Book Review | The Glorious Angels by Justina Robson

Mixing science fiction and fantasy with elements of horror and erotica, as well as the weird, The Glorious Angels is Justina Robson's first non tie-in novel since Down to the Bone—the conclusion of the Quantum Gravity quintet—fully four years ago. I don't mind admitting that I had high hopes it would represent a return to form for the oft award-nominated author, but despite its dizzying ambition and a few glimmers of brilliance, to be blunt, it doesn't. A syrupy slow opening sees to that from the start.

The first few hundred pages of Robson's cross-genre odyssey take place in Glimshard, a magnificent city of crystalline stems and spires at the very tip of which sits the Empress Shamuit Torada, who has in her infinite wisdom waged a war of sorts against the Karoo, a strange and essentially alien race "from so far away they were considered beyond civilisation, as elusive as the two-headed wolf of legend," (p.21) and at least as dangerous, I dare say.

As to why she's set her sights on such a terrible enemy when her people are pitifully unprepared for conflict of any sort beyond the wars of words fought in coffee shops across the capital... well, some among the citizens of Glimshard wonder as we do, and some among them think they've arrived at an answer: in brief, because the Karoo's territory takes in a dig site beneath which several surviving scientists have seen evidence of something special; something which the Empress desires so dearly that she's ready to risk the survival of all her beloved subjects to recover.

The exact nature of this purported prize is an enigma wrapped inside of a riddle—buried, to boot, fathoms below the surface of the world—even to Tralane Huntingore, Professor of Engineering at the Glimshard Academy of Sciences.

Hot or Not | The Dirty Streets of Heaven

Remember when I went to America, and The Speculative Scotsman was host to a month's worth of guest posts?

Remember how one of the bloggers I asked to entertain you all in my absence smartly parlayed my gentle suggestions of more standard subject matter to talk, instead, about sex?

Justin Landon's tongue-in-cheek review of the best and worst sex scenes in contemporary fantasy fiction was a huge hit — both with me and mine and, according to the analytics, you and yours. It's sprung to mind whenever I've come across questionable erotic content since, so I thought the thing to do was to fold what is admittedly a touchy subject into a semi-regular series of features.

Beginning today, and continuing whenever I see something particularly filthy - say a sex scene that makes me wince - I'll run an installment of Hot or Not, wherein I ask exactly that. There will be abbreviated arguments, and evidence by way of brief excerpts from the texts in question, but the final decision is on your shoulders, folks. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to judge whether a specific sex scene is - you guessed it - hot... or not.

With which, we begin.

And what a corker we have to start with!

The Dirty Streets of Heaven is the first volume of Tad Williams' urban fantasy series starring one Bobby Dollar, an advocate for the Highest's interests on Earth. His daily bread is to represent the dead on their day of judgement: to make a case for the soul's salvation whilst his old adversary pleads for its eternal damnation.

But as the blurb of this headlong new novel insists, Bobby Dollar is far from your average angel, so he isn't above falling for a lovely lady... nor indeed an evil demon.

I've bolded a few of the best bits from Williams' description of this dodgy dalliance:

"I rolled over and wrestled her to the floor again, then began to lick and kiss and nibble my way from her face to her toes and back up again,stopping somewhere in the middle of the second traverse to nose my head between her things. She yanked down one of the flimsy curtains surrounding the bed and let it settle over us, then took an end of it and looped it slowly and lovingly around my neck, using it as a bridle to speed me up or slow me down as I indulged myself in her astonishing, wonderful wetness. I heard her cry out my name until even that last word disappeared into less articulate sounds. but as much as I loved the taste of her, the cold skin and the warm, salty damp, I couldn't wait long — in fact, I couldn't wait any longer. As she lay catching her breath I sat up between her thighs and began to position myself over her, but she was not going to let me do it, not yet. She rolled me onto my back, putting a finger over my mouth to silence my questions, and then squatted on her heels above me, teasing my hardness with her own silky softness, rubbing back and forth without allowing me to penetrate, until I was almost as desperate as in the most frightening moments of our struggle, with her knife pressed against my neck. Then, as if we still struggled, I suddenly summoned my remaining strength and wrestled her onto her back. This time I was the one who stabbed at her, and she was the one who gasped out a cry that sounded like agony. Cold, cold, her skin was so cold... but inside she was as hot as a furnace. I cried out then, too, shocked and amazed and overwhelmed that it could be like this — that anything could be like this." (pp.236-7)

As did I.

