End of Civilization

 Rereading Margaret Atwood's Oryx and Crake, I noticed an off-hand comment of Crake I hadn't before. There is no second chance for civilization. History is full of stories of empires rising and falling and rising again. So it seems natural to assume that if civilization collapses, people will eventually pull themselves back together and rebuild. Probably faster than last time, because of the residual knowledge preserved in writings and artifacts, and maybe in lore. But there's a key problem.

All the easily accessible deposits of coal, oil, and gas have been used. There is more in the ground. Some say a lot more, some say not much more, but it doesn't matter. At this point, it takes an advanced technical society to get it. No one is going to invent hydrofracking if they don't already have sophisticated technology built on ample energy supplies. You don't start drilling for oil on the ocean bottom. If you need to move a mountain to get at a coal bed, you need earth-moving machinery.

Atwood posits that this is even true for metals. Sources of iron and copper are no longer sitting on the surface, easily found. In order to sink a mine five hundred yards into the earth, you need to already have metal tools. There will be salvage metal available, of course. That may be enough to get metal-working going again. But I don't see any way around the energy bottleneck.

The mythology is wrong. Empires rise and fall and rise again. Civilization rises, endures for a time, and then passes away.

Humans have trod this earth for 50-150,000 years (counting from "Behavioral Modernity"). Civilization has only existed for 5,000 of those years. For the first 2-4,000 years, it was an oddity, practiced only in certain regions where the available resources were ideal. It's only in the last 1,000-1,500 years that civilization has been extensive around the globe.

Enjoy it while we've got it. It may never come again.

Vive la Free Press

 

NOTE: This was a collaboration between me and Isabelle, written some years ago. She was no older than 12. Most of the plot is her genius, I contributed mostly prose, historical context, and clever French names.

 

Vive la Free Press

by Eugene and Elizabeth Fairfield

Daring Palace Robbery

PARIS FREE PRESS--A daring robbery took place late last night at the royal palace. The thief scaled the palace wall, despite pouring rain, and entered through a fourth-story window directly into the queen's bedchamber. The queen herself was sleeping after her usual nightly debauchery, and old Louis the Umpteenth had moved to the opposite end of the palace, saying, "She shakes the whole foundation when she snores."

Eluding palace guards, the thief made his or her way down to the kitchens and exited by the service door.

The thief passed up countless valuables, including the queen's carelessly heaped diamond necklaces, all purchased with the onerous taxes paid mostly by the working poor. The only items missing were from the royal pantry, including flour, german chocolate, evaporated milk, coconut, pecans, eggs, butter, and baking soda.

Publicly, palace spokesman Oral Le Bruyant denied the robbery had taken place, but posters are appearing around the city, describing the thief as "male, or else female, of indeterminate height and weight, with hair of an indistinct color, and wearing wet clothing." A reward of 50,000 livre is offered.

The thief, who prefers to remain anonymous, said only, "I was hungry," a phrase echoed by many in this oppressed country.

Hungry Thief Strikes Again

PARIS FREE PRESS--For the second day in a row, a robbery took place in the royal palace. The thief outsmarted palace staff by entering this time by the kitchen door. Flummoxed guards explained, "He was supposed to try to get out this way."

The thief opened the royal counting house, ignored several sacks of gold that had been plundered from the hard-working people of the country, and stole a quill pen. He or she then worked through the palace, lifting several 10-inch round cake pans, a knife sharpener, some musical instrument cleaning supplies, and a roll of twine, before exiting through the royal dog flap.

Palace spokesman Oral Le Bruyant just about had a coronary, saying "When will you idiots get it through your thick heads? There was no robbery!" Wanted posters continue to appear throughout town, increasing the reward to 100,000 livre.

The only evidence discovered was a travel brochure the thief had dropped, entitled, "Paris on £10 a Day." A high-placed official said, "Clearly, the thief is a foreigner, probably a kraut."

Said the thief, "I'm not a kraut, but the queen is."

Police suspect the thief is staying in one of the low-rent boarding houses mentioned in the brochure. Needlessly destructive raids are planned for later tonight.

Police Raids Thwarted By Mass Protest

PARIS FREE PRESS--Forewarned by clever journalists, the people turned out in huge numbers to defend their dwelling places. Police descended on the neighborhood, intent on "clobbering some of the unwashed," in the words of one unidentified officer. They were turned back by crowds approaching 200,000 strong.

Police Chief Brute Le Téméraire attempted to deny responsibility, saying, "We weren't raiding the neighborhood. We got a call that there was a riot in the area."

Organizers of the protest, who forgot to give their names, said, "Oh, that's likely."

Hungry Thief Can't Be Stopped!

PARIS FREE PRESS--cleverly disguised as the queen herself, the Hungry Thief slipped into the palace, and made off with some loose change and a bottle of vanilla extract.

"I suspected something was up," said a palace guard, now relieved of duty, "because the queen didn't have her usual lack of personal hygiene."

Said the thief, "There are limits to what I will do."

Palace Spokesman Oral Le Bruyant screamed incoherently, but careful listeners agree he was probably saying repeatedly, "There was no robbery!"

Police Chief Brute Le Téméraire sent a letter to Free Press offices, saying, in part, "If you insist on publishing slander and lies, we will shut you down. See if we don't."

Palace Crackdown on Free Expression

THE PEOPLE'S UNDERGROUND PRESS--Palace Police ruthlessly attacked the offices of the Paris Free Press, destroying property valued at under £200,000, and writing nasty words on the walls. Everyone present was arrested and dragged off to jail, where someone was heard to laugh wickedly and say, "You'll never see the light again!"

Police Chief Brute Le Téméraire said, "We didn't write those words. They were already there when we arrived."

Warned by watchful citizens, the Free Press staff had already fled the building, taking with them a small printer and many cases of type. The only one left in the building was the paper's mascot, Mittens.

Editors of the Free Press are continuing to publish from an undisclosed location.

Inauguration Party Tonight--Public Invited

PARIS FREE PRESS--Habile Le Faim will be inaugurated as our new president tonight, in a gala celebration certain to please.

"The people made this happen," said Le Faim. "So everyone is invited."

Outraged over many abuses under the old monarchy, in particular the crackdown on the Free Press, not to mention the mishandling of beloved Mittens, angry people stormed the palace last week and overwhelmed the guards. Mittens was unharmed but shaken by her harrowing ordeal.

Palace spokesman Oral Le Bruyant was heard saying, "But... but... but... this was all nonsense!" just before he was tossed out on his derrière.

The king and queen had no comment, due to the large number of socks stuffed in their mouths.

Organizers say the Inauguration will feature many wonderful foods, especially german chocolate cake, in honor of the departing queen.

In other news, the editor of the Free Press, who coincidentally is also named Habile Le Faim, has left the paper, saying he or she will "just be really busy with some new responsibilities I have to take on."

Aragorn and Frodo

 I just watched Aragorn vs. Toxic Masculinity, which is a wonderful discussion of Aragorn as a quintessentially masculine character who is simultaneously tender and affirming. I've had the thought that Aragorn's greatest, defining moment in the movie comes at the end of The Fellowship of the Ring, when he meets Frodo in the woods, at the Breaking of the Fellowship.

