Imagine eating like this

From George Martin's A Dance with Dragons, pp 26-28 condensed:

"They began with a broth of crab and monkfish, and cold egg lime soup as well. Then came quails in honey, a saddle of lamb, goose livers drowned in wine, buttered parsnips, and suckling pig. Tyrion had never eaten so well, even at court. Next came mushrooms kissed with garlic and bathed in butter, a heron stuffed with figs, veal cutlets blanched with almond milk, creamed herring, candied onions, foul-smelling cheeses, plates of snails and sweetbreads, and a black swan in her plumage."

A black swan in her plumage? I'd be in cardiac arrest before that point.

Read More

The Embarrassing Existence of Muhammad and Jesus

I wasn't aware that the classic criteria were used outside of historical-Jesus studies, but in a debate between Robert Spencer and David Wood, Did Muhammad Exist?, they are not only used but spoken of as if a common language among historians. Neither is a professional scholar of Islam, but their debate is a good one and well informed. Spencer denies that Muhammad was a real person, per his book Did Muhammad Exist? published last year (which argues that the prophet was a fiction created in the 690s). Wood defends the mainstream view that Muhammad existed, and by relying solely on the criterion of embarrassment to make his case. That's what grabbed my attention.

Both Spencer and Wood agree that we don't have any early sources, let alone multiple or independent ones, to make a case for Muhammad's existence. There's no mention of Muhammad or the Qur'an by the Arabs who were supposed to have been energized by them in the first six decades. Only by the eighth century, and particularly the 9th, do we get stories of Muhammad in sudden immense detail. In the early expansion following the 630s, the prophet and holy book are unheard of, not only in surviving Arab communications, but in the writings of those they conquered. These Arabs are said to have come and laid waste, but they are not called Muslims, just Hagarenes, Ishmaelites, and Saracens.

Recognizing this wide gap, Wood turns to the criterion of embarrassment to make a case for Muhammad's existence, and note the way he introduces it. He gives the impression that the criterion is a tool used by historians at large:

"Historians have developed principles for gathering kernels of truth, even from defective and biased writings. One is the criterion of embarrassment. When someone admits something that makes their hero look bad, it's probably true, because he wouldn't invent something that's embarrassing to him. When people invent things, they invent things that make themselves and their beliefs look good. Muslims won't invent things that make Muhammad look stupid or immoral or evil."

Wood is a Christian apologist, and it may be that he is simply familiar with the methodologies of New Testament studies of the historical Jesus, and assuming they are a common historian's language; I'm not sure.

Wood commendably (and again in agreement with Spencer) advises caution with the criterion, emphasizing that what is embarrassing to modern Muslims wasn't necessarily embarrassing to Muslims 14 centuries ago. For instance, according to Muslim sources, Muhammad had sex with his nine-year old child-bride Aisha; he had sex with his slave girls; he told his followers to rape their female captives and have sex with prostitutes; he approved of men beating their wives into submission; he ordered the assassination of his critics and execution of apostates, and the violent subjugation of Christians and Jews; he supported his religion by robbing people, and had a man tortured for money. While all of this material is highly embarrassing to many modern Muslims (and indeed why these traditions are often denied, in whole or part), none of it would have been embarrassing to early Muslims. These practices were perfectly acceptable by 7th-century Arabian standards, and there's no reason why they couldn't have been invented.

Wood, however, lights on seven accounts in early Muslim sources that do seem genuinely embarrassing. I'll outline them here, followed by Spencer's rebuttals, and then Wood's counter-rebuttals.

(1) Muhammad thinks he's demon-possessed. When he began receiving revelations, his first reflection was that he was demon possessed. When he fled from the cave, he was convinced that part of the Qur'an was put into his head by a poetry demon. His wife and her cousin finally convinced him that he wasn't possessed but rather a prophet of Allah.

Spencer's rebuttal: The reason to invent this is to lay aside fears that Muhammad's revelations were demonically inspired in the first place.

Wood's counter: But you can come up with all sorts of ways to show or justify that someone isn't demon-possessed without making him look a fool (i.e. so that he can't tell the difference between holy revelations and demonic ones). You can simply have Allah pronounce him free of demons, or have him work miracles, etc.