But wait, it gets better! Because the bearers of the aforementioned hardness, not to mention the astonishing, wonderful wetness our dear Dollar is so in awe of... well they decide to go at it again, as follows:

"'Ooh,' she said, reaching down and giving me a squeeze. 'It appears your chariot is no longer swinging low, Mr. Dollar.' Her voice dropped down to a husky rasp. 'What do you say, Wings? Would you like to... carry me home again?'" (p.239)

So bad. And yet so, so good! :D

There's your evidence, anyway. Now it falls to you folks to make the call: are these excerpts from The Dirty Streets of Heaven hot, or not?

Guest Post | Justin of Staffer's Book Review on Sex in SFF

Ladies and gentlemen: welcome once again to The Speculative Scotsman!

You may or may not know that I’m in America at the moment – if not, yes, it’s true... in fact I’m as far AFK as I’ve ever been before – but never ye fear! For in my absence, a few good men and women have volunteered to make the site their own, albeit only momentarily. They’re bloggers, by and large, but also friends; fine folks one and all that I’ve met on the internet (and occasionally off) in the course of keeping this shared space set aside for burbling about speculative fiction of all shapes and sizes.

They all have blogs of their own, of course, and I’d urge you to seek them out. I care a lot about what goes on here on The Speculative Scotsman, so let me stress this one thing before I get to giving over the floor: the fact that I’m hosting the work of each of these excellent writers here speaks to my admiration and my respect for every last one among them.

If you enjoy some or all of these terrific reviews and opinion pieces, do the decent thing and click through the links in the intro and outro of each. Follow a few of my favourite internet critics. :)

On this fine Friday, it's entirely my pleasure to welcome one Justin Landon to TSS. Justin, as you may well be aware, is the writer behind one of my favourite genre blogs of recent years, namely Staffer's Book Review.

By all means, click through that link and come on back here when you're good and ready... after all, it should only take a minute for you to realise why having Justin here is such a treat.

Now that we're all on the same page, behold this musing amongst musings!

***

Sex. Dirty, icky, squishy, sloppy, romantic, loving, and harmoanious (sic) sex. Most fantasy novels have it to one degree or another, but very few seem to get it right. Ask any author, what's the hardest thing to write? Most of them, I suspect, would answer sex. Although, Sam Sykes would probably say something like words. Smart asses aside, sex is hard because everyone's had it. Unlike sword fights, or politics, or horse riding, sex is a universal experience. If an author gets it wrong, readers will know it on a visceral level.

Maybe it's easier to write sex for young adults, those little punks don't know any better!

I've had sex. Not a lot of it - I mean I do read SFF - but I like to think I've had enough to identify what sex is like. Not what it should be like, or what it could be like, or what I wish it were like, but what it actually is. A few weeks ago I read an early review copy of Elizabeth Bear's Range of Ghosts, a second world fantasy built on the foundation of steppe culture. In the early going she wrote a sex scene that I immediately dubbed, THE BEST SEX SCENE IN FANTASY NOVEL HISTORY. Bold words! Why is it the best? What makes Bear's scene capture what it's like to do the dirty?

Before I get into that, let's talk about what other authors are doing wrong. I don't mean a failure to use sex for a purpose -- to serve story telling, or to communicate theme and tone (something Joe Abercrombie does brilliantly) -- rather a failure to capture the perfect balance of pornography and romance. Since I mentioned Abercrombie, let's use his Best Served Cold as Exhibit A.

"Uh, uh, their mindless grunting. Creak, creak, the bed moaning alone with them. Squelch, squelch, his skin slapping hard against against her arse." Best Served Cold -- Joe Abercrombie

This scene captures a lot of what Abercromie tries to do with sex. There's a cinematic aspect to it, but also a detachment. His sex lacks investment from his characters and maintains a psychic distance from the act. There is a self consciousness to it that translates the kinds of characters he writes. The result is something inherently pornographic, a dead behind the eyes kind of fucking. Is it effective? Absolutely. But, as a sex scene, as a series of words meant to convey the act of sex and all that it is, it fails. There's an inherent lack of emotion that I believe cannot be separate from sex -- even in the most casual of relationships.

What would Abercrombie's on-line porn website be called? Before They Are Banged?

Then there's Charlaine Harris who wields sex like a laugh-track.