If you recall, Boromir has just tried to take the ring by force. Aragorn has sought Frodo to ensure he is safe, but when Frodo sees him, he backs away. "Can you protect me from yourself?" he asks. 

Aragorn is caught between two destinies: the Ranger and the King. The Ranger is all he has ever been, the man who works in the shadows, fights evil, defends the weak, and stays apart from the affairs of men and kings. Royalty is his heritage, but the last man to claim this heritage, Isildur, was destroyed by the temptations of power. If Aragorn could have his way, he would stay the Ranger. He fears the kingship, and the temptation it entails. He joined the Fellowship to do good as a Ranger, not a king. 

In the book, it is clear that both destinies stay with him on the journey with the Fellowship. Once they draw near to Gondor, Aragorn knows he must choose: turn right, to Gondor, and become king; turn left, to Mordor, remain the Ranger. When Gandalf falls in Moria, Aragorn is left as the leader of the Fellowship. His destiny is now clear: he must choose the path he wanted to choose, be the Ranger, lead Frodo to Oroduin.

There on the banks of the Anduin, Frodo throws this destiny into doubt. If he goes with Frodo, he could be a risk to the quest. Frodo has determined that he must go alone. In the movie, Frodo makes one last effort to avoid his fate. He offers the ring to Aragorn. Will you go, instead of me, and destroy the ring? The offer is probably the cruelest thing Frodo could have done to Aragorn. "Here," he has said. "You can escape from the destiny you fear. All you have to do is take the thing that is the source of all you fear."

But it is mercy, as well. Frodo's offer makes plain to Aragorn: the path of the Ranger is not free of temptation, it is not clear, it is not easy. When Aragorn refuses--an act few people in Middle Earth are capable of, to refuse the ring of power--it is not just his fear of temptation. He sees that this one before him, this hobbit Frodo, might be the one who can do this deed. There is something else that Aragorn can do, instead. He can be the king of men.

He folds Frodo's hand over the ring, and pushes it away, and says only, "I would have gone with you all the way. Into the very flames of Mordor."

Moments later, an army of Orcs appears, and, while Frodo flies, he turns and salutes them with his sword. He is ready. He cannot bring the ring to Mordor. His destiny is to stand and do battle.

Aragorn never forgets this moment on the banks of the Anduin. After the Seige of Gondor, when he stands as the hero of the hour, when he has rode into battle under the flag of the kings of Gondor, still his thought is with the hobbit he had pledged to protect. So he conceives the maddest of all strategies: a suicide assault on the gates of Mordor, to create a distraction, and give cover for Frodo's mission.

The purpose of his mission is never forgotten. When they are surrounded by the hosts of Mordor, and he has made his rousing speech--"On this good earth, I bid you stand! Men of the West!"--he then turns, and says quietly, "For Frodo." 

The final moment, of course, comes at his coronation. Sauron is defeated, Aragorn is crowned king, and he is finally reunited with his elven princess. As he is walking through his people, and all our bowing before their king, he meets Frodo and his companions, and says, "My friends. You bow to no man." He drops to his knees before them, and all Gondor sees their king kneel. Most have no idea why, but if their king is kneeling, they all fall to their knees. All Gondor kneels to four hobbits from the Shire. Because Aragorn knows that what he has done, becoming king, that was actually the easier path than the one he had intended. It was Frodo made Aragorn king. Then he went on to save all Middle Earth.

Inka Argus--Sample chapter

 

I first realized something was wrong when I didn't hear a clarinet. I know, most of the time, not hearing a clarinet is not a cause for concern, especially if you live in the Old City. Wagon wheels, trolleys, factories, shopkeepers shouting their wares, beggars shouting at shoppers, policemen shouting at beggars. There's always a lot of noise, and most of the time, none of it is a clarinet. But I was on Stuffschert Boulevard, at four in the afternoon, just past the west side of the Downtown Crossing station, and at that particular place at that particular time, there was always a clarinet playing.

I looked both ways up the street. I even went down into the underground station, and checked both corners of both platforms. I got ugly looks from the stationmaster, who thought I was trying to jump the gate for a free ride, but I didn't find a clarinet player.

His name was Clarence. I never knew his last name. He was short—almost as short as me, which is short for a thirteen year-old girl. He always wore the same too-large twill pants held up with suspenders, and a flat cap on his greasy curls. He was half blind, and half deaf, and every day, from seven in the morning until seven at night, he stood on that street corner and played for all he was worth.

I once wondered why the police didn't call him a nuisance and drag him away. He only knew about half a dozen songs—"The Bugle Call Rag," "St. Louis Blues," "In the Mood," and "The Saints Go Marching In"—which he played in continuous cycle, all day, every day. So, of course, I looked into it. Apparently, this was tried, some ten years ago, before I was really interested in anything other than lunch and thumb sucking. Seven times they locked him up, once for thirty days hard labor. The moment they let him go, back on the street he went.

If it were hot like today, he would open his shirt and roll up his sleeves. If it were icy cold and snowing, he would wear a scarf and a worn-out coat with only one button. If it were raining, he would wear a plaited reed mat tied on his head, sticking out more than a foot in front to make a little roof for his instrument. Two summers ago, when the hurricane hit, the police had to lock him up to keep him off the street. Last winter, in the Valentine's Day Blizzard, a local parson just about dug him out of the snow and dragged him to the parsonage. There are only three things you can count on in this world: death, taxes, and Clarence.

A tall bearded man, wanting to be elected, or wanting to say something to those that were, was standing on a soap box and shouting about letting women vote or banning alcohol or passing a law against the 72-hour work week or all at once. Gentlemen and clerks tried not to look at him, or at the beggars who dogged their steps, and the beggars tried not to look at the police who eyeballed them.

No Clarence.

Then I saw someone I knew, an old panhandler called Robin, who was carrying a box and a fiddle in a sack. He stopped, right in the center of the street where Clarence would have played, and put his box down. He was wearing two pairs of shoes, which would have been odd enough by itself, but the second pair was wrapped around his knees.

"Robin." I approached him. "What are you doing?"

He grinned at me, showing his remaining teeth, which were mostly on the left side of his face, owing, he said, to an angry cannibal with a large stick. The story of how he avoided getting eaten, if a cannibal had knocked his teeth out, was long and varied, and never made much sense, however he told it. There are three kinds of people on the street: my people (the ones I can talk to, and trust most of the time), the Other People (who I'll talk to, but only a fool would trust), and the Wrong People (who I don't talk to, and don't ever let find me alone). Robin was one of the second group.

"Watch," he said. He opened the back of his box, which I now saw had two holes cut in the top. He stepped into these holes, and closed the back behind him, so it looked like the shoes on his knees were standing on the box. "Pretty good, eh?"

"Are you supposed to be a dwarf?" I asked. "You don't look anything like one. Your arms are too long."

"Nay, then," he said, affecting an accent I couldn't quite place. "I'm an old sailor-man, a vet'rin of the navy, see? I was cursed by a witch docker on the Ivory Coast, weren't I? Took me legs off, and put me feet back where me knees should be."

