The Man in the High Castle by Philip K. Dick

First published in 1962; published by Mariner Books on January 24, 2012

The Man in the High Castle is a skillful blend of abstract and concrete, of political theory and the impact of fascism and colonialism on a formerly free people. The novel is many things at once: a story of personal growth; a meditation on the nature and purposes of art; a deconstruction of political doctrine; an exploration of moral philosophy. I don't think I fully appreciated it when I first read it, about ten years after it was published. It still isn't my favorite Philip K. Dick novel (Ubik holds that distinction) but, after rereading it, I have a better grasp of what Dick was trying to accomplish. It is probably the best alternate history I've encountered.

As is true of the best Philip K. Dick novels, The Man in the High Castle is intricately plotted. The first half of the story establishes characters and sets up the intrigue. It isn't immediately clear where the story is headed. The second half weaves together the various storylines, all taking place in a world where Germany and Japan prevailed in World War II. Not every story is nicely resolved, but that's a reflection of life.

The cast of characters includes an Italian fascist, a Nazi, a Japanese bureaucrat, a divorced Jewish couple, and American forgers and dealers in Americana, both antiquities and kitsch. Dick made the inspired decision to write a book within a book: although it is banned in some places, everyone is reading a novel that imagines the US and Britain had defeated Germany and Japan. The device allows characters to compare life in Dick's alternate history to life as it more-or-less exists in post-war America.

To some extent, The Man in the High Castle is more interesting for the questions the characters ask than for the events that shape their lives. Would anyone but Philip K. Dick imagine a German, victorious after World War II, thinking: "We do not have the ideal world, such as we would like, where morality is easy because cognition is easy. Where one can do right with no effort because he can detect the obvious." If there is any context in which doing what is "right" is "obvious," it is Nazi Germany. Yet even in that context a soldier who wants to challenge the leadership of the Reich finds himself wondering whether he is following the right path. It is fashionable to condemn "moral relativism" in modern America, but Dick masterfully portrays the difficulty of viewing life through the lens of absolutism. That is one of many respects in which Dick encourages the reader not just to read and enjoy the story, but to think. This is a novel that benefited from a second reading; I think it would easily bear a third.

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Billion Dollar Brain by Len Deighton

First published in Great Britain in 1966

At some point in Billion Dollar Brain, the unnamed British spy from whose perspective the story is told says to an American named Midwinter: "You think the best way to contribute to a dangerous situation is to raise a private army out of your profits on cans of oil and beans, frozen orange juice and advertising, and to operate your own undeclared war against the Russians." That pretty well sums up the plot. Midwinter wants to recruit the unnamed British spy to his private army of agents; the Brit plays along to learn what Midwinter is planning. The premise is thin and not particularly credible, but it leads into a fun, well-written story that feels only slightly dated despite its 1966 vintage (other than giving the book its title, computers are fairly peripheral to the plot, fortunate given that they operate as little more than expensive answering machines).

In its depiction of paranoid overreaction to the perceived threat of Communism, Billion Dollar Brain reminds me of Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove. Kubrick's humor is over-the-top while Deighton's is of the understated British variety -- the film is played for laughs while Deighton's novel retains the elements of a thriller -- but both use satire to make the same fundamental point: "facts are no substitute for intelligence" and all the nefarious facts that could be mustered about Khrushchev's Russia would not have justified the decision to initiate a world-ending nuclear conflict.

Billion Dollar Brain is written with an understated nonchalance, low-key humor perhaps too frequently offsetting the tension of high-stakes espionage. Although it is one of Len Deighton's early novels, he wielded all the tricks in a seasoned writer's arsenal to direct a play in the reader's mind. Dialog often makes the reader picture scenes that are never directly described; non sequiturs force the reader to rethink characters and settings; offhand remarks help the reader imagine the details of a character's personality. The plot takes a couple of perfect twists before arriving at a satisfying conclusion.

Billion Dollar Brain doesn't have the same heft as Deighton's later novels but the story is fun, the characters are quirky, and the writing is so engaging that the novel is of enduring value.