"While I stood stock-still, paralyzed by conflicting waves of emotion, Eric took the soap out of my hands and lathered up his own, set the soap back in its little niche, and began to wash my arms, raising each in turn to stroke my armpit, down my side, never touching my breasts, which were practically quivering like puppies who wanted to be petted." – Dead to the World by Charlaine Harris

I'm sorry, did she say quivering puppies? I can't recall the last time my wife's chest barked at me. I must be doing it wrong. And then we have pure unadulterated stereotypical paranormal romance:

"I let my hand stroke boldly downward, my fingers aching to set him free, to grasp his turgid magnificence." – A Brush of Darkness by Allison Pang

I don't know about the other men reading this, but if my partner called mine turgid magnificence I'd be hers forever. [Amen - Niall] I asked my wife to say this sentence out loud and she couldn't do it. I asked her to think it next time we were mid coitus. She ended up laughing at a rather inopportune moment. All that goes to say that neither Harris nor Pang portray sex that carries any approximation to the real thing. Just as Abercrombie creates a false image that belongs in a Van Nuys garage illuminated with 1,000 watt bulbs, the PNR community trends toward over-glorification of the act, an idealized image of what sex should be. Or more specifically, some warped perception of what it should be. It lacks the selfishness, the craving of power, and the fear of failure that are inescapable realities between the sheets

It's not just me, right? Oh God, it is just me... isn't it? [I'm saying nothing! - Niall]

Kameron Hurley, author of God's War and Infidel, who I have in the past compared to Abercrombie, demands similar results from her sex, but restrains herself:

"She kissed and licked Jaks in a detached sort of way. It was like watching two people she didn't know have sex. God's War -- Kameron Hurley

Like Abercrombie she's using sex to develop character and set a tone for the novel, a tone similar in nature to the one quoted above. Unlike him, she eschews the graphic descriptions, the two quoted lines making up the entirety of the scene. This restraint is something likewise exhibited by Brandon Sanderson:

"...." Everything He's Written -- Brandon Sanderson

I'm kidding, in so far as to say that Sanderson mentions sex about as often as he mentions Satan as his Lord and Savior. For his purposes, story telling and otherwise, Sanderson ignores sex, a perfectly reasonable endeavor albeit somewhat willful in its denial of a fundamental human activity. Hurley doesn't ignore it, but prefers not to describe it. She recognizes it and uses it as a character device without risking the land mine that is an awkwardly written sex scene.

For my money, I'd rather Hurley's approach than many other's. As I sat down to write this article, making a list of sex scenes in my mind, I remembered that one from God's War. In my memory it was far more graphic than Hurley wrote it. I filled in the blanks. It's effective use of sex, but it's not really a sex scene, is it? This gets at the question, of why write a sex scene at all? I respond, why write a fight scene? And the answer is because people want to read them. Sex, just like action, can make for compelling theater. Just as a carefully orchestrated duel between two equally matched fighters can make for a breathless climax (pun intended!), so too can sex. The problem is that few authors attempt it in such a role, and fewer still can succeed.

Man lance. Seriously. Someone called it a man lance. Hey baby, want to get lanced?

To come full circle, Elizabeth Bear takes the rawness of Abercrombie, the idealism of Pang, and the purposefulness of Hurley. She uses sex as a character builder and a plot device, but also chooses to write in the details. She captures the selfishness, the self consciousness, the passion, and the romance. It is equal parts fucking and love making. It resonates for me as the realest thing I've read in something that's inherently fantasy. Bear creates excitement, anticipation, and release as her two character clash in a battle not of swords, or wits, but of their loins (awkward sex scene word!).

It is, in short, perfect. I leave you, fair reader, with a taste:

"She was softness, lush dimpled softness of arms and flanks wrapped around strength, like a bent bow. She was the fall of cool hair across his throat and his burning face, like water to a man sick with sun. She was the smell of sweat and pungent oils. She was the warmth of the night, and seventeen moons rose over her shoulders while she rode him with the purpose and intensity with which she raced her mare." Range of Ghosts -- Elizabeth Bear

***

Brilliant stuff, Justin... just brilliant! And one more time: thanks so much for putting it all together for The Speculative Scotsman.


Remember, you can and you assuredly should point your browsers towards Staffer's Book Review for more of Justin's masterful musings. Would you believe this bloke's been on the scene for barely a year? And already methinks he puts most of the rest of us to shame.


On that note, you may have noticed today was supposed to be the appointed day for another installment of Letters From America. Well, it's still coming... but it'll either be a little late, or I'll wrap this week's random recollections in with next week's, so hold your horses, y'all. :)


Everyone have a happy weekend, now. I'll see you on the other side!