(2) Muhammad's attempted suicide. After Muhammad's experience in the cave, he became suicidal and tried to hurl himself off a cliff. If you're manufacturing a prophet to unite the Arab people, you wouldn't describe him as history's first suicidal prophet.

Spencer's rebuttal: The reason to invent this is to lay aside fears that dark forces were influencing Muhammad. He ultimately resisted suicide and went on to fulfill his mission.

Wood's counter: As above, with demon possession. There are more attractive ways to dispel fears like this than showing your prophet to be shamefully weak.

(3) The Satanic verses. According to our earliest Muslim sources, Muhammad delivered revelations from the devil. In addition to Allah, there are three goddesses you can pray to. He and his followers bowed down before them. Then Muhammad came back and said these verses really weren't from God, they were from Satan, and he replaced them with the words we find in the Koran today. If you invent a prophet, you certainly don't invent one who is duped and tricked by Satan, and who can't tell the difference between the holy and the damned.

Spencer's rebuttal: If this religion is in a period of flux and being developed, it's going to go through stages, which will contradict earlier stages. And so there has to be some explanation as to why some things were taught but then were not taught.

Wood's counter: This is actually the strongest case of embarrassment, where the authentic momentum keeps it steamrolling through generations, despite being increasingly watered down. In the earliest verses, Muhammad was duped by Satan into delivering the revelations; in later verses, he didn't actually deliver them -- he was impersonated by Satan; in still later verses, all of this is cut out and all that's left are the pagans bowing down in honor of the revelation. (In the original story, they were bowing down because Muhammad was honoring their gods.) The historical core has been all but completely lost by the time of the Hadith collections. [As I will point out below, this trajectory is similar to what we see in the baptism of Jesus across Mark-->Matthew-->Luke-->John.] The only way such an uncomfortable story would have had the momentum to stay alive, despite the increased damage control, is if people knew it really happened.

Spencer's second rebuttal: The embarrassment is admittedly obvious, but that doesn't mean the original account couldn't have been invented. It's like telling a lie, and then you find you have to quickly tell another lie to cover it up.

(4) Muhammad falls under the power of black magic. Multiple references indicate that Muhammad was the victim of black magic, which made him delusional and gave him false beliefs. One of his enemies stole his hairbrush and cast a spell on him.

Spencer's rebuttal: The reason to invent this is to show Muhammad victorious over black magic. The story is designed to reinforce that black magic holds no sway over him.

Wood's counter: There are easier and more palatable ways to show that Muhammad isn't under the power of black magic, without portraying him as actually succumbing to black magic in order to break free of it.

(5) Muhammad's many wives. Muhammad's revelation decrees that Muslims are allowed to marry up to four women. Yet the Muslim sources say that Muhammad had many more. The defense is that he received a special revelation from Allah giving him special privilege, but this still violates his own revelation.

Spencer's rebuttal: Allah can do as he pleases, as he does all the time. Furthermore, Muhammad is portrayed as a super-virile hero -- having the sexual potency of 40 men -- not exactly an ordinary guy.

Wood's counter: Muhammad could have had loads of sex with his four wives to prove his super-potency, and then loads of sex with, say, 100 slave girls. This would have allowed him to stay consistent with his revelation.

(6) Muhammad marries the divorced wife (Zaynab) of his own adopted son (Zayd). And this, after he was the one to break up the marriage. The justification for this is so over the top that it screams embarrassment.

Spencer's rebuttal: It's true that this one (like (3) the Satanic verses) is embarrassing. The story ends with the statement, "Muhammad is not the father of any of your men, he is the father of the prophets." The sources had to emphasize that Muhammad was the final prophet, the seal of the prophets, which meant that if all the prophets were of one bloodline, then Muhammad could have no son -- natural or adopted. So this story was invented to show that Muhammad had no son, and that he had an adopted son, but that Allah ruled out the necessity for adoption, ruled out the legitimacy of adoption, and emphasized this by giving Muhammad in marriage his adopted son's ex-wife. Thus this was no violation of the laws of consanguinity, because Muhammad was not this man's father -- or indeed any man's father. It's also an indirect dig at Christianity, which has a whole theology of adopted sonship: if adoption is illegitimate, than Christianity is too.

