a Few Thoughts on Point of View, pt. 1

For some reason which I can only begin to guess at, an author's use of Point of View seems to be the thing I'm the pickiest about while reading a book. Of all stylistic elements an author might play with in their writing, their POV is the most noticeable - and, often, the most irksome - thing I come across.

I don't mind whether a book is written in first-, third-, or even second-person perspective - certainly all have their place; I've written in all of them plenty of times myself. How these perspectives are handled, though, can just about make or break a book.

I touched on this briefly in my review of Robert Cormier's The Chocolate War, where I said:

My personal preference is that a book - even one written from the third-person perspective, such as Chocolate - only follow the point of view of one character throughout the book's entirety. I say this, though, freely acknowledging how subjective it is. There's nothing, per se, inherently wrong with switching between characters. Many authors do it, and there's not necessarily any very concrete reason this should be disallowed.

(Before I continue, let me make one thing clear: There's a difference between a book switching POV between various characters, all of whom are partaking of the same story, and a book which alternates between two stories, each with different characters. Some examples of the first type - the type I'm focused on right now - would be The Chocolate War or One of Us Is Lying; an example of the second would be Good Morning, Midnight.)

There have been plenty of books I've liked well enough that have included multiple POV's. Just last week, I read and reviewed No Country for Old Men, which did precisely this (and you'll notice I didn't comment on it in my review). Almost every manga I've read switches POV constantly. Sci-fi and fantasy tend to do this with high frequency as well. (Just look at The Lord of the Rings, for a famous example.) You'll also notice that almost every movie ever does this. (Can you even think of an example of a movie which includes the main character in every single scene? - I can think of maybe two, if that.)

This isn't my preference, but it's passable. Sometimes - particularly when a story is spread geographically - there's not much of a way around this, at least not without stretching feasibility.

If the story all revolves around a cast of characters whom are closely connected and whom often occupy the same pages, though, shifting the POV can begin to feel rather lazy on the author's part.

If Suzy is the main character - most of the scenes include/follow her, the narrator shares Suzy's thoughts with us, etc. - there's no very good reason to suddenly jump into Bob's head just to show us what Bob is thinking - especially when Suzy is standing in the room with Bob. Rather, a less lazy approach would be for the narrator to continue following only Suzy, and make Bob's thoughts or feelings evident by his words, his expressions, his actions, etc. - you know: "show instead of tell" and all that.

When this happens, I wonder Who is the narrator, exactly? How does s/he know what all of these different people are thinking?

(Of course, the narrator of a story very often isn't meant to be a character in the book. This will be the focus of part 2, though, so I won't go into that thought for now...)

When it all comes down to it, if I can't think of a very concrete, specific reason for the narrator to jump inside a different character's head, it usually just feels like the author is taking the easy way out.

Again, I know this is at least partly subjective - so what do you think, friends? Is this something you notice in your readings? How do you feel about it?

REVIEW: The Chocolate War - Robert Cormier

• Year first released:  1974
• ISBN of the edition I read:  9780375829871
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Random House Children's Books
• My rating (out of 5):  4

In his introduction to The Chocolate War, Cormier explains that he was surprised when his agent called the book a "young adult" book. Apparently he hadn't meant for it to be a young adult book - just an "adult," general fiction book.

On the one hand, Chocolate falls pretty squarely into the label of young adult: the setting is a high school, all of the major characters are teenagers, etc. Their situations and struggles are reflective of - and highly realistically portray - high school life. Also, the actions and motivations of the characters are likely to be relatable and empathy-inducing for teenagers.

On the other hand, though I think I would have generally liked Chocolate if I had read it while in high school, I am certain I got much more out of it now, at age 32.

Chocolate has been labeled a "coming-of-age" story - a label that people are tempted to throw on pretty much any young adult novel that doesn't involve vampires or death matches - but this label is certainly false for Chocolate. It is not a book about growing up, finding your place in life outside of high-school for the first time, or anything of the sort. Yes, a couple of the characters experience growing pains once or twice, and the question of forging your own identity pops up here and there throughout (though mostly only for the main character, Jerry). However, to relegate Chocolate to this breed of story is to do it a disservice, and to miss the point of the novel.

Rather, Chocolate is a psychological game that resembles an intricate, dramatic thriller more than the writings of John Green or Rainbow Rowell. More than once, I've seen the book compared to S.E. Hinton's The Outsiders. Through a casual glance, I suppose I can see the connection. Having read both, though, Chocolate is a much more complex, psychological novel which avoids the brutish machismo of Outsiders in favor of a finely-crafted web of manipulation which grows to be downright Machiavellian.

