Well … I’ve gone and done it.  I got a nasty email.  My somewhat thoughtful comments on Eragon and Inheritance have apparently scraped a few ragged nerves (not mine, thankfully).  (Coincidentally, the mysterious letter writer fails to specify as a he, she or it; for sake of argument, let’s go with it.)  After making various comments upon my person, upbringing and intellect; the writer comments (letter edited for spelling and grammar):

You’re just a bitter wannabe hack who’s angry and jealous that you don’t have the skill to write your own stories.  It’s just a children’s book, can’t you cut it some slack?

Before going further, let’s clarify a few simple things.  I am not a nice person.  Bitter?  Check.  Angry?  Double check and underline.  Petty?  Oh, yes.  In fact, I have an utterly unique ability to alienate, put-off and offend.  As my supervisors, family and co-workers have remarked; I am preternaturally gifted at pissing people off. But Jealous?  Of Paolini?  Hardly. 

I wish Christopher Paolini nothing but happiness, wealth and phenomenal success.  May he continue to sell well and single-handedly maintain his publishing company.  For, in case you hadn’t heard, they haven’t been doing so well lately.  After all, when I finally do get round to writing my own stories, I expect to be cut a six figure advancement check as well.

But that is neither here nor there, I would like to focus on and analyze the last bit of the writer’s comment, “It’s just a children’s book, can’t you cut it some slack?”

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Why do adventures have to be so stinking inconvenient?  Sure, they’re thrilling and certainly allow for interesting stories, but … by their nature, they’re disruptive and they make things difficult.  While difficult things can be fun, more often they’re not.  In fact, most of the time, difficult is short hand for hard, tedious, unpleasant and (if it involves anything outside) cold.  For this reason, I was slightly annoyed to find that I (and a few of my prized possessions) spend most of Friday having an adventure.

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Categories: Rants, Writing and Literature
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While the timeless struggle between good and evil has been at the center of Western literature for nearly three thousand years, modern psychology has given us an insight into why some people devolve into heroes and others into villains. One important framework is provided by the mythology of the sociopath. Sociopaths are marked by several important characteristics: impulsivity, irritability and aggression, deceit or manipulation, lack of concern for the safety of others, irresponsibility, or being unconcerned about hurting or stealing. Sociopaths have lost their conscience and soul. They are evil because they can be. Sociopaths don't come with baggage, don't need a back-story or some greedy motive. They just are.

In Christopher Paolini's, Brisingr, we get something rather unexpected: a sociopath in the role of hero. Brisingr's author never explicitly states that Eragon, the novel's main protagonist, is an unfeeling void; quite the contrary, actually. The omniscient narrator, the cast of supporting characters, and even his dragon laud Eragon's actions as careful, considered, and just. A careful reading, though, doesn't reveal this. Rather, nearly every action shows either rash judgments or cold calculation. This represents somewhat of a departure of Paolini's earlier work (Eragon and Eldest). Despite the weaknesses of the earlier books, the character of Eragon was at least likable. Of course he was brash and headstrong, but he at least tried to do and say the right things.

In Brisingr, however, we are presented with another person. Eragon has little mercy or understanding for anyone around him (either friend or foe). This trend only gets worse as the novel progresses. Steadily, we proceed from actions which are merely foolish to those which are profoundly disturbing. Consider how Eragon acts in the first few hundred pages of Brisingr. In the opening chapters, Eragon commits genocide. He later circumvents justice in order to condemn and abandon a man in the desert. Last, he kills a child in cold blood while the boy is begging for mercy. In this essay, we will look at these three scenarios in detail and show that Eragon has lost his way, his conscience and his soul.

