Love Minus Eighty by Will McIntosh

Published by Orbit on June 11, 2013

If Love Minus Eighty has a central theme, it's this: love is complicated. It's particularly complicated if you've fallen in love with a dead woman. Love Minus Eighty explores love in a light-hearted way from a variety of perspectives: characters are in love (both requited and unrequited), or want love, or are faking it, or fear it, or substitute manipulation and drama for actual love. Still, Love Minus Eighty will never be mistaken for a traditional romance novel. It's smart and funny, not trashy.

Love Minus Eighty features one of the best extrapolations of internet technology I've encountered. Will McIntosh mixes social networking with reality TV to create a medium that's both amusing and disturbing -- and utterly believable. In a future New York, the affluent live in High Town (built above the surface of old Manhattan) and wear skin-tight suits that, apart from using sensory filters to block bad smells and ugly sights, allow virtual access to others via screens that materialize in midair. Individuals who can attract enough followers at one time are rewarded with corporate sponsorship (earning money, for instance, by wearing a particular designer's boots). In its conglomeration of Facebook and Twitter and You Tube, Love Minus Eighty makes a telling point about all the people who "take time away from their own pathetic lives to watch [a self-made celebrity] live hers."

A woman named Lorelei manages to gain eight hundred viewers as she humiliates her soon-to-be-ex boyfriend, Rob Mashita. Having just watched Lorelei throw all his possessions out a window, the distracted Rob runs over a woman named Winter West. Winter dies without revivication insurance, but fortunately she's attractive, and her corpse is chosen for the bridesicle program and stored in a dating center at minus eighty. If she's very lucky, some wealthy man will pay to restore her to life, or at least awaken her for a quick chat. Out of guilt, Rob visits her from time to time, but he can't afford to restore her to consciousness for more than five minutes every few months.

Winter's death, and the possibility that she might never be revived -- or worse, that she might be thawed and buried if she proves to be unprofitable -- is at the heart of an engaging story. Although Love Minus Eighty is in essence a romantic comedy, it makes some serious points about the value and the downside of social networking, as well as the corporate tendency to place a monetary value on human life. It also delves into philosophy, asking the timeless question: "What's more real: what you think you are, or what external, objective reality tells you you are?" Just how real is virtual reality?

If you're looking for "hard" science fiction that explains how things work -- how death is cheated, how floating screens manage to pop into existence -- you won't find it here. That didn't bother me because the novel has the sort of tongue-in-cheek attitude that suggests it isn't meant to be taken seriously. The story's focus is on people rather than technology. The characters aren't multifaceted -- there is a clear division between likable and unlikable characters -- but that's forgivable in a comic novel. Love Minus Eighty doesn't require much analytical thinking (overthinking the story would probably destroy it) but the novel encourages empathy for its love-challenged characters, provokes easy laughter, and stimulates discussion about the future of social networking.

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Evil and the Mask by Fuminori Nakamura

First published in Japan in 2010; published in translation by Soho Crime on June 11, 2013

"It wasn't revenge. I simply wanted to set him on fire. Air, that was the word that came to mind. I felt as little emotion as air." Fumihiro wants to destroy evil, but does the killer of evil become the thing he kills? That question lies at the heart of Evil and the Mask, the second novel by Fuminori Nakamura (after The Thief) to be translated into English.

Evil and the Mask opens with a fascinating premise. It is a tradition for men in a certain family, after attaining the age of sixty, to sire a child who will become a cancer in the world, tasked with spreading misery. The men do this to punish the world for continuing to exist after they perish. In an attention-grabbing first chapter, Shozo Kuki explains the tradition to his youngest son, Fumihiro. Shozo tells Fumihiro he will experience hell when he turns fourteen. Hell will somehow involve Kaori, an orphaned girl Shozo adopted, and to whom Fumihiro becomes attached.