The main antagonist of the book, Archie, goes far beyond a playground bully, landing himself squarely in the presence of Shakespeare's Iago (from Othello). Like Iago, Archie comes across as highly charismatic and honest (except to those who know his real motives). His charm allows him to weave himself into the lives and situations of nearly everyone around him, all of whom ultimately fall prey to his machinations. And, also like Iago is in Othello, Archie is undoubtedly the most fascinating character in Chocolate, and the gravity into which everything else in the story is drawn. He is a puppetmaster, pulling the strings of all the other characters.

Archie's strings are both what made me enjoy the book more than anything else, as well as what makes me think that I got more out of it now than I would have as a young adult. Though the story isn't hard to follow (I wouldn't call the plot simple, just well-explained), I think that it is easier to understand and admire the different situations and ideas now that I'm not so close to the world portrayed in the book. I imagine I would have thought the book was merely "cool" and "clever" at the time; now I am able to catch on to more of the psychological subtleties involved.

To put it more directly, without the charismatic, sinister, awe-inspiring genius of Archie, Chocolate would have been a completely different - and probably a completely worthless - book. I don't compare him to Iago hyperbolically.

Cormier certainly excelled at bringing his characters and their world to life in Chocolate. Each piece of this manipulative puzzle worked excellently. Nothing in the book left me confused, wondering why it happened or what the character's motivations were. This is all largely to Cormier's credit; most young adult authors seem incapable of weaving together such solidarity and meaning.

I have one complaint about the book, though, and it's too big to ignore.

Cormier's writing was mostly solid: his descriptions, characterizations, use of setting and metaphor and word choice were all highly effective. There is a consistent tone throughout Chocolate that most writers should be jealous of.

Cormier's use of point of view, though, could serve as an example for new writers of exactly what not to do in their own writings.

My personal preference is that a book - even one written from the third-person perspective, such as Chocolate - only follow the point of view of one character throughout the book's entirety. I say this, though, freely acknowledging how subjective it is. There's nothing, per se, inherently wrong with switching between characters. Many authors do it, and there's not necessarily any very concrete reason this should be disallowed.

Indeed, for the first 13 chapters of Chocolate (just under half the book), the POV changes at chapter breaks. The shift is always easy enough to follow. But then inexplicably, beginning with chapter 14, the POV begins switching much more erratically throughout, even multiple times mid-chapter. Though I still didn't have any trouble understanding where the story was or whose mind we were following, this constant shift was distracting and, I fear, a bit lazy on Cormier's part. Was there no other way to relate these occurrences through the eyes of the character whose mind we were following on the previous page? - I'm sure there was, if Cormier had thought through it a bit more. Granted, obviously these shifts were intentional - but intentional or not, they rubbed me the wrong way.

Worse, along these lines, there's also one - but thankfully only one - instance in which Cormier switches POV mid-paragraph for one little sentence. This, clearly, was not intentional, but rather a mistake on Cormier's part (which somehow also passed untouched through his editor's desk).

(I'm referring to a scene in the final quarter or so of the book. I no longer recall the page number, but it's in a dialogue between Jerry and one of his friends, The Goober. The scene follows Jerry's perspective, but then for one little, insignificant sentence, suddenly we're in The Goober's head, before immediately switching back to Jerry's in the very next sentence. Oops.)

As much as I enjoyed Chocolate - particularly the machinations of Archie, which were sheer, twisted delights - this large mishandling of point of view will keep me wary of reading Cormier's other books. No doubt someone who is less picky about this sort of thing won't be as bothered as I was, though. And, even still, it was worth trudging through the erratic POV for this fantastic story, in order to read what is, deservedly, a pillar of young adult fiction.

REVIEW: No Country for Old Men - Cormac McCarthy

• Year first released:  2005
• ISBN of the edition I read:  9780375706677
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Knopf Doubleday
• My rating (out of 5):  3.5

I don't often read multiple books in a row by the same author (unless they're a series, but even then, I usually take breaks in between entries). But, for some reason, after setting down Child of God, I just wasn't ready to step away from Cormac McCarthy yet.

I actually haven't gotten around to the 2007 movie No Country for Old Men yet. Now that I've read the book, I'm quite interested in seeing it, though. It's certainly a story which I'd love to see come to life. There's a raw realness to the entire ordeal that truly begs to be on display visually, not just on the page.

