behind the narrative was kept in check where it could’ve easily tied itself in knots.

Overall I can say with confidence that Dark Matter proved a thrilling, engaging and absolutely enjoyable read, and definitely only the first of Blake Crouch’s work I’ll be sampling on the strength of the effort!

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Book Review: The Girl on the Train

The_Girl_On_The_TrainI recently read this after getting a little bogged down with a more clunky read I do hope to finish but needed a breezy thrill to grease the cogs. I picked up The Girl on the Train recently; I’d seen it a lot out and about and I almost wondered in the back of my mind if it was too commercial a thriller to enjoy. But I let my preconceptions slide and bought the book.

The Girl on the Train, while not the perfect thriller, certainly held my attention enough for it to be enjoyed like a thriller. I credit this to several aspects: crisp prose with a strong storytelling style and at the root of it an engaging plot thread.

The prose, as I said, is crisp and well-constructed. The chapters shift point-of-view from one of the three women protagonists around whom the story is hung. It reads a lot like diary entries; each chapter interspersed with either morning or evening sections. As a storytelling mechanic this was different enough and a novel enough approach to propel me through

This I felt complimented the story; normal prose detailing the domestic minutiae of the protagonists day-to-day would’ve been unengaging; instead the prose was filleted right down to what mattered to the story. That’s not to say the prose was unengaging; it was, but neither was it meandering. It’s definitely the style of writing I appreciate more, and it’s a trait in thriller writing I expressly appreciate too; less so the purple, overwritten prose so emblematic to other genres.

The plot behind The Girl on the Train dug its claws in – I wanted to see the mystery solved, and it did, as thrillers do, neatly wrap itself up in threads in the first two thirds of the book for these threads to unwind in the final third. I was gripped and immersed enough to want to know what was happening. The payoff at the end, with the final confrontation, was satisfying and smacked me right in the face a little – an of course! moment neatly subverted until the climax.

But what struck me as a criticism of the book was the characters – three women, Rachel, Anna and Megan – that it revolves around are steeped in suburban melodrama. Rachel, the primary protagonist, is an unreliable narrator in the sense that she’s always drunk but that’s only a surface illusion. The book plays on the reader’s expectations about a narrator who is quickly characterised as an alcoholic and twists it around. That distrust of Rachel as an unreliable narrator (which becomes a key point in the climax) is another reason to stick at it; the story may seem mundane, but an undertone of suspicion and not-quite-right-ness kept up the intrigue. It helps because the crisp prose and initially-melodramatic characters, who can come across as pastiches of suburban living could so easily grate the book to a halt.

It is this suburban melodrama that ultimately drives the story to its ugly twist. The characters, all bored and depressed wives at their core, were melodramatic and the source of their squabble was succinctly suburban. These characters ultimately are all defined by their husbands or their children. I do feel we could’ve seen more into the characters beside those attributes, to get a deeper understanding of them as I feel the characters had so much more to give beside the narrow viewpoint of their husbands (and feeling towards) and children but alas that was what the plot demanded we focus on. These characters are petty, petulant and, strangely enough, that seems not all-to-farfetched in the nebulous world of boring suburbia.

This seemed two-dimensional but on reflection this two-dimensionality fitted the remit of the book. The Girl on the Train tells the story of what happens behind closed doors in sleepy suburbia. Ultimately the image of suburbia is cast aside and the unsettling truth behind it is revealed. Ultimately though suburbia is not a subject area I am particularly interested in exploring but the book held my interest to the very end.

I wavered a little on the rating but ultimately had to settle down to a 3. It’s not a bad book at all things considered and I quite liked it for what it was! There’s enough here to hold my interest and keep me intrigued through a journey through the underbelly of “perfect” suburbia.

Book Review: Sirens

SirensAs part of my recently-concluded Creative Writing degree course I had the opportunity to briefly study Crime fiction, which proved an enjoyable divergence from my recent reading. Indeed, this lead onto a conversation with a friend of mine who’s been urging me to dip my toe into noir crime fiction for as long as I can recall; serendipitously, Sirens happened to be on sale on Amazon and, after a little prod from my noir-aficionado friend, it ended up sitting on my bedside table not very long after.

