March-April 2025 Miscellany

A busier than expected last few months, which included a chance find of Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, as memorably reviewed by Patrick Stuart. I don't plan to address that here - I'm not certain I'd really care to review it at all - but it's worth reading, however weighty a tome it is.

Some less weighty tomes included....

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A Wonderful Welcome to Oz

That being a collection of The Marvellous Land of Oz, Ozma of Oz and The Emerald City of Oz. All written by L. Frank Baum, but put into one volume by A) The Modern Library Classics and B) Gregory Maguire, the author of Wicked. (Which you may or may not know as a sort of parallel narrative to The Wizard of Oz published in 1995).

The three volumes so picked are sequels to Baum's first, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (1900); Marvellous Land (1904) and Ozma (1907) being the second and third books and Emerald City (1910) being the sixth. Baum, despite a sensational novel, was not good with money, and kept writing them through most of the rest of his life. A Wonderful Welcome to Oz maintains as near as possible the illustrations of John R. Neill, who illustrated most of Baum's Oz books.

I saw this second-hand and grabbed it, largely because I have no connection to Oz whatsoever. The 1939 film rather passed me by as a child, and I have never seen an edition on a library shelf. Yet we still have extensive reference to it, and various revivals or revisions or similar - as witness Maguire's Wicked, and adaptations thereof. 

So do I regret a childhood without Oz? I may say that I do not. In certain respects, it summons up the image of an Alice in Wonderland without the attendant dislocation and peril. The conceit and spleen of Wonderland's inhabitants is sharper than the whimsy and peevishness of the Ozites, however similar the narratives may be. There is a picaresque, unconnected quality to the plot, especially in Emerald City. 

It does all read as very American, of course. It is written by an American and Americans often appear; Oz itself is at the centre of a sparsely inhabited continent. This is on top of lunch-pails growing from trees, or the pragmatic and industrious conceit of the Tin Woodman. Perhaps it's something to do with the air of a well-fed and self-satisfied citizenry? Calling it America's fairyland makes a great deal of sense, I suppose. 

I note that in Oz, men are either A) Non-entities or B) Remarkable but pretty useless eccentrics. Women are sylphs possessed of wide-ranging magics, witches or (merely) driven, competent and practical. If a man happens to possess any of the latter traits, he will turn out to be a woman in disguise. (Applications of the above to any land other than Oz are made at the reader's own risk.) I wonder what Chesterton would have made of this?

Anyway, I remain (alas) unenchanted. 

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The Etruscan, Mika Waltari (1955; translation into English published in Great Britain 1957)

In its native Finland, this was first published as Turms, Kuolematon. 

A mercenary (Turms) in 5th century BC Greece has to uncover his own background and supernatural significance, believing himself to be cursed. A comment a year or so back brought it to my attention. I think I had heard of The Etruscan before (and Waltari, if only for being something like the only Finnish novelist with a Hollywood adaptation). I will push a little against Alec - Soldier in the Mist reads like Wolfe's use of Waltari's premise, and even plausibly might be a sequel (Turms sends off soldiers to aid  Persia in Xerxes's invasion of Greece towards the end of the book, and these might have included Latro.) There's also differences in tone: Wolfe's supernatural elements are more blatant and the appearance of historical figures more obvious (Pindar, Themistocles). Turms is doing something like writing his memoirs; Wolfe maintains the structure of Latro's day to day use of the scroll. 

The Etruscan also covers a longer span of time. Turms goes from cast-up soldier to maturity, with several years-long stays in various places or roles.  His gradual apotheosis involves not a little heartbreak and blood - and he aids some fairly vile people in his progress. It's just on the historical side of the border between fantasy historical fiction, maintaining that place despite Turms growing to become a sort of priest-king called a Lucumon and referring to himself as an immortal (Turms Kuolematon translating to Turms Immortal). An interesting comparison might be Votan. I think this will reward your curiosity. 

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Another chance find was The Modern World, Steph Swainston. I think that a longer piece would be necessary to do justice to her Castle novels, but suffice it to say that I think they work fairly well. The central image of the Castle itself, with its competitive immortals, medieval stylings, mysterious Emperor and constant apocalyptic threat represent the sort of setting that would be good for those looking to do something with Space Knights outside 40k.