In fact, I have to admit that I am highly surprised by what I'm about to say, especially since this is Cormac McCarthy we're talking about here (and you know how much I enjoy McCarthy), but...I'm inclined to think No Country would actually be a better movie than it was a book.

...no, really: I can't believe I feel that way about a McCarthy book.

Though the writing in No Country is still head and shoulders above just about any other author writing today, I found it to be his weakest book stylistically. (In fact, though every other aspect of the book is better than All The Pretty Horses, I'd even say Horses was written better than No Country.)

More than once, I had a bit of trouble envisioning a scene, understanding the action, sometimes even figuring out who was speaking. (Admittedly, this last gripe is due in part to the fact that McCarthy doesn't use quotation marks for his dialogue, but it's never been as problematic for me before as it was this time around.) Several times I had to re-read small sections in order to get a better grasp on what was going on.

As well - and very importantly - McCarthy spent significantly less time/words describing the setting of No Country than any of his other books I've read. Gone are the simple, powerful sentence fragments and metaphors that give us the evocative, earthy connections to the worlds McCarthy creates in each of his novels. Though these sorts of images aren't, per se, necessary for a book to work, they've always been a particular highlight in McCarthy's writing - enough so that their absence was starkly noticed here.

There is much to praise in No Country as well, though, and I don't want to tip the scales too far in the wrong direction. The characters of No Country were all incredibly vivid and realistic. The main antagonist of the story, Chigurh, was especially powerful and intricate. Though I can't in good conscience root for him, all the same, I appreciated his ideals and his perspective at least as much as the main protagonist - likely more. A few times in the book we're treated to Chigurh's ideas about the situation - or even just about life generally - and these were, without a doubt, the most fascinating, haunting bits of the book.

Though the plot wasn't terribly complex, it was an appropriate fit for the mood, the time, the characters. If the story itself had gotten too much more entangled, it would have risked alienating the lifelike people who populate No Country. Better that McCarthy left the story simple to contrast with the complexity of the moods, persons, and ideals involved.

I suppose that, to be perfectly fair, No Country might deserve a 4 more than a 3.5. It's hard not to stack it up against other McCarthy books, though - in which case, I feel just barely disappointed enough to deduct half a point.* I'm still quite pleased to have read it, though, and much more interested in seeing the movie than I was before reading the book.




*For more of an explanation on this thought process, feel free to check out my post from a few months back Having High Expectations of Creators.

Enjoying the Classics, pt. 2

(Be sure to start with pt. 1 before treading into this post.)


...but, subjectivity aside, there must be a reason that classics are...well, "classic," right?

Sure, we all have different tastes. There are plenty of people who sincerely love the Beatles and 1984. Even above this, though, there must be something that qualifies a book (or a song, a movie, etc.) to be considered "classic."

To make it perhaps a bit overly simple, I suppose we can break it down in three ways, only the first of which I've discussed so far:

We can rate a book based on how much we enjoy it,
how well-crafted it is,
and how important it is.

No, I'm not enjoying 1984 so far. But is it well-written? Is it culturally significant?

The answer to these two questions are "yes" and "very much yes." And sometimes that's enough to rise a piece of art into the zone of "classic."

Not every book is merely meant to be enjoyed, is it? Some are written because the author has some sort of idea or message to impart, and believes that a novel is the best medium for conveying it. Perhaps the author wishes to explain, highlight, or even oppose some sort of zeitgeist in his/her world. There is no doubt that fiction has always been used as a means to this end - surely it always will be (barring some sort of Fahrenheit-451 scenario from happening, God forbid).

Of the three ways of judging a book, I put them in that order for a reason: specifically, I was thinking of them from most subjective to least subjective.

Whether or not a book is enjoyable is 100%, through and through a matter of opinion. What I enjoy might come off as downright garbage to you, and vice versa. After all, I can't stand the Beatles, and I'd bet you probably enjoy them. (Personally, I've never met anyone who doesn't like them; I suspect I may be the only one.)

Whether or not a book is well-crafted is still partly subjective, though I would argue there are at least a handful of measures we can discuss a bit more objectively. (Is the author's word choice appropriate for the subject matter, without being too limited or too wild? Is there variation in the sentence length and structure? Is the setting fully established? Are the characters internally consistent? etc.)