Wood's counter: You can deny that Muhammad had sons a lot more easily than this, without leaping through tortured and self-defeating explanations.

(7) Muhammad poisoned by a Jewish woman. Muhammad is portrayed as poisoned by a Jewish woman whose family had been slaughtered by Muslims. The poisons ate away at his organs for two years before he died in shameful agony. If your prophet's greatest desire was to die gloriously in battle, you don't invent a shameful end like this for him.

Spencer's rebuttal: This account serves the political purpose of demonizing the Jews, a thread that runs through the Hadith as well as the Qur'an itself. It's a particular preoccupation of the Qur'an leaders at the time the Qur'an and Hadith were put together, to demonize the Jews whom they saw as formidable opponents.

Wood's counter: Then why not have Muhammad dying in battle fighting the Jews?

Summary: As Wood points out, Spencer adopts a "means-to-end approach" in accounting for these embarrassments. But the early Muslims could have had Spencer's ends without these embarrassing means. They could have justified doctrines or ideas without either making a fool out of Muhammad or making him look apostate. Spencer counters that we don't know enough details behind these traditions to "make sense" of how they would have been crafted or argued, and he insists that most of these accounts don't show signs of embarrassment in any case -- aside from (3) and (6). The other five examples, according to Spencer, seem to have been no more embarrassing to the early Muslims than the account of Muhammad having sex with the nine-year old Aisha.

What's fascinating to me about this debate -- besides the use of criteria which I thought to be the exclusive domain of New Testament studies, and a liability for precisely this reason -- is that it mirrors some contemporary debating about the existence of Jesus. See, for instance, Richard Carrier and Mark Goodacre, Did Jesus Exist?, which follows on the heels of Carrier's recent book, Proving History: Bayes's Theorem and the Quest for the Historical Jesus. Carrier doubts that Jesus existed, and he's analogous to Spencer in finding the criterion of embarrassment to be especially useless. In each debate, I find myself on an odd middle ground, believing in the existence of both Muhammad and Jesus despite the limited value, as I see it, of the criterion of embarrassment.

For sake of analogy, I will list seven (as Wood does in the Muhammad debate) examples where the criterion of embarrassment has been used by New Testament scholars to argue for the authenticity of Jesus material. Let's see how these really hold up.

(1) Jesus' baptism by John. Why invent your sinless savior undergoing a rite that washed away sins?

(2) Jesus' feasting with sinners and tax collectors. Why fabricate mocking caricatures of your Lord as a bon vivant who ate and drank with low-lives?

(3) Jesus' use of spit to heal blindness and deafness. Why associate your Lord with pagan magic?

(4) Jesus' mistaken prophecy of the end. Why make your Lord incompetent?

(5) Jesus' betrayal by Judas. Why invent one of the twelve disciples turning evil?

(6) Jesus' denial by Peter. As above.

(7) Jesus' despairing cry on the cross. Why show your Lord pitifully weak at his moment of triumph?

(*) Jesus' crucifixion. Special case.

(1) is the only one on this list that I would call embarrassing in the hard-core sense. In the accounts of Jesus' baptism by John, the apologetic process from Mark-->Matthew-->Luke-->John is so obvious you'd have to be a fool not to see it. Each evangelist controls the embarrassment better than the one before. It's the closest gospel analogy to the Satanic verses example which Wood adduces for Muhammad. Just as in the final version of the Muslim sources, Muhammad is no longer offering devilish revelations at all (whether he himself or the devil's impersonations of him) -- all that's left are those bowing down in honor of his revelation -- so too by the time of the fourth gospel, John is no longer baptizing Jesus; all that's left is the epiphany. Mark admitted the baptism, Matthew defended it with protests and platitudes ("The only reason you need to be baptized," John assures his superior, "is to 'fulfill all righteousness'"), Luke censored it by putting the Baptist in jail when Jesus was baptized, and John censored the actual baptism. It's unclear as to when a baptism would have become embarrassing in the evolving Christian movement, but I subscribe to the view that there was high Christology at a very early date. I think it likely that Jesus' baptism by John can be regarded as historical on the basis of embarrassment. The tradition was kept alive all these decades, steamrolling through every single gospel ("with momentum", to use Wood's phrase) because it really happened, and had to be acknowledged in some way, despite its difficulties. That's not a certainty, by any means, but by far the most plausible explanation.