"Uh..." I said, not sure what else to say.

"Zac'ly. Was there ever a more pitiable sight, than a vet'rin, misshapen by 'is service to 'is country?"

"That's... quite a story," I said.

"Now don't you go writin' 'bout this in that rag o' yours, this 'ere idea is my inter-leck-chool property, see? I'm not givin' it away for less than five dollars." He took the fiddle and bow out of his sack and let the sack fall to the ground.

I tried not to laugh. "Don't worry, I won't write it up. But Robin, why are you setting up here? This is Clarence's corner."

"Who? I don't see nobody 'round 'ere."

"Clarence always plays here," I said.

"Law o' the street, love. 'E ain't 'ere, I am, it's my corner."

Technically, Robin was in the right, there. But I doubted most folk would pounce on Clarence's corner the moment he disappeared, and Robin's ridiculous accent was irritating me.

"Well, you let him have it when he comes back," I said.

"Beat it," Robin said, which I should have expected.

I gave up on him, and looked up and down the street again. There was no sign of Clarence, but I did see a cabby I knew. He was the driver of the cab that had taken me from the orphanage when I was nine, a middle-aged African man who has always recognized me ever since. To me, he couldn't have seemed more wonderful if he had wings and drove a golden chariot. He was the man who took my little hand in his gloved hand like I was a lady, and carried me away. I will always remember him. Even if he didn't have a mechanical left arm, mostly hidden inside his sleeve, except for the hum and whir it made when he moved it, and of course the wire that came out from under his jacket to the battery he carried slung over one shoulder. To him, though, I should have been just another fare. Yet he never forgot me.

"Mr. Alemu!" I called to him.

He smiled at me brightly. "Miss Inka."

"Mr. Alemu, have you seen Clarence?"

He shook his head sadly. "No, miss, he has not been here for three days. Only the fiddle man."

I wanted to ask him where Clarence could have gone, but there was no reason he'd know. It was just strange. "When you saw him last, did he look sick?"

"Ah, miss, it is hard for me to say. Mr. Clarence has always looked sick to me. If I see him, shall I tell him that miss is looking for him?"

"No," I shook my head. "No, Mr. Alemu, I'm just worried."

"Hey, charcoal!" the driver of the next cab in line called. "Are you going to take this fare or should I?"

A pair of rakish-looking men wearing pork pie hats with bright hat bands and no waistcoats were watching us, hips thrown out and lopsided grins on their faces.

"Go on," I whispered to Mr. Alemu. He took my hand in his and kissed it quickly. I could feel the metal fingers through the glove, but the touch was soft and gentle.

I strolled away, passing the next cabby on the far side of his horse. He was a round little man with hair so blond he hardly had any eyebrows.

I waited until two very fine gentlemen were headed his way, then I shouted at him. "You watch your mouth! Tub o' lard!"

"Eh? Come here, you!" He started to come after me, but his horse was in the way, and before he could get around he noticed his fare.

I skipped off a few yards while he tipped his hat to the gentlemen. Then I took a straw out of an inside pocket on my vest, and blew an orange pip at his horse's end just as he was reaching for the cab door. The horse nickered and started off down the cobbles without him. I ran the opposite way. I don't like it when people insult my friends.

One of the curious things about life is how hard it is to tell when what you're doing is going to matter. I'd created an enemy in a big fat cabby, but I've never seen him since. On the other hand, just looking for a homeless guy no one cared about got people killed.

>>The full story is on Amazon, in paperback and ebook.>>

On Human Nature

Some time ago my faith in the essential goodness of human beings took a fatal blow.

I've long wondered what the human animal would look like, if I could divorce myself from my innate bias, from centuries of thought that strove to separate humans from other animals, to make us something special. I think I was in a symposium on neuropsychology. Researchers had shown images of faces to people while scanning their brains, and they discovered that when people saw faces that looked "different," they had an immediate fear stimulus in their midbrain. I don't recall precisely how the researchers defined "different," race was a factor, but the important thing was that everybody had an immediate, pre-rational perception of "the other" as a threat. This was followed in microseconds by activation of their cortex, which allowed rational thought to discard this feeling, which is why so many of us are not overtly racist. But the research was disturbing: at our core, humans are hardwired to view "the other" as a threat.

From this disturbing thought, I considered dogs and cats. Dogs are hierarchical and territorial. Cats have hierarchy and territory as well, but not in the same way. Cats have "time share." The dominant cat gets to sit where it wants when it wants. Sometimes, even, the overcat may prevent the other from using a preferred spot just because. But there is no question of "obedience" among cats. The undercat is free to do anything it wants, so long as it stays out of the way of the overcat. This is why it's so damn hard to train a cat to do anything. If you can get them to want to do it, they'll do it. But they won't do it to please you.

Dogs, on the other hand, are hardwired to please. They want--they need--the approval of the overdog. So dogs will obey. 

I don't think anyone will debate whether humans are more like dogs or cats. There's a reason why dogs were domesticated in the stone age, millennia before any other animal, whereas cats were only "partly domesticated" in Ancient Egypt. If humans were like cats, we'd insist that we get to spend our money first, but after we've bought what we wanted, we'd expect others to spend our money. Humans expect their underlings to obey. We like to please others. We are totally dogs, not cats. 

We are, by our nature, territorial, and hierarchical. But...

That sounds so cynical and pessimistic. That sounds like we are condemned to war and injustice.

There is a difference between optimism and hope. Optimism is the belief that everything will work out for the better. Hope is the courage to work for the good, in spite of the possibility it will not come. 

This is where I find myself. I can no longer believe in the essential goodness of humanity. But neither can I resign myself to wickedness. Microseconds after the midbrain registers fear of the other, the rational brain moves to counter. Reason is part of our nature, too. I won't surrender hope for justice and goodness. I just don't believe that it will be easy.

Why is it dragons that are everywhere? Part 1

The other day, listening to NPR, I heard the claim made that "almost every culture in the world has a story about dragons." This was followed by brief pondering about why there are stories about dragons in every culture.

Now, if there is one phrase that fills me with debunking urgency, it is "almost every culture in the world." Almost every claim along these lines is only true if you force the rest of the world to be Western. Every culture worships God in their own way, if you pretend that Buddha, coyote, science, and the Way are gods.

The other offense committed by such claims is the narrow definition of "World" usually used. Typically, it mostly covers the 3 continents of the Old World, with Asia represented by Mesopotamia and Africa by Egypt. In other words: Western Civilization and its ancient foundations. Not too infrequently, however, China is thrown into the mix, to represent the remaining 3/4 of the world.

China, of course, brings me back to dragons. If there's one thing fixed in the American consciousness, it's that the Chinese are into dragons. Or, at least, they are into a magical creature whose name we translate into English as "dragon." Allow me to illustrate the similarities between the Western dragon and the Chinese lóng in a table:

	Dragon	Lóng
body shape	lizard	snake
flies with	wings	magic
breathes	fire	breath
nature	evil	good fortune
eats maidens	yes	no
guards treasure	yes	no
combination of many animals	no	yes
can change into a human	no	yes

As you can see, the resemblances are striking, especially in the way they are not there. In fact, there are really only three ways these creatures are alike:

1. They both have reptilian bits.
2. They are both big.
3. They are both called "dragon" in English.

In other words, saying that both Chinese and Western mythology includes dragons is much like saying that both Chinese and Western cooking are based on ground beef, as long as you translate "mĭfàn" as "hamburger."