Whether or not a book is important is really not very debatable. This question is something that can be quantified with reasonable objectivity. How have people responded to it? What sort of impact has it had on the culture into which it was introduced? Does it have a timely message?

In fact, of each of these three judgments, we realize that whether or not a book is enjoyable is actually the least determinant factor regarding whether a book is considered a classic.

It's for the best this way. If classics were just based on what's popular and sells well - and on what people merely enjoy, regardless of literary merit or significance - then we run the risk of Fifty Shades of Grey being considered a classic in another 50 years. And that's just not a world any of us would want to live in.


What do you think of all of this, friends? Are there any classics which you don't enjoy, but which you appreciate for their value? Let's hear about them! 

Enjoying the Classics, pt. 1

Let's just clear the air of something right off the bat. This might mortify you, and I'm sorry about that. But here it is:

I can't stand the Beatles.

I know, I know. Maybe there's something wrong with me. I've mystified - and even downright offended - some people by saying this. But it's true. Their music just rubs me the wrong way.

That said, I understand why they're important. Their influence is enormous; they paved the way for future generations of pop music; etc. They absolutely deserve to be looked back upon fondly, and to be as seminal as they are. I understand and accept and agree with all of that.

But I don't actually enjoy their music in the least bit.

So then. If I haven't scared you away yet, I'm sure you can already guess where this is going:

What about "classic" books? Do we have to like them just because they're "classic"?

Based on my Beatles analogy, you can no doubt guess my answer to this question:

Of course you don't have to like a book just because it's a classic! Forget what your English teacher and your snooty friends and that strange guy at the bookstore said. It is okay to not like a classic. There have been plenty of classics along the way that I haven't enjoyed. In fact, I'll tell you the reason I'm thinking about this topic now:

I recently started reading 1984 by George Orwell. (...yes, for the first time. ahem...*mumbles incoherently*)

I'm about a quarter of the way in, and...well...it's really not my cup of tea so far. I haven't exiled it to the land of no return (at least not yet), but I'm really not enjoying it at all. Yesterday I told my wife that if this book were written today (instead of being a "classic" from yesteryear), I definitely wouldn't be reading it.

Much like I said about the Beatles: I understand why 1984 is important. I can see why it has been so influential. I recognize that the ideas were simultaneously both a product of their time and ahead of their time. I'm glad it exists. But none of this adds up to me actually liking it.

(Now that it's come this far, I imagine I'm probably stepping on all kinds of toes with this post - haha. Oops.)

Of course there are plenty of classics that I've read and loved along the way, for one reason or another. And there have been a fair share that - much like 1984 - ultimately weren't for me.

And that's okay.


What are some classics that you've read but haven't actually liked, friends? And what are some that you've read and do enjoy?

REVIEW: Child of God - Cormac McCarthy

• Year first released:  1973
• ISBN of the edition I read:  0679728740
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Vintage International
• My rating (out of 5):  4

I'm actually a little hesitant to give Child of God a four-star rating. As to be expected from McCarthy, it's incredibly vivid and highly realistic, with characters that veritably seem to have a life of their own. Never once did I feel like McCarthy was overstepping his bounds as the author, nor stretching the reality of the book's mood or setting. As far as the writing is concerned, Child of God is a solid four at the very least - likely more.

My hesitation over the rating, though, is that Child of God plays right at the edge of the line of being too disturbing (at least for my tastes). The main character, Lester Ballard, is a deeply depraved man, and McCarthy doesn't spare many details of the protagonist's escapades. (Thankfully, he spares a precious few, which is possibly the main reason I was even able to finish the book.)

This is not a quest for redemption. This is not a journey of the protagonist coming to the light, learning from his mistakes, or grappling with his morality. Ballard is vile through and through, and McCarthy never apologizes for this nor tries to get us to believe otherwise.

Sometimes it can be off-putting to have a character that is so intrinsically immoral. Where's the complexity, the ambiguity, the checkered past, the thought process that gets us to actually sort of kind of make us just barely begin to slightly understand at least a little tiny bit why this guy is so evil? Though normally these things make for a fantastic, rich villain, in this rare exception, it is most certainly to McCarthy's credit that he does not try to get us to empathize with Ballard. Understanding Ballard isn't the point; we are only observers. Child of God is a portrait of mankind at its worst. And though we could argue that in reality, there always seems to be a reason for a man to sink so low, this book is simply not about the reasons, the psychology, the saccharine. It is about the depravity.