The novel jumps between the formative events of Fumihiro's childhood and the present, more than a dozen years later. The adult Fumihiro has changed his face to match that of Koichi Shintani, a dead man whose identity Fumihiro purchased on the black market. The plot springs forward along three twisted paths. One involves Shintani's past and the baggage that comes with it. Another brings Fumihiro (with Shintani's face) into Kaori's life again, but in a very different role. The third introduces a cultish group of pseudo-terrorists who use absurdity to undermine culture.

Like The Thief, Evil and the Mask is a novel of psychological suspense. The story's strength involves Fumihiro's struggle to shed one identity and to adopt another, to reinvent himself -- an impossible task, perhaps. It's easy to change a face and a name, not so easy to change your inner self, to abandon memories. Unlike The Thief, however, Evil and the Mask is so determinedly a novel of psychology that some characters indulge in lengthy analytical speeches -- about beauty, death, morality, anarchy, entropy, familial love, the motivations for violence and war, the nature of evil -- that too often seem forced.

Still, the character of Fumihiro is impressively constructed. The reader feels the crushing weight of his oppressive past, his struggle to feel something. His coffee has no flavor, he doesn't notice the cold. He is little more than an animated corpse. He has forsaken the happiness he experienced while he and Kaori were still innocent -- a happiness that the adult Fumihiro regards as "some kind of mistake" that "soon vanished into the distance." He still longs for Kaori but fears that another character's prediction will come true, that he will destroy the one thing in the world that remains precious to him if he gets close to her. Can Fumihiro shed the despondency that consumes him only by embracing madness? Whether his future is to be determined by destiny or choice, the novel's dramatic tension comes from the uncertainty of the path that Fumihiro's life will follow.

Evil and the Mask is a meditation on change and choice, on killing and on what it means to be alive. Apart from its philosophical implications, the story is intriguing. The plot threads weave together convincingly, although the storyline involving Shintani's past doesn't quite reach its potential. The ending (like The Thief, inconclusive, permitting the reader to imagine what might happen next) is satisfying.

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Three Lives of Tomomi Ishikawa by Benjamin Constable

Published by Gallery Books on June 4, 2013

Is Tomomi Ishikawa dead? Is she the angel of death? In a suicide letter she left at Ben Constable's apartment, Tomomi (a/k/a Butterfly) claims she has already died. The letter leads Ben to Tomomi's laptop, which contains another letter that leads him on a search for yet another letter. As Tomomi intended, the letters take Ben on a sort of treasure hunt as he roams through Paris finding clues in umbrellas, gardens, the underground metro, a bar, a park. He continues his quest in New York, where by chance he meets a woman who is connected to Tomomi in many ways. Equally odd are the emails Ben receives from Tomomi in New York, forwarded by someone who always seems to know where Ben is and what he's been doing.

The various letters and notebooks that Ben discovers describe real or imagined moments in Tomomi's life, feelings of despair, fantasies and visions. They are, to say the least, disturbing. Death is a pervasive theme. At one point Tomomi writes that "our existence, so tenuous, is protected by nothing more than a thin layer of choice, like tissue paper. Death is present in us all." There are all sorts of symbols of life and death in Tomomi's letters: stopped clocks, plants that survive in unlikely places, statues of long-buried writers. As Ben continues his search (for what, he doesn't know), he recalls conversations he had with Tomomi and he commits them to paper.

At times, Three Lives of Tomomi Ishikawa has the characteristics of a mystery or suspense novel, but Ben's nonchalant attitude, even when confronted by danger, assures that Three Lives won't be mistaken for a thriller. Ben's success at uncovering Tomomi's clues is difficult to believe, but I'm not sure the reader is supposed to believe it, any more than we are to believe in the imaginary cat that turns up from time to time. The plot depends upon a mountain of improbable coincidences, but as one of the characters opines, "coincidences are completely normal. What would be abnormal is if there were no coincidences." Whether or not that's true, this is the kind of parable-like story that encourages suspension of disbelief; that's part of its whimsical charm.