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Categories: Featured, Science Fiction/Fantasy, Writing and Literature
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In their heart, storytellers are liars. They take the boring details of a mundane existence and make them interesting. Storytellers fold and rip apart reality, giving it an interpretation, angle, or even direction. While most might don the storyteller hat (at least for a little while) when they spin yearns of office conquest, the encounter with the co-worker they don't like, or the latest fight with their boss they typically embellish or embolden. Yet, there is an enormous difference between someone who occasionally bends the truth and the masters who revel in their own deviousness. Masters storytellers are more than liars, they wear deceit the way most people wear underclothes. They don't just wrap up existence or give an interpretation, angle or direction; a master storyteller can use their lies to tell the Truth. This places them within the realm of the gods. They can create, destroy, and instruct.

William Shakespeare, J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Neil Gaiman, and Robin Hobb are masters of their craft. Inside their stories we find the reality of our own world reflected back at us. Lady MacBeth, Frodo Baggins, Prince Caspian, Shadow and Fitz feel like real people who walk in a world that might fall off the page. Rather than a lie which has been sloppily papered over with the truth (the realm of reality), we get truth that has been masterfully and regally clothed in lies (the realm of imagination).

The Truth has been given many names (of which archetype and allegory are only two) and while the names may shift, they still convey the same idea; underneath the style and glamour, there is something inherently correct and right about what is being portrayed. Truth is beautiul, but only as long as it remains pure and ... the Truth. There is nothing quite as dangerous to Truth as an "almost truth." We often, euphamestically call the untruths, "White Lies" or "Half Truths" and they are deadly.

Big lies hold about as much danger as a bear that has been painted neon green and mounted with enormous strobe lights and warning sirens. Sure, they can still eviscerate and do awful things to the various bits that you should probably keep on the inside; but you can see and hear them coming from a long way off. The smaller lies much are more subtle in their nefariousness.  They can have a presence similar to that of your best friend … right before he pushes you in front of a bus. They can can be beautifully seductive. Sometimes they are things that we wish were true and merely shatter our faith when we learn they are not; but more often they are as dangerous as a deeply flawed keystone at the moment that it accepts weight and shatters under the load. For these reason, half-truths are much more dangerous than their bigger brethren.  Unfortunately, they don't come equipped with the helpful entourage.

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Categories: Featured, Science Fiction/Fantasy, Writing and Literature
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There are some books whose influence and impact stay with the reader long after the last page. The ideas, stories and possibilities continue to haunt the imagination like so many restless specters. JRR Tolkien's "The Lord of the Rings" is one such work. It fills the head with ageless elves, far-away places, and terrible villains. Christopher Paolini's Brisingr is also such a work. Unfortunately, the ghouls it conjures are of a different type than those that haunt Tolkein's.

Brisingr is the third book in Paolini's "Inheritance Cycle." Once believed to be a trilogy, with Brisingr at its conclusion; the Ineritance Saga will likely be a quartet with Brisingr as its penultimate volume. In trying to review the work, it is probably best to start with the "short" and then proceed to the "long." E.A. Salinas' provides a nice summary on Amazon.com:

"Brisingr" may be the "ancient language's" word for fire, but Christopher Paolini's third novel doesn't really have any. Awkward, plodding and lacking a real plot, this flame was out before it even started.

If you haven't surmised, the short is this: the book is terrible. For those that have already read Brisingr, my sympathies. For those who are wondering if they should, there is far better work, even in the realm of trash fantasy.

Paolini commits all the stylistic sins of consequence: he's boring, long winded and trite. The main plot is particularly egregious, as the novel doesn't really have one. The subtitle of the book tells you nearly everything you need to know: "The Seven Promises of Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Bjatskoler." Brisingr moves from one promise to the next without a central storyline to connect them. The novel might have been more effectively organized as a volume of "loosely connected" short stories, since it essentially reads like one.

Paolini's commits a far more serious sin than being scattered or dull, however. Brisingr struggles to be "Literature" and in the process sags under the weight of politicking and pretentious moral preaching. While many of the questions Eragon ponders barely rise to the level of interesting cocktail banter, there are some issues to which Paolini's characters come to surprisingly disturbing conclusions. One of Tolkien's greatest accomplishments was using his writing as a medium for moral thought experiments. It is somewhat ironic, then, that someone who compares himself to Tolkien spends much of his time contradicting the values and ideas which make The Lord of the Rings great literature. Some of these "ideas" so greatly bothered me, I felt the need to more directly wrestle with them.