This suggests an obvious answer to why their are dragons in "all" cultures: because it would be really odd if there weren't stories about reptiles. Except maybe among the Inuit.

I could rest my case there. But what of the rest of the world? In its grossest simplicity, any claims to "all cultures," or even "most cultures," must include a few broadly defined regions:

1) Europe
2) Classical Antiquity (Mesopotamia, Egypt, etc.)
3) South Asia
4) East Asia
5) Central and North America
6) South America
7) Subsaharan Africa
8) Australia and Oceania

These are huge regions covering immense diversity. "Europe" must embrace Celtic, Germanic, Latin, Greek, and Slavic mythologies--and those are much more alike than the Abenaki, Lakota, Navajo, Tlingit, and Inuit of North America, to name just a few. But lets just consider those eight regions. We've already dispensed with 1 and 4. Are there "dragons" in the remaining six?

Continued...

Why Is It Dragons that are everywhere? Part 3

continued
Having crawled the world over (or a minimal selection of it), I am now prepared to pronounce my judgement on dragons:

If you define a dragon as any large creature or being with a serpentine or lizardly bodypart, then it is true that you can find tales of dragons anywhere. Having said so much, you really haven't said much of anything.

If you refine the definition to something more meaningful, the number of dragons drops considerably.

Dragon as Monster

Working definition: A dragon is a serpentine monster, not a divinity, whose role in stories is an adversary to human beings, kidnapping or eating them or their cattle. It may or may not breathe fire.

By this definition, the following qualify as dragons:

• The Western Dragon
• Bida of West Africa

One could admit as a "quasi-dragon" the boi-tata of Brazil, but really this is an analog of the will-o-wisp. The function in the story is more important than whether or not the creature has scales, IMO.

This does not approach any sort of cultural universal

Dragon as Divine Adversary

A unique god, goddess, or semi-divine being who is an adversary in stories.

This includes

• The Hindu Virtra
• The Mesopotamian Tiamat
• The Egyptian Apep
• The Christian Beast

I resisted including the Western dragon on that list, because most of the time it is a monster, or at best a minion of hell, not a unique being. But at times it is associated with the devil, and so is not just an adversary, but The Adversary. Undeniably, the Beast from the Book of Revelations fits into this category.

The category could be stretched to include the Hebrew Leviathan, since there is some talk of God destroying Leviathan, but not really the Midgard Serpent, who is no adversary. Not qualifying also would be South Africa's Monhonye, because he is not divine, and he is overcome through marriage, not battle.

This is an interesting category, but it appears restricted to neighboring cultures, especially since the Christian Beast seems more the heir of Classical roots than the Germanic monsters.

Dragon as Spiritual Being, Non-Adversary

A serpentine being or beings who are divine, semi-divine, or at least spiritual, and do not take on a role as an adversary.

This includes

• The Chinese lóng and relations across East and Southeast Asia.
• The Philippine bakuwana.
• The Aztec Quetzalcoatl and relations among the Mayan.
• The Incan Amaru.
• The West African Aida Hwedo and Haitian cousin Ayida Wedo.

This is a broad definition, but it covers enough ground to have at least a bid for universality. If the question of "adversary" were removed (combining this definition with the previous), the case would be even better, hitting all the big cultural areas. However, at this point we've defined dragon as "any partly serpentine creature of partly divine nature, or better," which is so loose it is no longer surprising. Many cultures across the world have "snake" somehow worked into their cosmology. I'm shocked. :|

Dragon as Heraldic Motif

A serpentine being who is use as a symbol of the ruling class, or a symbol of their power.

A surprising category, but one with broad representation that is at least worth some note. It's also the only definition that gets the lóng and the Western dragon both firmly in the club. This definition would include:

• The Western dragon
• The Chinese lóng
• The Mesopotamian Mushussu
• The Incan Amaru
• The Aztec Quetzalcoatl

That misses Subsaharan Africa and Oceania, but is otherwise pervasive. It's possible that I missed dragon-king symbols in Oceania and Subsaharan Africa, but by its nature this dragon would be expected to appear only in places with strong imperial governments, especially monument-building governments. That rules out Australia, nearly all of North America, and South America outside of the Andes. The only major monument-building empire that doesn't have a serpentine symbol I know of is India. Oceania, the Zulu, the kingdoms of the Sahel and Niger region, and the Mississippi culture to my knowledge left fewer monuments.

Of course, there are other creatures that are nearly as well represented in the same countries, such as big cats (lion, tiger, and jaguar), eagles, and the overlapping category of hybrid beasts. This observation may explain away some of the excitement at this discovery: most every imperial, monument-building culture used a powerful predator as a symbol of their strength. Hmm. Not so surprising after all.

Why Dragons?

This brings us finally around to my titular question. I cleverly phrased it not "Why are dragons everywhere?" but rather "Why is it dragons that are everywhere." We could run around global mythology and find genus Panthera everywhere, or eagles. We could ask "Why does every culture have gryphons?" and then define as a gryphon any spirit, monster, or god that is a hybrid of animals. We could ask "Why always thunderbirds?" and define thunderbird as any spirit, monster, or god that is partly an eagle or hawk or at least feathered. We could even ask "Why always basilisks?" and assemble the same darn list I just did. But nobody does.

Perhaps it's a linguistic accident. Perhaps early explorers translated lóng as "dragon," based on its serpentine shape, its prevalence in heraldry, its dramatic presentation (clouds and lightning!). This is truly a poor translation, implying a sameness between two radically different creatures, worse than calling a whale a "fish." Once "dragon" was stretched to such an absurd length, it was easy to see them everywhere.

Or perhaps dragons sit on a supreme plane in contemporary mythology. That is to say, they appeal to the contemporary imagination. Perhaps because of the liquidity of their definition. Few dragons appear in contemporary fiction as maiden-eating monsters. Many are befriended or ridden. I think the American mind likes reinventing dragons as less than wicked, if not genuinely good. The outwardly bad, or the misunderstood, the underdog triumphant. But to really understand what put dragons on a pedestal, I think you need look no further than Smaug.

J. R. R. Tolkien's Smaug is far beyond the whimpering lizard in the Rafael's painting of Saint George and the Dragon. Smaug would find Saint George barely a mouthful.

Rafael's dragon

Tolkien's dragon

Smaug, as Tolkien created him, is so mighty he will banter with a thief in his treasure room, just for the entertainment. What other creature from fiction or mythology can compare with Smaug, the Chiefest and Greatest of Calamities? He set the standard. Oh, the dragon-lóng mixup is older, of course, and that no doubt played a role. But Smaug brought the enormity of dragons into the contemporary mind, I maintain, where we have done enormous violence reinterpreting him with our favorite theories.

Beneath every ridiculous trend, maybe there is something mighty and true. A toast to Smaug!