From the off, I recognised a lot of traits in Sirens that I had identified as part of my studies, in particular in relation to the set text I examined and enjoyed for the Crime strand of the module, Shut Eye by Adam Baron. There are some flawed, morally-ambiguous characters, a seedy, gritty underbelly and the usage of the city, in the case of Sirens, Manchester, becomes a character in itself. Reflecting on my studies, Sirens was making, well, all the right noises.

The book has a gritty, bleak tone that is exemplified by the deliberate choice of setting and time: Manchester in November. Even as someone that is not familiar with Manchester at all (indeed I’m a Londoner) that alone does a great deal to set a mood and tone that the book keeps going all the way through. The presentation of Manchester is vivid in accentuating that sense of tone, even when the action and story move across distinctly disparate areas of the city – abandoned industrial areas to exclusive penthouses to what amounts to the epitome of suburbia are all facades that contain the overarching mood. It’s deeply atmospheric and engrossing, the city itself drawing me in as a reader.

The characters, too, are equally atmospheric; they all occupy shades of grey in terms of morality that are reflected in the bleak winter skies that permeate the Manchester in Sirens. It’s an effective mix, the sensation of not knowing who can be trusted, and certainly having ideas of who is bad and who is good upended and subverted just aided in my immersion. Like Shut Eye, there’s a corrosive, and compelling mix of corruption, vice and politics. Better, none of it is presented in a polemic way; if anything, it’s presented in a realistic, gritty stance. As nice as the reader may consider themselves, they can’t help but relate to how real this all could be, behind the façade of closed doors.

The protagonist, Aidan Waits, is perhaps initially a little cliched, the down-on-his-luck detective caught with his hands in the till but the journey he embarks on allows exploration of the character’s depth – who is he working for? Is it ultimately himself? Overall the protagonist is engaging and effective – both as a character and at his job, so there’s something to relate to beneath the multi-faceted surface. He’s an engaging protagonist and the ambiguity over his end goals is another point that propels the reader to finish the book; now he’s waist-deep in this mess, how is he going to get out of it? Or, more to the point we’re led to question, can he?

Being fairly new to the genre of crime thrillers, I’d cut my teeth on pacey books such as the Jack Reacher books from Lee Child. These are action-oriented and, most pleasing for me, unpretentious and accessible. Approaching Sirens I was a little concerned that, being a more serious, “noir” story, it might not quite live up that accessibility. These concerns were for naught; Sirens has a breathless pace that, while perhaps not as unrelenting as Lee Child’s works, which became a reference, still allows for a great deal of immersion into the atmosphere and world created, but it doesn’t linger too long to outstay its welcome. It strikes what I would say is a very good balance. There’s a lot going on that we experience as a reader throughout the first two-thirds of the book that immerses us in the world; details begin to stick out and make us ask questions. It is these questions that propel us, the reader, into the final third of the book where the threads we’ve been wrapped around begin to unravel. This was very satisfying, and Sirens sets up and ending and then delightfully subverts it; the payoff for persevering through the bleak and brutal landscape of Manchester that is portrayed is very satisfying.

I can only wonder how much more concentrated this would be to someone familiar with Manchester; however, this prior knowledge is not essential and this does well to not impede the accessibility of Sirens as a book; as before, Manchester becomes but another character in the story. It’s refreshing, too; while the story briefly touches the classical setting of noir, London, it purposefully doesn’t linger. If anything, London feels an alien landscape from the familiarity of Manchester. This is an effective subversion of the genre, and I feel choosing a setting the author is clearly familiar with, and isn’t London or Edinburgh helps set it apart. There’s no reason these s orts of urban crime stories couldn’t take place in any large metropolitan area, and again the fact that Manchester becomes its own character in the story helps justify that choice.

All this is pulled together with Joseph Knox’s immersive, haunting and evocative prose. It isn’t flowery by any stretch, but neither is it utilitarian. The sparse, pointed and precise construction of the prose is something I appreciated; it lacks pretention, but it doesn’t lack style. It propels the reader through the story but doesn’t linger for self-indulgent reasons, which is why I burned through the book so quickly once it had bitten into me. This is certainly a characteristic it shares with Lee Child’s work which is a major factor in my enjoyment of those books and the writing fits the mood an accentuates it effectively.