To understand the great weaknesses in Paolini's work, it's first necessary to understand the small ones. Let's start with the minor sins before looking at their heavier brethren. As I alluded to above, there isn't much to enjoy in this novel; not at a technical, literary, or philosophical level. While some of the linguistic errors might be resolved with a good editor, many of the other errors are stylistic or structural and are much more intractable. Paolini devotes pages to unimportant minutiae, drowning the narrative in lengthy and ponderous description. At one point he spends twenty-two pages to describe the forging of his sword from space metal. Twenty-two pages!

Following Paolini's prose is an effort which isn't made any easier by the moded style that he has chosen to adopt. Rather than sounding timeless or like "the lyrical beauty of Tolkien at his best and Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf," the language is pretentious and stupid. Good writers use complex language to provide illumination. Paolini sounds like he is attempting to get off using his thesaurus. If the prose is pretentious, the dialogue is even worse. It fails to approach realistic much less elegant. Consider one example where Eragon and Roran share a particularly gag inducing conversation prior to assaulting the Ra'zak, "Even we, who were boys but a short while ago, cannot escape the inexorable progress of time. So the generations pass …" Paolini continues on like this for another ten pages.

While listening to the audio book version of the work, I often wondered if the narrator (Gerard Doyle) needed to pause and ask, "Did Paolini really write that?" There are telling transitions in the narrative where the sentence begins in one tone and ends in another. While such moments were obviously due to the combination of different edits, each awkward combination practically begs the question, "Did Doyle just lose it?" As a listener, I could barely stomach the prose. I can only marvel at the discipline required to record it.

As goes the language, so goes everything else. In typical Paolini style, Eragon skirts from one misadventure to another and from one useless subplot to the next. Fans of Paolini's might be better served reading the first 100 pages and the last 100 pages. There isn't much of interest in the middle. Better yet, read the Wikipedia entry and save yourself the pain completely. This might just save you from wondering if Paolini gets paid by the pound for his books.

Categories: Science Fiction/Fantasy, Writing and Literature
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Every January, following the New Year, I have a bit of a ritual.  I like to spend a few days getting things cleaned and organized.  My little ritual includes both a mental, digital in addition to a physical cleaning.  I repeat the entire process again in July.  I should also probably mention that I really, really dislike cleaning  and organizing.  There are, of course, a bunch of reasons why I hate them.  They include good reasons and stupid reasons.  Some of those reasons, however, are worth a review.

First up is the time and effort which said activities require.  This is time and effort that I would rather use to do just about anything else.  Second, cleaning things require judgments.  I have to decide what things to keep and which to keep.  This almost always leads to loose ends; in addition to my aversion of decisions, I also really dislike loose ends.  This combination has led to a secondary tradition.  In addition to the “Cleaning Week”, there is also a “Finish Things Week”.  Yet more time and more effort to completing things which should have already been completed.  That sounds like grand fun.

The third reason that I dislike cleaning is that it invariably leads to change.  For those wondering how how I can jump from organization to change, allow me to explain.  While my mind is certainly a bit crooked round certain edges and has made more bizarre leaps, there is a certain logic to it.  Organization involves a review of activities and acquaintances.  When we plan, we consciously choose to grab the steering wheel and go somewhere new.  That often means that activities and acquaintances get left behind and new things will start looming up ahead.  Either way, change happens and everyone knows that, “Change is uncomfortable.”  It might be uncomfortable in the good kind of way, but it is still uncomfortable and I dislike being uncomfortable.  What can I say?