That said, we come to my main complaint of Child of God. (That is, my main complaint regarding the writing, not just my personal tastes.) Though this picture of depravity is fully realized and highly effective, I was left wondering what, precisely, was the point of the tale. Considering that there is no resolution to speak of, I couldn't help but question what exactly McCarthy was trying to convey. Evil, yes, but why? What inspired McCarthy to commit these particular ideas to the page?

Luckily, these questions didn't trouble me until I finished the book. It was not a consuming curiosity that I grappled with throughout each of the 200 pages - more of an idle question once I turned the final page. Considering that the book was so explicit and unsettling, though, it's a fair question to ask: Why did McCarthy spend 200 pages disturbing me, only to end the story without any sort of resolution, redemption, or message?

If this isn't the sort of thing to trouble you, though, friend, then Child of God is one of the better-written books you're going to read. The style, characterizations, and imagery are all first class without a doubt - it is only the disturbing content which gives me pause.

REVIEW: Another Episode S/O - Yukito Ayatsuji

• Year first released:  2016
• ISBN of the edition I read:  9780316312318
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Yen Press
• My rating (out of 5):  3

You might remember from my October review of Another that I was quite smitten with it. (I gave it a 4.5 - pretty dang great, really.) One thing I said about it was, "Every step of the way, the story continually evolves - whether subtly or overtly - and is jam-packed with at least a dozen hefty twists, each of which alters the trajectory of the plot in unpredictable ways."

You can imagine, then, that I had rather high hopes for this side-story novella, Another: Episode S. Ultimately, these might have set me up for a bit of disappointment. 

Episode S wasn't bad. It wasn't anything particularly special, though - at least not compared to its counterpart. Here we have a ghost story about the ghost of a man trying to figure out how he died, why, and where his body is. (He is under the impression that he can't move on from this world until he finds his corpse so that he can get a proper burial.) It's kind of straightforward stuff, really, nothing groundbreaking (up until the end, at least).

I discovered an interesting concept after finishing the book, though:

There were several things about the plot development that bothered me. Frankly, I thought they were rather lazy on Ayatsuji's part, even a bit of a stretch. It felt as though Ayatsuji was taking the easy way out, relying too much on coincidence to move the story along. Curiously, though, once I hit the twist ending - which was quite sizable and highly intriguing, by the way - I realized that many of the things which bothered me along the way were actually intentional, and weren't as lazy or stretchy as I had thought. 

This said, on the one hand, I'd like to say that this revelation washes away the bad taste of that perceived laziness. It was certainly a worthwhile ending which I didn't see coming, and which made sense of the apparent conveniences along the way. Then again, I spent 200 pages with those things. And even though they were justified in the end, so to speak, that's still 200 pages of a bad taste. It's not necessarily so easy to gloss over that, even with a great finale. 

Some people say the end justifies the means. I think Episode S is proof that this isn't always true.

If I look at Episode S as a side story to add a little more weight to the world of Another, it's interesting enough. Considering how much I loved the first novel, I was glad to have the chance to spend more time in the universe. Episode S is absolutely not a starting point for the universe, though, and it won't win over anyone who wasn't impressed with the first book - it's just a nice little filler to flesh out the world a bit more.

(A couple minor, non-review notes, by the way:

One of the reasons Episode S is not a starting point for the world of Another is because it gives away several of the twists from the first book. If you're interested in the world, PLEASE read Another first.

Also, you might have noticed the title of the book also mentions Episode O, which I didn't comment on in this review. Episode O is a very short manga included in the back pages of the book, about which there's not much to say. It doesn't have much of a plot on its own - it's really just meant to highlight a tiny little bit of backstory from the original novel, and would be completely meaningless if you haven't read the original.)

REVIEW: The Halo Grower - Ryushiro Hindemith

• Year first released:  2016
• ISBN of the edition I read:  0989488926 (sorry for the Amazon link this time - this book isn't available via Barnes & Noble)
• Publisher of the edition I read:  Corinthian Editions
• My rating (out of 5):  2.5

As you've noticed, sometimes I have a hard time figuring out exactly what I want to say about a book. Whether it's because I have mixed feelings about the book, or else because I struggle to find the right words/examples to explain how I feel about it (whether good or bad), sometimes it can be difficult to express.

This is not one of those times.

The Halo Grower is not a bad book, per se. There were plenty of elements to it that were generally interesting and worthwhile.