Overall as an introduction to potentially wider reading of noir fiction, Sirens was a strong candidate. Gritty, arresting and immersive; I’d highly recommend it! On the back of Sirens I’m certainly looking forward to reading both more of Joseph Knox’s work and more noir crime as a genre!

DNF: Children of Time

Children_of_TimeI tried, I tried, I tried.

It’s always disappointing to have a book recommended, and gifted, by a good friend and just not one to get on with, but Children of Time is certainly a book that fits into that esoteric category. But, importantly, it’s a book that I recognised the good of but was unable to finish because that good couldn’t compensate for some other foibles that, ultimately, lost my interest.

I managed just about half of Children of Time before I felt the narrative had run out of steam, and assumed a stall from which it could not recover.

There are two parallel narratives that Children of Time alternates between: that of the results of Dr Kern’s experiment to “uplift” monkeys in an auspicious terraforming project (which naturally goes awry at the last moment) and that of the last of humanity’s journey aboard the ark ship Gilgamesh. Ultimately, these two narratives didn’t seem to mesh together particularly well and that was the main cause of chagrin for me with Children of Time.

Out of the two parallel narratives, the spider chapters – a mild spoiler, but the nanovirus intended to uplift the monkeys to sentience and intelligence inadvertently takes hold in the planet’s spider population – were more interesting to me as it explored how the spiders came to terms with their sentience, and explored interesting themes around genetic memories; the spiders passing Understandings down to their descendants. These are two very cool themes to go for – the uplift of another species to human-like intelligence and the notion of inheritable genetic memory – and I felt the spider chapters did progress these themes fairly efficiently.

That’s not to say the spider chapters of Children of Time were by any means perfect; indeed, the high-concept ideas behind the spider civilization, and particular some choices made by Tchaikovsky, made them less comprehensible than they could’ve been.

But the “human” chapters were just insufferable, near the point where I stopped reading.

If all the last vestiges of humanity can think to do on their ark ship is bicker then does our species not deserve to continue existing?

I did find myself losing patience with the humans in Children of Time; they simply bickered and bickered, seemingly endlessly, at the expense of any action. And quite frankly, the characterisation was pretty flat, too – I didn’t feel for any of the human characters, and they all felt quite interchangeable. That’s not to say the humans were truly flawed; indeed, just before I decided to shelve the book there was a nugget of interesting plot coming into focus – the self-appointed and mentally-unstable (though that’s just because the other characters kept saying what a terrible character he was) decides to attempt to meld with the Gilgamesh’s AI system to become some kind of immortal computer lifeform – interesting but the point at which this was coming was far too late; I’d already mentally checked out and, quite honestly, didn’t care what happened to the humans either way.

The main issue with Children of Time, though, for me, was two-fold:

  • There’s a disconcerting disconnect between the timelines of the “human” chapters (where the colonists drop in and out of hibernation as many of us would go to the shop to buy milk and bread, sometimes for centuries which pass in the blink of an eye; whereas generations of uplifted spiders can pass in months. This two-speed timeline to the alternating narratives just felt confusing and ultimately disconcerting.
  • The pacing of the narratives was way, way off; I gave up on Children of Time about halfway in, where I feel the human and spider storylines should be about to meet and set the dynamic for the rest of the book. This wasn’t happening; indeed, Children of Time was trying its best to stop that from happening. A small group of humans landed on Kern’s World, that of the uplifted spiders and the narrative goes to some effort to get those humans off the world and that was disappointing; I wanted the story to progress forward with these distinct groups interacting and conflicting and it seemed like the narrative just didn’t want that to happen, not until the humans had bickered a bit more.

Ultimately, it wasn’t the concepts of Children of Time that turned me off, but rather the narrative execution was lacking. Easily, 200 pages could’ve been cut from the middle of the book to no real loss of the overarching narrative arc. The prose itself, chapter-by-chapter, was approachable and not pretentious which is a deft skill; however, the fatal flaw for Children of Time was one that serves well as a cautionary tale to writers – let the middle sag at your peril.

I awarded Children of Time a rating of 2 stars on Goodreads; books I am unable to finish will not score higher than that. Thusly, because Children of Time was my first experience of work by Adrian Tchaikovsky and scored less than 3 stars I will not be looking to read any more of this author’s work.