Not all mysteries have solutions. As Ben notes, "In real life we don't get the answers we need." In fact, we might not need answers at all. We just need to learn how to move on without them. That's a recurring theme in Three Lives, and one a reader needs to take to heart to enjoy the novel. The ending is at best ambiguous; the true (or best) ending is up to the reader to construct. Not all readers will be able or willing to do that. If you need certainty in your reading experiences, this trip through Benjamin Constable's wonderland probably isn't for you. In the end, what "really" happened to Ben and Tomomi just doesn't matter. Constable reminds us that this "homage to a curious friendship" is only a story. It's a clever and entertaining story, and that's enough for me.

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Abaddon's Gate by James S.A. Corey

Published by Orbit on June 4, 2013 

The protomolecule, once confined to Venus, has managed to launch a self-assembling Ring that sits outside the orbit of Uranus. Anything that tries to fly through the middle of the Ring comes to an immediate stop before it begins a slow motion trip in a different direction, leading to the conclusion that the Ring is some sort of gate. Representatives of Earth, Mars, and the Outer Planets all converge on the Ring, as do Jim Holden and his crew. Although Holden would prefer not to investigate the protomolecule's latest actions, he's given no choice. Of course, from the moment the Ring is introduced, the reader knows that Holden will fly through it.

As you would expect, Holden and his crew (Naomi, Alex, and Amos) return in this third novel of The Expanse. As you might not expect, so does Josephus Miller, who is back from the dead. Or maybe it's not Miller, but something Miller-like is a key character again. Also returning is Julie Mao's sister Clarissa, now known as Melba Koh. She blames Holden for Julie's death (or transformation) and she's devised a cunning plan to obtain revenge. None of this will make the slightest bit of sense unless you've read Leviathan Wakes and Caliban's War, which I would urge any fun-seeking fan of science fiction to do. You could probably understand and enjoy Abaddon's Gate without reading the first two novels, but you'd be missing sooooo much context that it would be a mistake.

Other significant characters (some new, some returning from earlier books) include: Anna Volovodov, a member of the clergy who joins a UN advisory group on a mission to the Ring; Carlos Baca, a/k/a Bull, the untrusted security chief from Earth on a converted generation ship named Behemoth that belongs to the Outer Planets; Sam Rosenberg, Behemoth's chief engineer; Clarissa's wealthy aunt, Tilly Fagan; and Monica Stuart, a journalist who accompanies Holden and his crew, documenting their response to the Ring.

As they proved in the first two books, the writing team known as James S.A. Corey knows how to tell a fast-moving story that mixes humor with drama. This time, Holden is up against a space station that makes the Death Star look like a slingshot, as well as the usual array of humans who would like to jettison him out an airlock. While the action is never shortchanged (there's enough to satisfy the most ardent space opera fan), the novels are so good because the writers bring the story back to the people who are affected by it. The writers have a keen understanding of human nature and a remarkable ability to translate that understanding into emotionally complex, fully formed characters. Holden, in particular, changes a bit in every novel. This time, having lost his self-righteousness, he struggles against "creeping nihilism" and tries to recapture a sense of purpose.

Heroism and self-sacrifice have been consistent themes in The Expanse, and that remains true in Abaddon's Gate. Unlikely heroes have always emerged in these novels, and one of the new characters might be the unlikeliest of them all. As one of the minor characters notes, heroism is what happens when people don't think about the consequences of their actions. As another character demonstrates, the same is true of people who commit evil acts. Circumstances often dictate heroism, just as they dictate villainy, a subtle point that Abaddon's Gate illustrates brilliantly.

The writing is strikingly visual. Reading the Corey novels is like watching an extraordinarily detailed movie. Like the other novels in The Expanse, Abaddon's Gate delivers what fans want from space opera -- furious interstellar action, a sense of wonder and awe -- but it does more than that. The addition of a clergy member to the story invites discussions of philosophy -- not dry sermons or religious musings, but meaningful thought about forgiveness and the possibility of redemption and the benefit of using persuasion, rather than violence, to achieve just ends (themes that are present in each novel, but sharpened in focus in Abaddon's Gate). The novel is funny and exciting and moving and, on occasion, it comes close enough to being profound to set it apart from the vast majority of space opera.