Why is it dragons that are everywhere, Part 2

We left off in Part One with the conclusion that the "dragons" of Europe and China are alike only in the English word used for them. To continue our exploration of the belief in the pervasiveness of dragons, I set off on a search for dragonness in the other major regions of the world..

East and Southeast Asia

Speaking very generally, the ryujin of Japan, the yong of Korea, and the con rong of Vietnam are all very similar to the Chinese lóng. If you consider that the "ryu" of "ryujin" is a Japanese pronunciation of the Chinese character "lóng," you can see that even their names are derived from Chinese.

Let's summarize our two base creatures:

• a dragon is a monster with fiery breath that guards treasure. In tales it is an adversary and is defeated by a hero.
• a lóng is a celestial being, a hybrid of a handful of animals. It can sometimes take human form, and in tales it brings fortune and power. 

So, to give short shrift to a very diverse region that includes three ancient civilizations and more languages than all of Europe, onward...

South Asia

Hindu mythology contains an epic battle between Indra and a giant serpent named Virtra. Virtra stops up all the water in the rivers in India, so Indra kills him. Virta is

• Like a dragon: an adversary who is defeated by a hero.
• Like a lóng: takes human form

Virtra introduces some new features of dragonness: he is a singular being. There aren't any other virtras lying around. His battle is cosmological in scale. Saint George saved a village or a kingdom. Indra saved the whole world. Oh, and, direct result of being singular: Virtra is dead. He belongs entirely to the past. These three features take him way out of the realm of either dragons or lóng.

Naga on the other hand, are a race of cobra-like creatures that can at least be compared to dragons.

• Like a dragon: they may guard treasure. Although they associate with water rather than fire, and have a poisonous bite rather than fiery breath, those are reasonable analogs.
• Like a lóng: take human form, more celestial being than monster.

I'll need to read more and confirm this, but I don't believe that naga are the leading players in their stories, filling the role of an encounter along the way, or such. But that's just a guess at this point.

Classical Antiquity

Mesopotamia (Iraq) gave us the mighty Tiamat. Her reputation as "Queen of the Dragons" is largely the creation of E. Gary Gygax and the original Dungeons and Dragons game. But in "real life" her role is even more impressive, as wells as a new feature: she helped create the universe.

• Like a dragon: in some tales could be contrived as an "adversary."
• Like a lóng: definitely more celestial being than monster. In fact, a better description would be primordial being or even a god.
• Like Virtra: singular, has an epic battle to lose, and she's dead.

Mesopotamia also gave us mushussu. From what I've found, they are mostly known from iconography, so details are scant. They appear to be a race, but with little in common with dragons. 

• Like dragon: not much
• Like a lóng: symbolize power, a hybrid of a few animals, only one of which is a snake.

Egypt gave us Apep, which appears modeled after Tiamat. Apep is a singular primordial being with an epic battle to lose, a little more of an adversary.

Israel gave us Leviathan, who is more akin to the Midgard Serpent of Scandinavian fame than to the dragon. Dragons are big, like whales are big. Leviathan is big, like mountain ranges are big. One source gives its size as being "300 miles," and this would be at a time when "300 miles" could be a month of traveling. We'll call this epic size.

• Like a dragon: hot breath
• Like a lóng: more a being of nature rather than good/evil
• Like Virtra: singular, except that Leviathan is still alive.

Central and North America

It is almost ridiculous to consider this region as a single group. There is a greater difference in the languages from Maine to California than there is from Spain to India. It is also home to three great civilizations, including one of perhaps just three civilizations in the world to invent written language without at least knowing that someone else was doing it. It was not easy to discover dragon-like creatures in American mythology, since it is so often overlooked by those who claim universality. Those who don't, generally don't see dragons in American mythology. But this is what I found:

The Aztecs gave us Quetzalcoatl, a god that is serpentine in shape, except when he takes human form. He is singular but very much present. He symbolizes power, so he seems to resemble the lóng in a number of ways. But I think being a supreme deity does kind of knock one into a different mythological category. Plus, Quetzalcoatl is covered in feathers, so he is the only alleged dragon that does not have scales.

The Mayans gave us Kukulkan and Gukumatz, both of which resemble Quetzalcoatl, as far as I can find.

I'm still hunting for something north of the Rio Grande.

South America

Another broad region. Geographically it includes the tallest mountain range outside of the Himalayas, the largest rainforest on Earth, the driest desert, and the largest (by volume of water) river. The Amazon is so much bigger than other rivers that it would take the eight largest rivers on other continents to equal it. The Madeira dumps more water into the Amazon than the Mississippi, Yellow, and Nile rivers put together can dump into the ocean. But what about dragons?

The Inca gave us the amaru which has some similarities with the lóng. It is a race of spiritual beings, and a hybrid of animals. It occupies places of respect in iconography. I will need to find more mythology about the Amaru, but certainly this is the closest we've come to a cross-cultural analog. It is, however, like the lóng, not the dragon.

The Tupi people of Brazil give us the boi-tata. It is a serpentine monster that lives in a hole in the ground. It does not fly, or breathe fire, but at least its eyes are fiery. This might be a reasonable analog for a dragon, except it has an entirely different role in stories. Rather than marauding through villages, the boi-tata tricks people in lonely places into thinking that its eyes are the lights of someone's campfire. The boi-tata is not a dragon: it is a will-o-wisp.

The Guarani people of Paraguay give us teju jagua. It lives underneath fruit trees, and lives on the fruit. It can be a protector. Sometimes, teju jagua are known to guard treasure, but that's probably their only claim to dragoness.

Subsaharan Africa

Africa, of course, is the second largest continent in the world, and not by a little. The Sahara desert is such a barrier to life, however, that the continent is really split in two. North Africa is oriented toward the Mediterranean, and so becomes part of Classical Antiquity. Egypt fought with Assyria, Carthage with Rome. The Sahel, the Congo, the Kalahari, these are something else entirely. 

So different, in fact, that our first stop looking for a Subsaharan dragon is mostly found in the Caribbean: Ayida Wedo is a singular rain goddess among the African expats of Haiti. She is clearly related to (not just similar to) Aida Hwedo of the Dahomey people in West Africa. Both are known as "rainbow serpent." Aida Hwedo, however, like Tiamat, has a role in the creation of the universe. He also is of epic size, being responsible for holding up the world. Ayida Wedo, on the other hand, lives in the sky. Both are probably more like Tiamat than a lóng, but they are both alive. 

Also in West Africa, the Ghana people have a story about Bida. Bida was a monster who lived in a well, and would make gold rain down on the people, if they gave him 10 maidens to devour. This sounds rather dragonish, and his role in the story is to be slain by the hero. However, his is a singular tale. Bida is dead, now and you don't have to worry about him. Also, the hero of Bida's tale is the bridegroom of the last sacrifice. The heroes of many Western dragon tales are saints and knights, characters who have their own story cycles. Still, Bida is reasonably close to a dragon.

There appears to be a legend of a dragon in the Congo called Mokele-Mbebe. However, it was seized on in the 20th century by people who thought they could prove it was a living dinosaur, which they thought would somehow disprove evolution. It is therefore well beyond my patience to sift through all the keen debates like, "Is it a sauropod or another kind of dinosaur?" to find out what the actual folktale is. Let this be a cautionary tale: Yes, Virginia, there are stupid questions. Onward...