(4) seems significantly embarrassing to the three synoptic writers (Mark, Matthew, and Luke). Jesus' prediction that the end would come in his lifetime ("I say to you that there are some of those standing here who will not taste death until they see the kingdom of God come in power") makes him wrong, and the synoptic writers (following Mark's lead) make lemonade out of this embarrassment with the transfiguration. For Mark, those who died before seeing the kingdom come in power are the disciples who missed the transfiguration (and also, per Stephen Carlson, those who fled the crucifixion unlike the women). But the gospels show embarrassment only because they were written after the death of all first-generation followers. The saying wouldn't have been embarrassing, say, in the mid-50s, during the first-generation church. In fact, it could well have been invented during this time to serve as an assurance for those who were getting impatient for Jesus' return, as some disciples were dying off. The message would have been, "Don't worry, Jesus is indeed coming again, and some of you will still be alive when it happens." Only at the point when everyone died off would the saying become scandalous. So this one's a draw: Jesus could have made the foolish prediction, or it could have been invented in early pre-gospel years.

(3) is embarrassing to Matthew and Luke. They censor the spit from their accounts in copying Mark. But I'm unclear as to how blasphemous this practice really was, or if Judaism was syncretic enough to accommodate it in some circles.

(7) is embarrassing to Luke and John. But neither Mark nor Matthew seem uncomfortable with Jesus' agonizing cry on the cross, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?". (Luke replaced it with a calm eulogy of Jesus' spirit, and John used the triumphant, "It is accomplished!") That's because Mark's agenda was to console and vindicate Christian believers who suffered as Jesus did (per Mark Goodacre). So this could have been invented to serve Mark's interests.

(5) and (6) aren't embarrassing, as far as I can tell. In the post-70 age of the gospels, Judas actually serves as a helpful device to show how the old ("evil") religion of Judah and its temple cult is replaced by the Christian sect. Per Donald Akenson, Judas functions as one who opposes Jesus-the-Christ in the same way Satan opposed the Almighty in late Second Temple mythology. As for Peter, his behavior squares with Mark's agenda in showing the consequences of denying Christ in times of suffering; it also functions as wonderful (anti-Peter) propaganda amidst factional battles for control of the church.

(2) isn't embarrassing at all. Regarding sinners, the Christian movement was all about the last being first, exalting the lowly, Jesus dying expressly for sinners and the ungodly rather than the righteous. This is what the Christians reveled in. Jesus' table-fellowship with low-lives could have been invented to justify their theology -- despite the fact that so many historians (conservative and liberal alike) love holding this up as a sure case of sure history. Don't misunderstand me, Jesus may well have feasted with outcasts; but the criterion of embarrassment is no help here.

(*) I include the crucifixion as a special case. I believe it to be the least embarrassing and most scandalous part of the entire Jesus traditions. Early Christians like Paul weren't remotely embarrassed by the shame and scandal of the cross. They made it their badge of honor, and to hell with difficulties in converting others to their cause. (That's a common enough phenomenon in the history of religious movements.) However: there would have obviously been huge embarrassment in the immediate aftermath of the event, until the disciples could stop and reflect and decide to embrace the worst thing conceivable as their salvation. So in an off-kilter way, I believe that embarrassment does point to the historical authenticity of the crucifixion.

