In the Labyrinth

The Mad Scientist's Daughter: Cassandra Rose Clarke.

It is always wonderful to read emerging talent -- especially when it is as good as Cassandra Rose Clarke's novel The Mad Scientist's Daughter. I don't read as much Science Fiction as I once did, but this novel, recommended by a friend, seemed too good to pass up. And I am really delighted to have had the chance to enjoy it.

The novel's plot is simple enough enough -- a future time in the United States that suggest a country still struggling to cope with the aftermath of an event known as The Disasters -- which created a dust bowl-style destruction of large swaths of the country. But the cities have been rebuilt with the help of service robots who now do most of the menial labor. The protagonist Caterina Novack is born to scientist parents who have chosen to live in the backwater rural areas rather than the sleek modern cities. Daniel Novack, Cat's father, is a specialist in AI development and he works in a lab sequestered in the basement of the house. He has also brought a new unique android named "Finn" to work as his assistant, and to be a tutor to the young home-schooled Cat, who is allowed to roam the woods behind the house like a wild child of nature.

The novel offers an interesting polarity: Finn is adept at providing Cat "emotional" support whenever she demands it and acts as her personal protector. As she grows up, Cat relies and takes for granted her right to this constant attention. It has the effect of creating a dissonance in her -- Cat loves the android because it answers her every spoken need without asking anything in return, and yet she fails to connect with other human beings because she has no experience in actually loving someone without simultaneously using them. The android Finn appears more human, more compassionate, more "in tune" with another human being's needs and wants, while the young girl and later the young woman seems cold, distant, and emotionally stunted among her human peers.

It would seem that should make it hard to like Cat -- and yet we do, very much so. Despite her immaturity towards other human beings, she develops a love for Finn that is as unique and touching as it is problematic. Her love of nature, the forest behind her parent's house and her mother's garden is translated into her beautiful fiber art. She is a weaver, a gardener, a young woman stranded by a strange upbringing teetering between the natural world and an exotic android -- who is capable it appears of a  slowly evolving sentience.

There are some parallels here to other traditional tales on whose old bones this futuristic story comfortably rests. I kept thinking of the tales of the golem (and most notable, Helen Wacker's recent The Golem and the Jinni) where the golem is filled with purpose by its maker, and exists solely to hear the unspoken desires of its master and act. It appears like "love" or loyalty, but it can have no other purpose for existence except to serve. And then there is the story of Pygmalion, the sculptor who with the help of Aphrodite brought his sculpture of a perfect woman to life. And for me especially, I found the novel enriched by all the weaving metaphors (which I associate with so many folktales)  -- the threads on the loom woven into an expression of love which Cat can't articulate, combined with the strings of Finn's schematic code, the delicate wiring of Finn's perfect body, and the silver "threads" in his eyes when he seems most human to her. (It is almost impossible not to use "him" rather than "it").

Clarke's prose is terrific -- spare, yet poetically precise and beautiful. Nature speaks for the emotional states of her characters -- the "choleric" skies, the thunderous rainstorms, the arid dust bowls, the sterile atmosphere of the moon which smells of explosive cordite, the ice that freezes in the house when Finn leaves open the windows because he "likes" the storming sound of the winds. The characters are finely and intelligently drawn (and with compassion for even the less likeable characters) and the subplots of android robots protesting for their "rights" echoes the hunger for connection in a world that has learned to use people rather to serve them. The Mad Scientist's Daughter has just been nominated for the 2013 Phillip K. Dick Award -- which would be an awesome win for this terrific new author.

Art: Chiara Bautista  Top image: "Round here, he is always on my mind..." Second image untitled -- but it reminded me so of this novel as Cat is a chain smoker through most of the novel. Bautista work is extraordinary and I heartily recommend stopping by her facebook page and falling in love with her work.

I'm Being Watched: Characters Weigh In on the Progress

Have you even noticed how it feels like your characters are peering over your shoulder as you write? Making sure, no doubt, that you will properly represent them. So many authors have written on that weird sensation that characters take over one's life, that they refuse certain manipulations, that they interrupt the flow of writing at times to yell at you, or sit stubbornly inert in the corner while the author flails helplessly. (My favorite example of character interruption and insurrection is the wonderful At Swim Two Birds by Flannery O'Brien. So when I saw this lovely bit of ceiling mural created by 16th century artist Niccolo dell' Abate, I laughed aloud at my desk. While my characters have often whispered in my ears -- never had they taken such a perfect polaroid of themselves on high.