From the Shangana (Tsonga) people of South Africa we have the Masangi, who lives in a hole in the ground inside his hut. Masangi is a snake, but he is also a healer. His story is that he looks like a monster, but is not. The villagers must overcome their fear of his appearance to get his healing. Like Bida, he is a singular character in a singular tale. He is not a dragon.

Similarly, from Lesotho, we find Monyohe. A little more monstrous than Masangi, he withholds rain and causes a drought. Another singular character in a singular tale, but it's a recognizable archetype. Like Beauty and the Beast, his monstrous appearance is dispelled with the promise of marriage. As my daughter might say, "This tastes like 'not a dragon.'"

Australia and Oceania

Lastly, from the Philippines, we have bakunawa. Bakunawa swallows the moon during an eclipse. So he's a singular divine being who explains natural forces.

Continued.

Limnandi panel

Here's a peak at an early pair of panels. The first shows the central character/narrator (female) and the eponymous Limnandi (male). The second is just two local girls. The setting is South Africa, sort of, inasmuch as it is anywhere out of dreams, which is where the story was conceived.

If anyone wants to gauge the age level of the story, these are probably the most explicit pictures there will be.

Here are inspirational photos of a Zulu hut and a Zulu village.

 

Graphic Novel

So I went to the Vermont Comic Con the other day, and I tried to get a couple artists to think about wanting to illustrate some graphic stories I've written. They looked at what I'd drawn and told me to draw it myself. So... who am I to argue?

Eugene Fairfield's Best Books of 2016

As last year, a book is considered "2016" if I read it in 2016. As such, the competition is highly random, pitting P. G. Wodehouse against Lemony Snicket. Here they are:

Best Young Adult

The Raven Cycle, by Maggie Stiefvater

Blue is a compelling heroine, her tension with the Raven Boys is artfully done, the setting is original and surprising, the plot and romance compelling. It's hard to find something not to like about this book.

Best Science Fiction

MaddAdam trilogy, by Margaret Atwood (Oryx and Crake, The Year of the Flood, MaddAddam)

 Lyrical, terrifying, absurd, human, brutal. Margaret Atwood is a stunningly powerful author. The Crakers are wonderful.

Best Fantasy

The Raven Cycle, by Maggie Stiefvater

I didn't read a lot of fantasy this year, and if not for this series, I wouldn't have given a "Best Fantasy" nod this year.

Most Important

Being Mortal, by Atul Gawande

What is it really like -- aging, infirmity, and dying? Informed by his experiences as a doctor and as the grandson of a dying man in India, Gawande explores issues of independence, pride and loss, traditional vs. modern care, and a medical system that sees death as an enemy to defeat. A peculiar war to fight, with the guarantee that no matter how many battles are won, the war will always be lost. If you know anyone old or infirm, read this book.

Best Discovery

 

Southern Reach Trilogy, by Jeff Vandermeer

 Last Christmas Isabelle got a book on writing, The Wonderbook, by Jeff Vandermeer. Looking at it, I wanted to know who this writer was. Weird, complex, and original.

Author of the Year

 

Margaret Atwood

Speaking of being mortal, Margaret Atwood is something more. The competition is hardly fair to mere human beings.

Best Author Who Isn't Margaret Atwood

Maggie Stiefvater

Seriously. She wrote 5 of the 30 books I read this year, and they ranged from Good to Great.

 Best Solo Audiobook Performance

 Will Patton

Apparently Scholastic sprang the big bucks for the Raven Cycle. This guy has an extensive filmography going back to 1983's Silkwood. Here, he performs the great feat of making you forget there is only one reader. I can't remember his voice, I can only remember Blue, and Gantsey, and the Gray Man.

Best Audiobook Performance in a book I didn't like

Simon Vance (Titus Groan)

I've noticed that the best audio performances usually line up with my favorite books. So here is a fabulous voice actor, despite reading for a book I didn't like. The diversity of characters and voices he is capable of is stunning. Hats off!

Best Protagonist

illustration by ulrikmunther

Blue Sargent (The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater) Second from right

Born under the kind of prophecy you really don't want ("You will kill your true love with a kiss"), Blue is the only daughter (and only non-psychic) in a house full of psychic women. At once tough and vulnerable, fierce and gentle, the inadequate diner waitress among the elite prep school boys, but also the queen of her band. Not only only that, but she's also super-cool.

Best Quote

"Who is this Fuck, O Toby? Will Fuck come and help us, too?"

MaddAddam, by Margaret Atwood

The day fuck became a deity. Need I say more? 

Book of the Year

MaddAddam, by Margaret Atwood

This is a book that will last generations. Bleak, visionary, at times absurd. It is the hopeful conclusion to a devastating trilogy.

Plot Peeves

There are some things I just can't stand in a story.

Plot Fart

A compelling question is raised... and ignored

Ten year-old girl was nipped by a werewolf, but manages to fight off the lycanthropy somehow. Now seventeen, she is attacked by another werewolf, and bitten again. Will lycanthropy overwhelm her this time? Is she doomed, her life as a human ruined? What will happen?

Unfortunately, nothing. None of these possibilities even occurs to the characters, because they have divine knowledge somehow that she is immune to lycanthropy. Being immune is certainly possible, but their absolute certainty that this is how it works just doesn't make sense. It's like a story-wide brain fart.

Stupidity Plot Drive 

An obvious solution could solve the problem, but the characters, by sheer force of will, do not notice.

The young heroes, riding in a coach and four, are stopped by a tree fallen across the road. A second tree blocks their retreat. They try to pull the fallen tree out of the way, but they aren't strong enough. If only there was someone stronger to help them! Like four Clydesdale draft horses! Certainly it's possible the horse couldn't do it, either. But we don't know they couldn't, because no one even thought about the possibility. Although it's a good thing they didn't think to try this, because if they had escaped, they wouldn't have been attacked in the night and the plot advanced.

This is related to the Plot Fart, but worse. After a similar fashion, an obvious question doesn't occur to the characters. In the Plot Fart, the willful oversight is just confusing and annoying. In the Stupidity Plot Drive, it is necessary to  keep the story moving. Nothing is worse than a problem that is only a problem because the characters are too stupid to solve it.

Say What?

Characters briefly do the impossible, leaving the reader wondering if this is supposed to be significant, or what?

Often this happens to me with wildlife. The girl who runs "very fast" and escapes from a mountain lion. The hunters who decide they're going to kill all the wolves in the forest, so they walk into the woods and shoot them. Question: given a 40' head start, how long can an Olympic sprinter stay ahead of a mountain lion before getting caught and eaten? Answer: 0.9 seconds. Question: how far might a wolf pack be from its den when the hunters go looking for it? Answer: up to 30 miles.

I don't like to dispute accuracy with fiction. Just let it be a story. It's okay. But it is so darn jarring. For me it's analogous to having characters in New York jump in their car and drive to Paris for the afternoon. I stop reading and try to figure out if I'm supposed to make anything out of this apparently magical power or not.

