This book is a pretty crazy beast. It would be a perfectly enjoyable science fiction/action novel, if it weren't based around Flavius Belisarius, one of the most fascinating generals of the sixth century and reconqueror of Italy. And it looks like he's going to be up fighting against the Guptas, of all people.
Right before sitting down to write, I've just read through a bit by a grumbling, unhappy semi-sentient jewel from the future (don't ask) which is very upset that Belisarius' famous victory at the Battle of Dara could have been so much simpler if only somebody had just bothered to invent the stirrup. I suppose it does have a point.
A few chapters later, the following charming piece of dialogue is said by Sittas:
"He [meaning Belisarius] probably swore an oath. He's always swearing oaths. Swore his first oath when he was four, to a piglet. Swore he'd never let anyone eat the creature. Kept his oath, too. They say the pig's still around, roaming the countryside, devouring everything in sight. The Bane of Thrace, the thing's called now. The peasants are crying out for a new Hercules to come and rid them of the monster". A belch. "That's what comes of swearing oaths. Never touch the things, myself." (chap 9, pg 160)
The book does love its historical references: Antonina is a major character (her fictional relationship with Belisarius is very different from the generally accepted historical narrative), we see Procopius being hired (and learn why he in particular was chosen), and of course Justinian and Theodora loom over everything. Where I am in the book (page 160), Narses and John of Cappadocia have just been name-dropped. And the authors make a passing reference to -- of all things -- Sailing to Byzantium. Presumably, just because they could.
So: science-fiction/historical/action/fun! An aside: there's a lovely scene early on in which Procopius is caught off guard by some praise from Belisarius. I loved the idea of seeing a famous writer of history flustered, especially since in our world we see those times through his eyes. It's like seeing Shakespeare caught cheating in grammar school, it's a lovely little touch.
(More spoilorific information on An Oblique Approach is available on TV Tropes)
People who know me know that, even as I acknowledge Lolita as the finest novel I've ever read, my heart belongs to my favouritest novel in all the world, the little known The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis, a novel published in 1984 by genius Portuguese novelist José Saramago, who died last June at the age of 87. Saramago wrote Year of the Death when he was 62, and death is very much at the heart of the novel. But that's not why I like it.
On the surface, Year is an almost unbelievably dull book. Spoilers begin: Reis, a nobody Doctor who has lived in Brazil for years, has migrated back to Lisbon after learning of the death of his friend Fernando Pessoa. He spends a listless year falling in love with the young, unobtainable Marcenda, who in her shy way responds to his affection; while sleeping with Lydia, the chambermaid at his hotel, an affair he hides from the world. The ghost of Fernando Pessoa meets him occasionally, bringing wisdom, humor and friendship from a afterlife shrouded in darkness. Twisty plotlines following the state's suspicion of his sudden return to Portugal, the power dynamics at the hotel at which he stays, and his delicate balancing of his two, different loves. And then, on the second last page of the novel, as its title promises, Pessoa's ghost arrives to usher Reis into the afterlife.
So, why the love? I always knew that it was because I felt a link with Reis, buffeted by the forces of love, desire, boredom, fear and society, and unable to do more than to batten down his hatches, to take joy in a cold, friendless life when and where he could. Reis is a man who slips so quietly and unceremoniously out of his own life that nobody except the grieving Lydia and her unborn child -- Reis' only legacy -- notice his passing.
Tonight, I compare my behavior in areas like science and Wikipedia -- where I believe I would push to have my way, in some shape and form, if I was convinced that truth was on my side -- with how I act and react to human relationships. The twisty thing about simultaneously feeling worthless and unique is that you never, ever want to stand up for yourself. It's the path in the middle: the worthless part of my psyche insists that imposing myself on another human being is a crime, right up there with talking loudly on a phone on a bus, while the egotist in me insists that, welp, hey, if they don't want to interact with me, it's their own loss.
No, it isn't. And this is important.
Another teeny, tiny little point: there is one, single bit in the entire book where Reis goes out and does something. Knowing that Marcenda is heading to Lourdes in a final attempt to heal her paralyzed arm, Reis heads there himself to plead his case, to risk all in the name of love blah blah and so on and so forth. But, this final foray into standing up for his own affection, to condemn with his actions the line fate has drawn for him, is an utter failure. The lesson learned is not to fight.
Post scriptum (Dec 19, 2011): Bob Corbett reminds me of these glorious lines from the novel:... human unrest is futile, the gods are wise and indifferent, and above them is fate, the supreme order to which even gods are subject. And what of men, what is their function. To challenge order, to change fate. For the better. For better or for worse, it makes no difference, the point is to keep fate from being fate.So.
I just discovered the #SciFund challenge, a Kickstarter-like project to raise money for scientific projects by promising deliverables created as part of the project. I think it's a great way of getting non-scientists involved in science, to say nothing of getting funded and of creating a concrete science-to-public deliverable system. So: excited!
Here's some of the projects I took a fancy to. Unfortunately for me, as a grad student lacking money, RocketHub (the hosting website) has no mechanism for "subscribing" to a project without paying that I can find. So this might be the only way for me to keep an eye on them (and maybe make a contribution with my next paycheck).
The most fascinating part of this enterprise for me is the connection between the science projects and the contributors: the deliverables. Rewards for donating ranged from credit (on websites or in publications), to a copy of the research results, to exclusive access to project blog and Twitter feeds (which make no sense to me: wouldn't you want those feeds to be as public as possible, to encourage more people to join in and contribute?). More interesting deliverables were also on offer, from elephant dung paper and calendars with photos of the research subject, to photos taken during the study, clay sculptures of dolphin fins, lyrics to a Tanzanian children's song, and comics personally drawn for you by Zach Weinersmith of Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal fame. Allegedly, a comic of "Carl Sagan riding a unicorn" is not out of the question.
One thing I did find odd was the lack of links in the project descriptions. Only a few projects linked to websites, blogs, Facebook pages or Twitter feeds (one project going so far as making the Twitter and blog feeds "contributor only"), although just about all of them had really excellent websites hidden away in the "About Me" section. I love Twitter for letting me follow a project without getting too involved, so more Twitter feeds would have been great to see.
Thinking in the longer term, I wonder how well this would work without the #SciFund banner, though. Unlike music or movie crowdfunding, where artists can put up samples beforehand, it might be harder to prove your scientific worth to a broader audience. For instance, how would I differentiate between a serious project to study bee evolution and some nutjob trying to prove that evolution didn't happen? I could look at the project description, sure, but it's not hard to reference many scientific studies to give yourself an air of authenticity. Perhaps the #SciFund banner will eventually be replaced with institutional banners: if the research is being carried out by the Smithsonian, the University of Colorado or is partially sponsored by National Geographic, you can be pretty sure it's been vetted.