Marginalia: Kissing Snails

Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could publish our novels with such lovely marginalia? There is something so unexpectedly tender about these two snails meeting and kissing in the margin. Marginalia art has a vital life of its own -- existing side by side with text but not necessarily commenting on the text. It's the mind reading and wandering a little bit, hearing the whispered words in the head, but delighting in the visual art that sidetracks and then returns one to the text, refreshed. And all in a matter of moments.

Art: Bibliothèque municipale de Lyon, Ms 6881, detail of f. 72. Book of Hours, use of Chalon. 15th century.

Falling Into Water and Rising Swimming

Can I just say how much I love these two etchings by 18th century artist Thomas Rowlandson? The first is a woman diving into the water from a wagon pulled into the surf to serve as a diving platform. "Venus Bathing" is vigorous, round and robust as she takes a "Fashionable Dip" into the ocean at Margate. She dives fearlessly, the people and the shore are small and far away, making her even more wonderful, a woman in her element.

And then she swims...effortlessly like a mermaid on a stroll. "Side Way or Any Way" -- she is perfectly at home in the water, buoyant and serene.

The Dark Fairy Tale World of the Siberian Urkas

"Many Siberian fairy tales tell of the deadly clash between criminals and representatives of the government, of the risks people run every day with dignity and honesty, of the good fortune of those who in the end have got the loot and stayed alive, and of the 'good memory' that is preserved of those who have died without abandoning their friends in need. Through these fairy tales, the children perceive the values that give meaning to the Siberian criminals' lives: respect, courage, friendship, loyalty." --Nicolai Lilin

I have been reading Nicolai Lilin's autobiography Siberian Education: Growing Up In A Criminal Underworld which is a harrowing tale of a once tight knit community of criminal families that flourished in the lawless region of Transnistria between Moldova and the Ukraine. Fittingly, it is a area that despite declaring iundependence in 1990 is not recognized a country. It is wild borderland inhabited by the Siberian Urkas (considered criminals by the state) who were brutally rounded up and then deported in the 1930s from Siberia by Stalin's military far away to the remote area of Transnistria. Those who survived brought with them the strong traditional values of their Orthodox Faith and the deeply pagan traditions of a hunting culture (which they were) and combined it with a philosophy of personal freedom that encouraged criminal acts on outsiders -- like the military and the police, while retaining within the community an elaborate code of respect, honor, and loyalty. They refer to themselves as the "honest" criminals.

Lilin has come under some criticism because he has admitted to employing a more creative style when writing the autobiography -- adding stories that didn't happen to him, but were part of the history of the community and embellishing other aspects of the narratives. (They are now calling it an "autobiographic novel.") Frankly, this doesn't bother me at all, because the culture he came out of (and which has now all but disappeared) still retained the oral narrative traditions, the importance of story telling as education, the rituals passed down that surrounded every aspect of their lives -- from hunting animals to hunting humans and committing crimes. Also the writing is clean, precise, and sharp as a blade.

It is as if the darker aspects of the fairy tale world recounted stories of heroism and loss from their perspective. Weapons are divided into sacred or sinful objects and treated accordingly. There are rituals for both, and designated places in the house where each may reside, separated at all times. There are weapons that define a man -- his "pike" -- a slim blade that can not be purchased, only given as gift by one of higher authority. There are rites of passage for all young boys that include initiation by committing a criminal act and serving time in a juvenile prison and later adult prison where one is protected and "educated" by older Urkas prisoners. 

There is the coded language of the tattoos -- like runes designed to reveal only to the initiated the past and future of the man who has them. These tattoos begin at early adolescence -- starting from the outer extremities, hands and feet, and moving inward in a spiral to the center of the body, until the entire body is covered. The tattoo artist is regarded as a shaman or priest transforming and inscribing each man with a unique story of his life.

Yeah, it's dark and uncomfortable. Lilin describes a dangerous world, where crime, despite the rituals and rules (or maybe because of their demands) justifies a terrifying familiarity and acceptance of violent acts. Though strangely this region has become even more dangerous now that the old ways of loyalty, discipline, respect and a strict hierarchy of authority have disappeared in the winner-takes-all modernization of the criminal world. But it is a fascinating tale none the less. It has been made into a movie -- though I think I prefer the book since I am not sure I want to see some of the violence here realized in film. Lilin himself escaped that world only by entering the military (where he experienced even more brutal war with Chechnya). He eventually left Russian, spent itme in Ireland as a fisherman, and settled Turin, Italy where he has a tattoo parlor ( a skill he learned as a boy and perfected in prison).