Blood and Iron by Elizabeth Bear (2006, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
matociquala
Jun. 19th, 2007 10:14 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lightreadsThe powers of faerie are fighting a losing war with the iron powers of humans. This generation’s Merlin has been found, and both the faerie Seeker and mage Matthew of the human Prometheus Club must try to win her loyalty for their side. But this time it’s more than just the Merlin – a dragon prince is coming, a man in the mold of Arthur and Vlad Dracula, who will pay the mother dragon in blood as he is destined to do.
This is a really excellent book. It divides its time between the eerie realms of faerie and the sometimes eerier glitter of New York, and manages to underpin them both with the same old old stories. The writing is a pleasure in and of itself – poised and precise, but also rich and simultaneously quirky.
“We’re fucked,” Seeker confirmed. “Welcome to fairy tales. Have a nice day. Canapé?”
And it is soothing to this chafed and tired reader to see the variously queer and colored characters going about their business (though really, it all seems much smaller when you’re dealing with different species, which I suppose is part of the point). And it’s all wrapped around a core of those same old stories, so that Arthur and Morgan and many of the rest are both legends and breathing people, and so that the misty present is layered cross-wise over the bloody past. Because all the really good stories are just retelling themselves off the old pattern, you know, and the really interesting thing is to see how this particular set ofpoor bastards protagonists rework it in their own image.
I have complaints (I wouldn’t be me, otherwise) and they’re of the particularly plaintive sort when you really like the book and wish it hadn’t made you flinch and twitch here and there. Firstly, some of the layering was irritatingly obscure, and I say that as someone who is very comfortable and conversant in the relevant myths. The . . . top story, I suppose you could call it, does operate well on its own, but I was distracted and frustrated by chasing down allusions sometimes. The book could have been way more accessible without sacrificing an iota of grace or atmosphere.
Second, though I enjoyed the writing, it slipped occasionally into painful self-consciousness. See the line quoted above in context, actually. Not frequently, and not agonizingly, but it sort of shouts at you from prose otherwise so smooth and effortless.
And lastly, this idea of faerie as the reality arising from stories constantly retold could have been far more developed, for my sensibilities. I kept looking for it in the major seams of the story, and then catching a glimpse of it as a bit of edge trimming. There were other themes that I appreciated, but this one kept tugging at me and telling me that it was important, and then not being important.
Perhaps in another book. Which apparently there will be. The prospect delights me, I’m happy to say.
Complex, thoughtful, well-peopled, strange. Oh, and happily recommended.
This is a really excellent book. It divides its time between the eerie realms of faerie and the sometimes eerier glitter of New York, and manages to underpin them both with the same old old stories. The writing is a pleasure in and of itself – poised and precise, but also rich and simultaneously quirky.
“We’re fucked,” Seeker confirmed. “Welcome to fairy tales. Have a nice day. Canapé?”
And it is soothing to this chafed and tired reader to see the variously queer and colored characters going about their business (though really, it all seems much smaller when you’re dealing with different species, which I suppose is part of the point). And it’s all wrapped around a core of those same old stories, so that Arthur and Morgan and many of the rest are both legends and breathing people, and so that the misty present is layered cross-wise over the bloody past. Because all the really good stories are just retelling themselves off the old pattern, you know, and the really interesting thing is to see how this particular set of
I have complaints (I wouldn’t be me, otherwise) and they’re of the particularly plaintive sort when you really like the book and wish it hadn’t made you flinch and twitch here and there. Firstly, some of the layering was irritatingly obscure, and I say that as someone who is very comfortable and conversant in the relevant myths. The . . . top story, I suppose you could call it, does operate well on its own, but I was distracted and frustrated by chasing down allusions sometimes. The book could have been way more accessible without sacrificing an iota of grace or atmosphere.
Second, though I enjoyed the writing, it slipped occasionally into painful self-consciousness. See the line quoted above in context, actually. Not frequently, and not agonizingly, but it sort of shouts at you from prose otherwise so smooth and effortless.
And lastly, this idea of faerie as the reality arising from stories constantly retold could have been far more developed, for my sensibilities. I kept looking for it in the major seams of the story, and then catching a glimpse of it as a bit of edge trimming. There were other themes that I appreciated, but this one kept tugging at me and telling me that it was important, and then not being important.
Perhaps in another book. Which apparently there will be. The prospect delights me, I’m happy to say.
Complex, thoughtful, well-peopled, strange. Oh, and happily recommended.