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There is a new edition of The 52 Pages, together with the Next 52 Pages! I have a personal attachment to this system, and have used it for some of my work on this blog - but if you have an interest in a nice compact (and free!) RPG system, do take a look!

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You may or may not know that there is a Price Drop for False Machine products - if you were on the fence, perhaps this is a time to take the plunge.

Too Like the Lightning-Rod: Serendipitous January Reading

I suppose I could bulk this out into a fuller miscellany, but January's almost over and these go quite well together.

I acquired two bits of reading which I only got round to in the last month or so. Both have a nice connection to the Magical Enlightenment stuff I've been putting together under the name The Rest of All Possible Worlds.

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No. 1 : The Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

These were a chance find in a book giveaway. I picked up the Everyman edition. 

Lady Wortley Montagu was alive from 1689-1762. She's perhaps most famous for having gone with her husband as part of an embassy to Constantinople and brining back smallpox vaccination. That's impressive, but forms only one part of her letters. 

She writes sending back reports of her travels - to her lady friends in Britain, to the Abbe Conti in France. These are a mix of responses to their letters, personal news and her discussions of the places she visits. Her journey across Europe takes her through Amsterdam, Prague, Genoa, Leipzig and such places - and she finds time to comment on the local habits, the doing of the aristocracy and so forth. It's when she reaches Ottoman territory that things become more interesting (though comparisons of 18th C London and Amsterdam have their purposes). 

Thus, then to Belgrade, Adrianople, then Constantinople. We are given her impressions of these territories quite closely, with the consciousness of being 'outside of Christendom' (however many Greek or Armenian Christians she encounters). Aside from how observant and discerning Lady Wortley Montagu may herself be, she also has the advantage of being able to enter the women's quarters - to go into the bathhouse and harem and report back. This isn't exactly untitillating, though I note her discussions of Western Europe weren't shy of mentioning dalliances. But it does give her a different insight into the ways and means of another culture - which she uses to pass comment on European customs, be they Catholic or Protestant.

Indeed, Lady Wortley Montagu is sufficiently questing, sufficiently outspoken and well-connected to make her something of a proto-feminist. She's not the model of a Bluestocking - that would come later in the 18th Century - but her remarks on women's education and status certainly indicate a dissatisfaction with the status quo (at least for her class) and places value on the work and wisdom of her sex. 

She wrote throughout her life, and her letters from Turkey only form part of this. Indeed, once she gets past reports from abroad, she is able to write in a more focused way on the place of women - especially to her daughter. Lady Wortley Montagu would live apart from her husband in Avignon and northern Italy toward the end of her life; her letters are still undulled by a long stay and full of the observations of another country.

None of this is crucial reading, of course. But I found it valuable to read the sort of accounts that would fuel what we think of as the Enlightenment; read them in their original mix of the dull, the obvious, the prejudiced, the now-remarkable and the exciting. If you are the sort of person to have read your way to this blog, I think I would suggest reading a similar set of letters at some point. 

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No. 2 - Terra Ignota

A recent series of four novels (published 2016-2021) by Ada Palmer, Professor of Renaissance Studies at the University of Chicago (I've approvingly linked before now to her blog, Ex Urbe). It's a semi-Utopian society in the year 2454 and a series of tensions and conflicts within it.

First things first: this is embedded with - shall we say - culture war lightning rods. Nation-states as we know them are abolished, courtesy of rapid transport in the form of flying cars. Citizens present themselves in as gender-neutral; that the narrator is going back through apply 'He' and 'She' is controversial. The nuclear family has fallen so far out of favour as it may be said to be abolished. Public religion has been banned, following a period in the 21st century called 'the Church Wars'. Reservations for religion still exist, as do private counsellors called senssayers. Censorship is widespread, if sensitively applied. There is an ongoing in-world controversy about childrearing and cybernetics which is akin to other debates about home education and significant surgery for minors. 