In the case of the mountain lion, I actually was--the girl was half a were-lion. If the girl had been shocked or confused by her miraculous escape, I'd have been okay. But because she doesn't notice she's done something superhuman, I'm left wondering if she did, or if the author was just confused. "Very fast" doesn't cover what you'd need to do to outrun a mountain lion. It's the fastest sprinter in the world who can last 0.9 seconds.

In the case of the wolves, no, the hunters have no super-powers, these wolves just like to sit around and wait to be hunted.

Star Wars: A Simple Comparisom

SPOILER ALERT!

As everyone knows, Star Wars is a trilogy of trilogies. There's the Original Trilogy, from 1977. The New Trilogy, from 2015. And, of course, there's the Abomination, from somewhere in between, I'm trying not to remember.

Everybody knows how the Abomination compares to the Original, but how about OT and NT? I'm trying to make up my mind.

At the risk of making my co-workers laugh at me, I had to make a table.

Original Trilogy	New Trilogy
PLUS: Heroic, Epic, Larger-than-life, classic retelling of the Hero's Tale. Deeply rooted in mythology	Epic and heroic, but not the classic "Hero's Tale" (hero--Rey--is absent from the beginning of the story)
PLUS: Tight, solid plotting	DING: fractured story-telling. Needlessly unresolved questions. Stellar hopscotch so fast the viewer loses track of what is happening where. Rapid-fire coincidental meetings.
DING: Lame, stilted dialogue, mildly whiny hero ("But I wanted to go to the Tashi Station and pick up some power converters!")	PLUS: Strong characters, real feelings and situations. Characters drive story. Solid dialogue. A little more life-size.
PLUS: Amazing cinematography	PLUS: Amazing, evocative cinematography. Better picture of poverty and oppression.
PLUS: Original, definitive. Star Wars transformed SF for the movies.	DING: Death Star Redux III. A lot of parallel scenes.
DING: Cuteness. R2D2 had appeal, the Jawas were slightly creepy, but the teddy bears were over the top.	Cuteness contained. BB-8 had it, and that was enough.
Improbable situations and physics, but it's all in good fun.	DING: Silly physics. Silly enough to be distracting.

Score: 

For the Original Trilogy, the Heroic Tale, the mythology, and its original, transformative nature are its greatest hallmarks. The dialogue and, especially in later episodes, cuteness factor are its most famous flaws.

For the New Trilogy, the characters, their conflicts and struggles, the vision of the First Order, and the evocative places stand out. It's a shame, therefore, that the frayed plot undermines all this.

Telling the difference between what is a delicious, compelling mystery, and what is an annoying withholding of information can be a tricky call. But there are two simple, basic guidelines:

1. Unless mystery and subterfuge is the point of the story, if the heroes know the answer, the viewer should know it. 
2. If a character has a mysterious background, when others discover it, the viewer should discover it. 

In the case of Rey's past, the first point means that, by the end of the movie, we should know something of the circumstances of her abandonment. We shouldn't be guessing whether she was waiting for her mother, boyfriend, sister, best friend, or entire family. We shouldn't wonder whether the parting was forcible abduction, probable death, neglectful abandonment, or heroic abandonment. The memory flashes at the cantina are only a tease, not a resolution. The second rule says that when Rey and Leia meet, it should be clear whether she's thinking "Here is someone who knows what I'm feeling," or if she's squealing "Mommy!"

The ambiguities build on each other. It appears as if Rey is Ren's sister, but that raises more questions. If not, then we know nothing of her background. If so, then why doesn't she know anything about Han and Leia? It's all so completely unresolved that I even lack confidence it's worth trying to unravel. That is to say, I expect that, when the "mystery" is revealed, any evidence against the revealed truth is simply ignored. J. J. Abrams track record with Lost encourages this view.

The parallel scenes I can forgive, because they felt like tributes more than rehashes. If a funny-looking band had featured in the cantina (as in Return of the Jedi's rehash), if there had been a brawl, if the Yoda-ite had used Object-Subject-Verb word order (or some other odd speech), if the Neo-Death Star's weakness wasn't directly tied in to the uniqueness of its original weapon, this would have annoyed me much more. However, no new twist can really make Death Star Redux III okay. We need a new threat.

The silly physics aren't a bad ding, they're just annoying. They disrupt the story for anyone who thinks about what's going on. You don't need a Ph.D. in physics to wonder how a planet can survive after its sun has been sucked up by the Neo-Death Star, we learned in kindergarten how we need the sun. Anytime your viewers are scratching their heads and saying "Wait, what just happened?" you've interrupted your movie. It's bad story-telling.

The Winner: The Original Trilogy

It's a close call, and a shame, because it wouldn't have taken more than a junior story editor to fix the flaws that undercut the new movie. All the genius of the characters, dialogue, settings, and plot was badly hampered by the shoddy storytelling. Simplify the planet-hopping, make clear what is happening where. Pay attention to the questions you raise, and notice the difference between a mystery and an annoying omission. That part isn't hard. It boggles my brain that Hollywood so often skips the critical, easy parts while creating brilliant bits to flounder in the soup.

The New Trilogy is fabulous, and I am eagerly awaiting the next two episodes. I even have hope that Disney will ask JJ Abrams to remake the Abomination episodes, since they own the rights, have no shame about admitting what a disaster they were, and will make tons of money and happy fans if they do. But this movie doesn't displace the original from its iconic top spot.

At least, not yet.

Eugene Fairfield's Best Books of 2015

As last year, a book is considered "2015" if I read it in 2015. As such, the competition is highly random, pitting Adam Rex against Jerome K. Jerome. Here they are:

Best Children's Book: 

The True Meaning of Smekday by Adam Rex

(See below for the many reasons this won)

Best Science Fiction:

A Darkling Sea by James L. Cambias

Excellent depiction of First Contact, with all the cultural misunderstanding, a compelling alien world, and dramatic plot.

Best Epic Fantasy:

Sabriel by Garth Nix

Original, at once epic and human-scale, with a compelling heroine, well-developed and original magic system, dramatic climax, and flawless submersion in the culture.

Runner-up: Queen of the Tearling by Erika Johanssen

Queen Kelsey pulls along this tale of a teen who must assume her throne through multiple assassination plots, with a compulsion to justice that drives her to make dangerous choices.

Best Political Theme in Story Form: 

 

12 Years a Slave by Solomon Northrup

Plainly and powerfully told. Should be required reading in high school.

Runners-up: (tie) The Doubt Factory by Paolo Bacigalupi & The True Meaning of Smekday by Adam Rex

Bacigalupi's no-holds-barred indictment of the corporate spin machine is powerful and timely, but Rex's allegory of the Euro-american conquest of North America is more subtle and less preachy.

Funniest Book: 

(tie) The True Meaning of Smekday by Adam Rex

 and Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome

 How can you rank one over the other? Both hilarious and brilliantly written, yet so completely different in tone and, well, everything. On the one hand, there are eternally quotable lines from Rex: "I was told to come to the obnoxiously-colored building where people who are bad at math give away their money" "'Do you know why we've pulled you over, Miss?' 'Uh... because I'm only twelve and my car is floating?'"  On the other you've got the pinnacle of British humor.