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The Android's Dream by John Scalzi

Published by Tor Books on October 31, 2006.

You know The Android's Dream isn't meant to be taken seriously long before genetically altered electric blue sheep make their appearance. The sheep and the title combine to form a not-so-subtle reference to Philip K. Dick's classic novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (the inspiration for the film Blade Runner). For reasons too convoluted to explain here, the electric blue sheep are important not just to the ruling family of a race of aliens from the planet Nidu but to an Earth-based religion called the Church of the Evolved Lamb, a religion that was founded as a scam by a hack science fiction author. That not-so-subtle reference to L. Ron Hubbard and Scientology seals the impression that John Scalzi's tongue was firmly embedded in his cheek as he wrote this novel. Of course, the opening scene, in which a human farts an alien to death, suffices to establish Scalzi's comic intent. Taken in that spirit, the action-filled story is a fun romp, although not nearly as memorable as Scalzi's serious fiction, particularly Old Man's War and its progeny.

Harry Creek, a veteran who lost his best friend in a disastrous military conflict, is happily employed in a dead-end government job when he's unexpectedly tasked with tracking down a rare sheep of the Android's Dream breed. His search causes him to revive his dead friend as an Artificial Intelligence, then leads him to a woman named Robin Baker, who (for reasons that are best described as twisted) happens to share some DNA with the Android's Dream. For most of the novel, Harry and Robin are fleeing and fighting to avoid capture by a variety of humans and aliens who think the ruling family on Nidu should or should not get hold of Robin. Either eventuality seems destined to trigger an interstellar war that would not end well for Earth.

It says something about Scalzi's writing ability that a plot this silly actually holds together. Given Scalzi's proficiency with military science fiction, it should come as no surprise that the most powerful scenes in The Android's Dream occur on a battlefield, as humans join Nidu in a botched effort to suppress a native rebellion on a Nidu colony world. Yet the novel's strength lies in its acerbic look at politics and its practitioners. Scalzi also has fun lambasting pseudo-religious doctrine. For additional comic relief, Scalzi serves up an alien who eats people whole, a practice that his native religion not only permits but encourages, although only during that short period during which he must take a religious journey to discover himself by exploring decadence. Naturally enough, the religious alien finds himself drawn to the nonsensical writings that underlie the Church of the Evolved Lamb.

Scalzi puts more imagination into throw-away sentences than some sf writers can muster for an entire novel. Silly as it is, The Android's Dream is tightly plotted; the many plot threads all tie together in a nifty package by the novel's end. I wouldn't call this laugh-out-loud science fiction of the sort often produced by Connie Willis, but it is nonetheless a fun, amusing read.

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The Dispatcher by Ryan David Jahn

First published in Great Britain in 2011; published in US by Penguin on December 27, 2011

Maggie Hunt was kidnapped at the age of seven by a fellow named Henry Dean. At the age of fourteen she escapes and calls 911. The 911 dispatcher happens to be her father, Ian Hunt, who has recently organized and attended her funeral. Henry recaptures Maggie before she can do more than identify herself to her father, but her taste of freedom fuels Maggie's resolve to escape again. And, of course, hearing his daughter's voice sends Ian on a manhunt (or daughter-hunt) to find Maggie and her captor.

The Dispatcher has its problems but the pluses slightly outweigh the minuses. The story is a bit twisted (that's a plus) but far from original (a minus). It's more than a little difficult to believe a loser like Henry could commit the crimes he's committed over a period of years -- in a small town, no less -- and avoid suspicion (a minus). As befits a girl who has been held captive and physically abused for half her life, Maggie's mental stability is questionable; in that regard she isn't portrayed as a typical victim (a plus). On the other hand, she's emotionally stronger than a real kid would likely be under those circumstances (a credibility problem that counts as a small minus). Other than Maggie, the characters -- even Henry -- have well-constructed personalities; they have significantly greater depth than is commonly found in thrillers (a plus). Some of the characters have amusing flaws that give them a breath of reality while lightening a dark story with needed humor (a plus). Point of view frequently shifts from character to character, keeping the narrative lively and interesting (a plus). Straight through to the ending the story is simple and predictable (a big minus) but knowing what will transpire doesn't bleed the excitement from the novel's best moments (a big plus).