Conclusion: What I hope these "lists of seven" demonstrate is that the criterion of embarrassment is a limited tool that while sometimes pointing us in directions of greater plausibility, is abused when not applied thoughtfully. I say Muhammad existed, but I appreciate Robert Spencer's cautions that what seem embarrassing in the Muslim sources may really not have been so. The Qur'an is outside my comfort zone, but in my own sampling of the best New Testament examples, I find that most show little if any embarrassment over the Jesus traditions. It's obvious, however, that Spencer gets too desperate in accounting for extreme cases like the Satanic verses and Muhammad's marriage to Zaynab. Yes, it's possible to "tell a lie and then tell other lies" to cover for your blunders, but that's not usually the most plausible explanation for an exceedingly embarrassing account.

If anyone knows of studies outside the New Testament and the Qur'an which use the classic criteria, especially that of embarrassment, I'd like to know. I was under the impression they were used for the historical Jesus only, but the debate between Spencer and Wood indicates otherwise.

See also: My review of Robert Spencer's Politically Incorrect Guide to Islam and the Crusades, to which he responded.

Read More

Favorite Literary Moments

By which I mean narrative scenes that have had such a dramatic impact on me I call them revelatory. Scenes that changed me, bruised me, made me the person I am. They showed me the true power of fiction in the hands of greatly inspired writers. Some are tragic, others are terrifying; some emotional, others exciting, one hilarious beyond measure. I narrowed the list down to 12 in covering the genres I read most: 4 fantasy, 3 historical, 3 science-fiction, 3 horror, 2 romance, 2 scriptural, 2 general, and 1 poem. They are ranked in descending order, best at the top. Feel free to submit your own favorites in comments.

1. The Grey Havens. The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien, 1955. This classic departure moves me in ways I never even try to describe. How did Tolkien write such magic? Sauron was defeated, but the end of the Third Age is about everyone's defeat -- the suffering and passing of Frodo, the fading of the elves, and the foreordained deterioration of men. Words can't do it justice apart from the text itself: "'But,' said Sam, and tears started in his eyes, 'I thought you were going to enjoy the Shire. For years and years, after all you have done.' 'So I thought too, once. But I have been too deeply hurt, Sam. I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them.' Then Elrond and Galadriel rode on; for the Third Age was over, and the Days of the Rings were passed, and an end was come of the story and song of those times. With them went many Elves of the High Kindred who would no longer stay in Middle-Earth... Cirdan led them to the Havens, and there was a white ship lying, and upon the quay beside a great grey horse stood Gandalf. 'Well, here at last, dear friends, on the shores of the Sea comes the end of our fellowship in Middle-earth. Go in peace! I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.' Then Frodo kissed Merry and Pippin, and last of all Sam, and went aboard; and the sails were drawn up, and the wind blew, and slowly the ship slipped away down the long grey firth; and the light of the glass of Galadriel that Frodo bore glimmered and was lost. And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed on into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise."

2. The Red Wedding. A Storm of Swords, George R.R. Martin. 2000. The Grey Havens break my heart, and the Red Wedding slams my gut. Its effect on readers is legendary; some even stop reading the series after this chapter, it's that upsetting -- more than even Ned's beheading in the first book. I never saw it coming, I was so convinced that Robb would take back the North, despite the cues at the chapter's start: "The drums were pounding, pounding, pounding, and her head with them. Pipes wailed and flutes trilled; fiddles screeched, horns blew, the skins skirled a lively tune, but the drumming drove them all. The sounds echoes off the rafters, whilst the guests ate, drank, and shouted at one another. Outside the rain still fell, but within the Twins the air was thick and hot. Most of the heat came from the wedding guests, jammed in so thick along the benches that every man who tried to lift his cup poked his neighbor in the ribs. Even on the dais they were closer than Catelyn would have liked." Something awful is on the way, but who would guess. Robb's death is stunning; the massacre appalling; Walder Frey's violation of guest rights off the scales, even by his treacherous standards. And Catelyn's death twists in the knife, as if Martin needs to prove beyond a doubt that he's at home with nihilism. "It hurts so much, she thought. Our children, Ned, all our sweet babes. The white tears and the red ones ran together until her face was torn and tattered, the face that Ned had loved... Then the steel was at her throat, and its bite was red and cold." The Red Wedding is exactly what the fantasy genre needed a decade ago, and the enema worked; more authors are taking inspiration from Martin and putting the screws to their protagonists.