Most Heart-Wrenching: 

(tie) Landline by Rainbow Rowell

and The True Meaning of Smekday by Adam Rex

Rainbow Rowell is a powerhouse of real life, flawed characters, and heart-wrenching scenes. But it is hard to beat the poignancy of Adam Rex's Tip, trying to drag her mother to the doctor, or standing in the snow on Christmas Eve, staring at the place where her mother was just sucked up by an alien ship.

Most Haunting: 

We Were Liars by E. Lockheart

A powerfully told story of PTSD, family drama, wealth, and, of course, lies.

Best Sequel: 

Smek for President by Adam Rex

Nearly as good as the original. Expands and builds on the previous while staying true to the story.

Continued -->

Eugene Fairfield's Best Books of 2015, continued

Most Magical: 

Love in the Time of Global Warming by Francesca Lia Block

Bleak and beautiful. Suffused with awe and wonder.

Best Scientific Grounding: 

Dark Orbit by Carolyn Ives Gilman

This tale of a sightless people combines the most recent neuroscience and a keen sense of culture to create great science fiction.

Best Magical System: 

Sabriel by Garth Nix

Simple yet fully developed, original, evocative, and wholly self-consistent. What more could a fantasist ask?

Best Protagonist: 

Gratuity Tucci (True Meaning of Smekday)

Smart, sassy, bold, introspective, literate, and still needs her mommy. She's  one heck of an African-Italian-American 12 year-old. 

PS. Do you know how hard it is to find an image from a book after Hollywood has made a movie out of it?

Best Villain: 

(tie) the captain (Challenger Deep) (no image available)

He's crazy. He's cruel. He's incomprehensible. And he hates that parrot.

the Gorg (True Meaning of Smekday)

All Gorg are left-handed. All Gorg like musical theater. If you were to take all the Gorg in the world, and stack them one on top of the other, the Gorg would kill you. Those who do not cooperate will be severely punched.

Best Audio Performance: 

(tie) Michael Curran-Dorsano (Challenger Deep by Neal Shusterman)

Every character comes alive, you forget there is only one man reading. Total immersion in the book.

Bahni Turpin (True Meaning of Smekday by Adam Rex)

Not only was her Gratuity Tucci fantastic and heartfelt, but her J-Lo was definitive. The perfect voice for the alien that was at once meek, out-of-it, and yet superior to human foolishness. She'd have first place all to herself, if I could have shaken the image that the residents of Roswell were black. This could be subconscious racism--I doubt if I would be as bothered if a white reader didn't make black characters sound black--although of course some black people do sound white, while rednecks never sound black. It probably wouldn't have mattered as much to me in another context, but race mattered in this story, and in this scene the fact that the characters were white mattered, so the accent distracted me.  But, mm, (sheep noise--bubble rap--bubble rap), maybe, her J-Lo was the amazing. [that's an inside joke if you haven't read it]

Author of the Year:

Paolo Bacigalupi (The Doubt Factory, The Water Knife)

He writes for young adult, he writes for adult. He explores the future of climate change in dramatic, intelligent stories. He is bold enough to smear dozens of major corporations, accusing them of real criminal activity around real events (such as the warnings of Reyes Syndrome on aspirin, that Bayer fought to suppress or delay). He vividly displays the horror of modern warlords. And he hasn't dropped the ball once.

Runner-up: Adam Rex (The True Meaning of Smekday, Smek for President, and Fat Vampire)

The author of the Smekday toure de force ought to be the hands-down winner. But his Fat Vampire didn't hold a candle to his masterpiece. So I gave top honors to the man who never disappointed. Still. If Adam Rex never writes a good book again, he belongs in the hall of fame.

Book of the Year:

The True Meaning of Smekday by Adam Rex

What else could it be? What other book can place in Funniest, Most Heart-Wrenching, and Best Political Theme? When I read this at the beginning of the year, I predicted no book would top it. I was right. I further predict it will be among the best books of the decade. If it can stand the test of time, which it may, it has a shot at placing among the best children's books of all time.

NOTE: Unless it is cold and raining and you need a campfire lit or freeze to death, do not ask me what I thought of the Hollywood movie using characters with the same names, a rough similarity to a few plot structures, and some quotes (I would not stoop to call it an "adaptation"). I will flame.

Brief Reflection

It bears noting that I get most of my literature these days (Sabriel excepted) through  audio books, and further that the best stories coincidentally have the best narrators. The opposite also tends to be true, as I disliked the narrator of Invasion of the Tearling, a disappointing sequel. Despite reading the books (very nearly) word-for-word, I think audio books are a distinct art form. It becomes impossible to separate the performance from the story. A talented reader can elevate a book high above others that might be its peers in written form. Conversely, A poor reader can ruin a book of any quality. It is rare, but I have encountered audiobooks that were simply unlistenable. It makes me wonder how I would view these stories on the page, Still, no skill in narration can push a poor story into the ranks of the great.

Carolyn Ives Gilman and Me

I just started listening to Carolyn Ives Gilman's Dark Orbit. I was immediately struck how her set up parallels the SF saga I've been working on for years: Mischief's World (working title). Both stories feature a female protagonist with a science background in alien life who has a reputation for holding authority and official conventions at arms length. Both protagonists are compelled by a difficult circumstance, skillfully exploited, to accept a job. Both jobs put her on a journey to an unknown alien world, and both alien worlds were discovered by a message from an ancient exploratory vehicle that people had given up expecting to hear from. Both alien worlds also give a previously unseen look at alien life--the first-ever non-terrestrial life in Gilman's, the first compatible with terrestrial life (i.e. human) in mine.

Peek at Mischief's World opening pages [rough draft]

The parallels end there. Dark Orbit goes off into mysterious deaths and fractal space, Mischief into mysterious passengers, a romance, power and domination, and [SPOILER DELETED]. But that's an awful lot of overlap. Although Mischief might be more light-hearted and temperamental than Gilman's Sara, they would certainly be friends if they met.

I met Carolyn once, at Readercon, years ago. I'd had the great privilege to have her read one of my short stories and offer insightful feedback, and I was pleased she remembered it some months later. At that point, Halfway Human was her only title, and she wasn't accustomed to strangers looking up at her and saying, "Oh, Carolyn's here!" At that point in time, I only had one completed novel manuscript, and, curiously, like Halfway Human it was a "Gender SF" story. Hers shook up gender roles by creating a world where exists a third, neuter gender, mine by reversing the power dynamic by eliminating 90% of the male population (on a continuing basis).  The parallel would be truly astonishing if Mischief's World were my current project, but I confess it is stalled. It has an epic scale akin to The Fellowship of the Unloved, and epic scale means an epic undertaking for me.

When I tried to look her up online, I discovered that Carolyn's better-paying job is Historian, and my paycheck is for teaching High School Social Studies (and other subjects, but that's my favorite). I've always felt a kinship with Carolyn. A little envy, too, of course. But I like it that she sent a little of the spirit of Mischief O'Malley out into the published world. She was feeling a little cramped, stuck on my hard drive all these years. I hope we will meet again some day. I wonder how she would react if she got to see the opening for my story.