Although The Dispatcher suffers from an unremarkable plot, the novel's biggest plus is Ryan David Jahn's writing style. He tells a perfectly paced story; fast enough to maintain interest without feeling rushed. He doles out creepy details (like a dog running around with a human hand in its mouth) to whet the reader's appetite for whatever is coming next. He takes a story that's been done many times before and makes it seem fresh (at least until it ends, when the realization sets in that Jahn really did nothing new). His dialog is strong. He puts us inside the minds of his characters and shows us their scattered thoughts, making it easy to understand their (sometimes improbable) actions. Henry is the personification of evil yet he's a credible character. Even Henry's spectacularly dull-witted wife is credible. If Maggie had been more believable and the plot more original, I would give this novel an enthusiastic recommendation. As it stands, I recommend it without urging readers to move it to the top of their reading lists.

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The Lake by Banana Yoshimoto

Published in Japanese in 2005; published in translation by Melville House on May 3, 2011

Having often seen each other through their apartment windows, Chihiro and Nakajima meet and become friends, bonding over their grief for their deceased mothers. The friendship evolves into something more, although the precise nature of their relationship is something Chihiro can't quite define, even after they are living together. Nakajima is tormented by the pain of something in his past. He eventually asks Chihiro to accompany him on a visit to Mino and Chii, strange siblings who live on a lake. Chii is bedridden; she speaks through Mino, who channels her voice through an apparent telepathic connection. Meanwhile, Chihiro is painting a mural on a wall that may be torn down. Her relationship with Nakajima has the same risk of impermanence as he contemplates applying for a research position in Paris. Eventually we learn a defining secret about Nakajima's past and the nature of his relationship with Mino and Chii.

To some extent, The Lake is about the nature of perception and illusion. Chihiro recognizes that "we keep our gazes fixed, day after day, on the things we want to see" while averting our attention from life's ugliness. Nakajima isn't like that; he sees the world as it is, all of it, and his perception of reality forces Chihiro to do the same: she is "awed by his terrible depths." Nakajima has survived a harrowing ordeal, the details of which are only sketchily revealed for much of the novel. The Lake isn't so much about what happened to Nakajima or even how his life has been affected by it (he tells his story only in the story's final pages); the focus is on Chihiro's response to Nakajima both before and after she learns the truth.

If you're craving a plot-driven story that's filled with dramatic tension, this isn't the novel for you. A good bit of The Lake consists of Chihiro's introspection, her thoughts about her art, her goals, her parents, her personal growth. More importantly, The Lake is an internal examination of a heart. Chihiro analyzes her emotions, strips away superficiality, constructs a detailed understanding of her feelings about Nakajima. Her analysis changes from moment to moment as she reevaluates her emotions and redefines love. Chihiro compares Nakajima's relationship with his mother to her own memories of a mother who worked as a Mama-san in a bar. All of this is interesting, even illuminating, but at the same time so strange that it didn't entirely resonate with me. My sense of detachment from the narrative continued to grow as I continued to read.

In the end, I'm not quite sure I understand what Banana Yoshimoto was trying to do in The Lake. It's about the difficulty (and necessity) of opening your heart but there's more to it than that. It can be read as a simple love story about two "ridiculously fragile people," as Chihiro suggests, but I don't see Chihiro as fragile. If anything, she's emblematic of the strength that arises from goodness and compassion. To an extent, Yoshimoto is exploring love that germinates from mutual dependence rather than physical desire, or love as a healing force. The character of Chii gives the narrative a supernatural quality that seems out of place with the rest of the story; I'm not quite sure why she's there.

Ultimately, The Lake didn't quite work for me, but it worked well enough. I admire the intensity of the narrative and the way Yoshimoto captures the essence of her characters in just a few words. Of Mino she writes: "He was quiet in the way people are when they believe the world would get along just fine without them." Sentences like that kept me reading even if I didn't fully engage with the larger points Yoshimoto intended to make.

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