What Hindemith did wrong, though, he did very wrong. And, considering that it's the main conceit of the book, there's really no way around discussing it at length.

Before explaining, it's worth pointing out: The Halo Grower isn't an especially well-known book. (In fact, I suspect it's self-published, though I haven't verified this yet.) I discovered it in a list on goodreads.com, which listed it as one of the "most difficult" novels in English. Naturally, I was curious. Before picking it up, I didn't know what about the book made it so difficult. After beginning it, the answer came quickly...

Ryushiro Hindemith has a much better vocabulary than you and I do. (That, or he just has a mighty thesaurus, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt.)

This fact alone isn't a problem. It's a good thing, in fact. Considering that a person's vocabulary is the number one measure for determining their IQ, Hindemith is clearly in the realm of genius.

Rather, the problem is that Hindemith wants to make sure that we absolutely know he has a better vocabulary than us, to the point where he's clearly just showing off.

Every single page is packed with words you've never seen before. Many of them are, in fact, real words. Others weren't exactly extant before Halo, but still make sense in the way that he used them (adding prefixes or suffixes to change the type of word they are, etc.).

Here, for example, is a very limited list of words from The Halo Grower which I'd wager you haven't come across in your readings:

• blepharospasmic
• Buddhamaniacal
• cathexes
• centuplication
• chirospasmic
• clerestories
• ectomorphic
• eigengrau
• epeirogenic
• etiolated
• Husafellian
• ignivomitus
• karmavention
• lachrymations
• lagophthalmos
• lethologica
• narthex
• neurapraxia
• nevi
• nystagmus
• plantarflexion
• pulchrified
• pyrocumulus
• sanctoliloquy
• sanctomaniacalism
• sanctomegalithic
• shadowgraphical
• stelliferous
• stygiophobia
• synapectomy
• telamonic
• telamons
• triboluminescence
• tritanopia
• vitruvian

Again, this is only a tiny sampling of Hindemith's crazy word choice. In fact, I pulled all of these from just the final 15 pages of the book. (This is merely because I didn't think to start making such a list until I was nearly done reading the book.)

Clearly the vocabulary through Halo is what classifies it as one of the "most difficult" novels in English. Really - how many of these words have you seen before, friends?

That said, I didn't have any trouble following the book. No, I had never seen any of these words before either, but most of them are pretty clearly guessable in context. I only stopped to look up the definitions of one, maybe two words while reading. (Neither of which are actually on this list I shared - they appeared earlier in the book.)

What troubled me more than the use of these rare, complex words, is that Hindemith clearly went out of his way to use them - well out of his way.

If "lachrymations" truly was the best word to use in the context of the sentence, I wouldn't mind in the least.

I'll spare you the trouble of looking it up, though: "lachyrmations" is another word for "tears." Yeah, tears. Like, those drops of water that come out of your eyes when you cry.

Never once in the entire book does Hindemith say that his character "cried" or "shed tears." Nope. The character shed "lachrymations." (He shed them rather often, in fact.)

Oh, come now. This is just plain silly, isn't it?

And it's precisely this silliness that shows us the truth: Hindemith is trying to be difficult. He's purposefully going out of his way to show off his vocabulary.

Yes, I like to learn things as I read. I suspect you do, too. I'm not particularly interested in having an author brag to me about his vocabulary for 250 pages, though. It's a little unbecoming.

Friends, here's a pro tip for you: when you're writing your best seller, let your main character cry. Don't make them lachrymate.

So then. How was the book beyond this asinine word choice, you ask?

Meh. It was fine. The overall setting was quite intriguing. Ironically, though, the plot didn't really go anywhere. (This is ironic because the book is, more or less, a Buddhist cosmological epic about creation and reincarnation - which means that the plot goes everywhere, so to speak - and yet, it doesn't really amount to much. Rem - the main character - basically just comes up against one hurdle or another [actually, mostly one hurdle over and over again] during his creation process, and...well, that's about it.)

I enjoyed picking apart The Halo Grower, accepting the challenge of discovering and understanding this insane vocabulary. It was a fun literary exercise, if nothing else. As well, the setting was vivid and vibrant and of personal interest to me; it's a theme that isn't touched on often, and was worth exploring for that reason.

Aside from these things, though, I really don't know that I can recommend it to anyone. If you want to accept the challenge of Hindemith's word choice - or if you're interested in a peculiar, modern look at Eastern cosmology - then sure, give it a shot, I guess. Otherwise, it's hard to say who else this book might be for.