Hence my image of lightning rods. I don't know if anyone was jumping up and down hoping to burn these books, but this is clearly inflammable stuff. Which, naturally, makes it fascinating. 

I've seen Terra Ignota referred to as a dizzying mix of heaven and hell to a 21st century reader, rather like 2025 would be to a human being of the 16th century. This is not wrong, though clearly some would find it far more heavenly than others. And, indeed, you should likely prepare for something to bother you unpredictably in Terra Ignota. 

The world of Terra Ignota has been divided into Hives. These have coalesced over time into several large entities, more akin to culture-blocs than nations - and certainly not geographically contiguous. Wikipedia's guide to these is quite good, laying out the nurturing Cousins and ambitious Humanists. 

It is a world of solid freedoms, drawing from the Enlightenment - and deliberately written to evoke the 18th century. Thinkers of the period are quoted - Voltaire especially - and the writing style is composed to match. There is a focus on the correct form of government, of conflict bounded by a sense of goodwill, of plenty, of debate, of competition among elites. This last part is rather characteristic; it is both delightful that we get such a top-down and wide-ranging view of things, from characters who can and who want to learn all they can about a situation - but one does sometimes have to wonder what the lowest members of the Hives do with themselves. 

I think that this is especially the case with some groups. Palmer seems to have a moderately good idea of who the Cousins are, what sort of person joins the Utopians, and so forth. But while I can see that she knows that there are the sort of people (who aren't Princes or wunderkind) who would join the orderly Masonic Empire I don't get the impression she has a notion of how they think or act. Which is a problem if part of the conditions for later conflict is that the Masons have become the largest hive, with no sign of stopping!

One can certainly take the whole series as an extended meditation and discussion of the Enlightenment, and how it might shake out if sufficiently embraced and extended. There's a set of scenes toward the end which could certainly be read as referential of A) Postcolonial thought and B) A transition from Liberal Democracy to Social Democracy. That is, the end of the Enlightenment, or perhaps a phase thereof. 

I won't delve into the plot here (really). I was more often appreciative of it than swept up in it. The main point I have is that I was not quite satisfied by Terra Ignota, and you should probably read it. It is doing the things that one would wish Science Fiction to do, and it is doing them from a well-read informed position. 

Certainly, it sometimes tries too much - the elements of theodicy are not what they could be (but then, perhaps they are as good or as informed as our theologically innocent [or, perhaps, theologically sophomoric] narrators). The vast list of characters is benefit and hazard both. The extensive reference to the Iliad and Odyssey are apt, but liable to flap a little too loose. There are elements that clearly point forward from present debates - but then the approach to them and the framing feels a little too like the early 2010s, at least in rhetoric, and it turns out that this is exactly when this was written. This can make it feel...late to the party. (The art, culture and sensibilities of the Utopians feel especially guilty of this. It's not un-sensical in universe, but it really does have something too much of Tumblr in it. Though paradoxically, Terra Ignota doesn't feel that 'online', really. Thank the 18th century and the flying cars.)

There are other ways Terra Ignota undercuts itself. I've highlighted the Masons above. There's a sense in which the Mitsubushi are having their cake and eating it by being so based in East Asia without being formally a national or regional culture (also, though it almost certainly isn't the intention, it's difficult to un-see a Yellow Peril element). Religion is private, but there are lines in the fourth book, Perhaps the Stars, of it being unspoken general knowledge that certain hives have a reputation for having many members from a certain faith. And that the religious reservations are freely accessible. This reframes things awkwardly, and if it was going to appear, should have done so earlier. 

There's an anime-esque cast of thousands, along with long scenes of back-and-forth dialogue in moments of vital action. A little cumbersome, but not objectionable - and better than the alternative. There are one or two moments of smug, glib, triumphalist anti-authoritarianism that I associate with the (movement? subgenre? tendency?) tendency Hopepunk, but these are happily few and far between. Palmer has explicitly linked Terra Ignota and Hopepunk in essays and such material, but that doesn't distress me. 

I suppose my reaction to Terra Ignota is largely that I wish to like it more. The flaws it possesses are not severe, but they are flaws. But it is undeniably of such a substance that one can grapple with.