Anyway … I started cleaning this week and I got quite a bit organized … and then I got sidetracked.  The server that I keep in the house for backup and music streaming decided to stop working.  That required a day to fix.  After fixing it, I decided to upgrade it.  That took another evening (and never quite ended up working), so I just put it back to the way it was originally (except working this time).  In the process, though, I learned a lot of cool things.  This includes how to get both Windows Vista Backup and Apple Time Machine to back up to a Samba share.  Oh, and did I mention that Ubuntu makes it trivial to then move a copy of that backup offsite?  Redundant backups, that’s just cool!  You can, thus, expect a post about how to make the Ultimate Backup Server.

After I got back to organizing, I also started leafing through pictures and other material from the last year.  I found some some nifty old stuff, including a guide to leather braiding.  I’ve meant to braid a new reata for quite a while now.  I’ll have time in the next few months, so I figure I could start now.  It’s also probably time to start writing some posts about how to do things with horses.  While I am still working hard to master Python, I feel like I need to write about things other than technology.  I’ve wanted to write a little series about how to refine and train a saddle horse.  Far too much of the literature/discussion among the horse “academic class” for quite some time has focused almost singly on the basics and foundation.  What about the moderate and advanced riders of the world?  We deserve brain food too!

Finally, we arrive at the last reason I dislike cleaning and organizing.  In addition to having a slightly crooked mind, I also have a wildly overactive mind.  When I start digging through my junk, I start getting Ideas which lead to Plans and eventually Notions.  Plans and Notions aren’t necessarily a good thing, but … they aren’t necessarily bad either.  Either way, I hope that this coming year is as exciting as 2008 (except in good ways).  At the very least, I’ve got a whole new heap of material to explore and write about.  Here’s to blogging in 2009!

Categories: Computer, Cool Stuff, Horses and Horsemanship, Writing and Literature
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It's raining outside.  Rain on Christmas isn't like snow on Christmas.  Snow on Christmas is quiet and inspiring; rain on Christmas is just depressing.  In addition to the rain, the house is currently in Christmas catharsis.  The shouts and "revelry" that follows a multigenerational morning Christmas celebration have died down and the "merriment" that will accompany the extended family afternoon celebration has yet to start.  Rain and quiet make it a good time to wrestle with some Deep Thoughts.

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The pulsating roar of the alarm clock pulled me out of my wonderful sleep. It was a deep, blissful kind and not the type that either comes (or should be given up) easily. The day was cool and still in that time of morning when everything was bathed in a pearly gray light. A quick look sideways confirmed my greatest fear, the alarm clock was already glowing 5:30 am. It was time to get up. I rolled over and waited for the roar to kick over to the less obnoxious radio, covering my head with the pillow in the process. Certainly there must be some way to blow off the appointment and catch up an extra 20 or 30 minutes of sleep? Even 10 minutes would likely make a big difference. Though it probably wouldn't. That, however, would be too true to form. This appointment was important.

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Categories: Horses and Horsemanship, Writing and Literature
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Frank stood on the height of the cliff, silently watching the moving steer below. The cold knife edge of winter was gone, and spring had again returned to the highlands. The bulls moved their heads over the lush green grass. The newborn calves nursed from their mothers, while mindfully watching the bulls.

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When I was younger, one of my favorite past times after a hard day of horse work was to come home and read. My parents and grandparents had been good people who imparted to me a love of words at an early age. I can't remember a time when sitting in the sun with a good book settled between my legs wasn't an enjoyment. It would work out the knots in muscles cramped from hours spent in a saddle.

Horse work was a wonderful privilege too, but after some hours sitting astride an animal, it felt good to get a change. God never intended for man to sit on certain bones for very long.

Along with the love of reading came a strong imagination and a love of creating my own stories. When I was a small boy, I can recall the sagas born, nurtured and let loose from the minds of myself and friends. In a time when the deserted block of city - half house, half field - seemed the expanse of an entire world; and when creatures of magic - faerie, elf, gnome, giant - walked the woods a stone's throw away from my door. It was a time when empires, knights, indians and pirates arose, fought, loved and died before dinner and then it began again each morning. Some of those sagas (the lucky ones at least) found their way to paper.

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Categories: Horses and Horsemanship, Writing and Literature
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