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Big Brother by Lionel Shriver

Published by Harper on June 4, 2013 

"More concept than substance, food is the idea of satisfaction, far more powerful than satisfaction itself, which is why diet can exert the sway of religion or political zealotry." But as Pandora Halfdanarson learns, weight loss is a shabby religion: "you could only continue to worship at the altar of comestible restraint if you chronically failed your vows." Pandora has gained more than twenty pounds in the last three years, but she doesn't stand out in a generation of people who are battling (or surrendering to) obesity, who are marked as members of an underclass because of their weight. Many participate in "the national sport" of dieting, but few succeed. Pandora's obsession with her weight and that of her brother -- and, by extension, our national obsession with our own appearance and that of others -- is at the heart of Big Brother.

Quietly subversive, studiously non-opinionated, confidently dull, and intensely self-critical, Pandora is the epitome of a Lionel Shriver protagonist. The daughter of a former television star who has faded from the national memory, Pandora is a married loner, comfortably living within her own mind. Not wanting to be "a hyperlink to someone else's Wikipedia page," she shuns the derivative fame that her father's stage name brings. She would prefer anonymity to the celebrity she attained when her successful business, Baby Monotonous, landed her on magazine covers.

Pandora's brother, Edison, does not share her insular nature. He can talk all day, "at the end of which no one knew him any better than before," and he has adopted their father's stage name as his own. Edison's career as a jazz pianist isn't going well. Needing a place to live, he travels to Iowa to stay with Pandora. Seeing Edison for the first time in several years, Pandora is shocked to discover that he is huge, a very big brother indeed. At first, Pandora doesn't know how to broach the subject tactfully and so ignores it, but: "The decorousness, the conversational looking the other way, made me feel a fraud and a liar, and the diplomacy felt complicit."

To the extent that Big Brother is (as Shriver's novels so often are) an exploration of a social problem by illustrating its impact on a single family, Pandora's attempt to understand and explain Edison's obesity can be taken as Shriver's effort to understand why so many people gobble down Cinnabons and Big Macs, knowing they are putting their health at risk. Does Edison overeat because he's depressed or is he depressed because he's fat? Perhaps he binges to showcase his sense of failure on a grand scale. While Pandora's puzzlement about her brother approaches judgment -- something that is contrary to her nature and that leads her to question the stereotypes associated with size -- she also wonders why obesity's status as a social issue should make Edison's diet and lethargy anyone's business but Edison's. Or is eating oneself to death the business of everyone who cares about the eater?

Just as Shriver frequently draws literary themes from social issues, she is a tireless explorer of marital and family issues. Pandora has an inflexible husband, a rebellious teenage stepson, and a needy brother. She wonders how much support a sibling can expect when the sibling's demands are a source of marital stress. Fletcher Feuerbach, Pandora's husband, represents Edison's opposite extreme: he bicycles fifty miles a day and refuses to eat anything made from white flour. Edison's oversized presence drives a wedge between Pandora and Fletcher. Fletcher wants to escape Edison's "miasma of sloth," but Fletcher's rigid diet is just as maddening as Edison's unwillingness to diet. When Pandora accuses Fletcher of being on "a moral crusade" against fat, she exposes his true motivation for complaining about Edison: the complaints stoke his own sense of superiority.

To avoid spoilers, I won't discuss the meat of the story. Suffice it to say that diets have their downsides and that the honest portrayal of family drama is Shriver's greatest skill. The wry humor that often seeds Shriver's work is abundant here, but she remains one of the most serious, insightful, and penetrating chroniclers of the human condition to be found in current American literature. She writes with sensitivity and compassion, from a variety of perspectives, without ever becoming preachy. An ending that recasts the story in a different light initially disappointed me, but after I thought about it, I came to understand and appreciate it. This isn't Shriver's best work, but it's awfully good.

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