3. Heaven on Earth. Shogun, James Clavell. 1975. There are too many scenes I could choose from Shogun: the ninja assault on Osaka Castle, Toranaga railroading his vassals and ordering their children put to death as a test of loyalty, Alvito's fury over a Japanese convert who took Eucharist after pillowing with a whore, Blackthorne's fury when Mariko offers him a boy for sexual pleasure. But even these have nothing on the pleasure-house scene in chapter 40, where Blackthorne makes the 180-degree turn from loathing Japanese culture to loathing his own. Few writers can pull this off like Clavell, and make us feel the same way despite ourselves. For all the merciless cruelty, honor killings and suicides, 16th-century Japan was civilized in ways the western world couldn't begin to comprehend -- certainly more advanced (and sane) on the subjects of medicine, cleanliness, sexual pleasures, and diet. Blackthorne's last bit of resistance breaks in the pleasure house, and he bursts out in rage against his English heritage, which now seems so guilt-based and gross: "What a stinking bloody waste!" And then later, drifting off to sleep with Kiku in his arms: "What was it Rodrigues had said? 'The Japans're heaven on earth, Ingeles, if you know where to look,' or 'This is paradise, Ingeles.' I don't remember. I only know it's not there, across the sea, where I thought it was. It's not there. Heaven on earth is here." This literary moment is perfectly realized; it's miraculous.

4. God "Answers" Job. Book of Job, Unknown biblical author. 6th century BCE. The most challenging book of the bible still has no answer. Even our best theologians cannot account for the appalling sufferings of the innocent without truncating God's powers, either his omniscience (he doesn't always know what's going on), his omnipotence (he's not all-powerful), or his all-loving nature (there's a dark side to God that goes beyond the romantic constraints we put on the term "love"), though that last comes closest to what the author of Job implies. Humanity, by this wisdom, can't see the big picture, indeed they're too stupid too even begin grasping it. Horrors like the Holocaust, the Rape of Nanjing, 9/11 -- and the calamities slamming our good friend Job -- evidently can't be explained in a way that our limited minds would understand. So God responds by way of non-response, with a deluge of contemptuous counter-questions: "The Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind: 'Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge? Gird up your loins like a man, I will question you, and you shall declare to me. Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding. Who determined its measurements -- surely you know. Or who stretched the line upon it? On what were its bases sunk? Who laid its cornerstone, when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy? Do you know the ordinances of the heavens? Can you establish their rule on the earth? Can you lift up your voice to the clouds, that a flood of waters may cover you? Can you send forth lightnings? Who has let the wild ass go free? Who has loosed the bonds of the swift ass, to whom I have given the steppe for his home, and the salt land for his dwelling place? Is it by your wisdom that the hawk soars, and spreads his wings toward the south? Is it at your command that the eagle mounts up and makes his nest on high? Will you argue with the Almighty? Will you put me in the wrong? Will you condemn me that you may be justified? Have you an arm like mine, and can you thunder with a voice like mine? Deck yourself with majesty; clothe yourself with glory and splendor, then will I acknowledge that your own hand can give you victory.'" The Lord may not be the most rewarding conversation partner, but this is monstrously humbling.

5. House of Terror. Lost Boy, Lost Girl, Peter Straub. 2003. Straub is a genius, and Lost Boy, Lost Girl an impossibly successful blend of the haunted-house and serial-killer genres. The scene that floors me is that of Mark and Jimbo finally working up the courage to look into the front window of the abandoned house: it's evening; Jimbo creeps onto the front porch; from the lawn Mark shines a flashlight into the window; and what Jimbo sees causes him to leap backwards and pass out before Mark revives him and they run for their lives. We have no idea what Jimbo saw at this point, but it's still a terrifying scene. Pages later, we learn he saw this: "A guy hiding way back in the room. He was looking right at me. I was so scared. It was like he stepped forward, like he deliberately moved into the light, and I saw his eyes. Looking at me. Like ball bearings or something, silvery." The implication being that Jimbo saw the ghost of the serial killer who had customized the house to facilitate his murders (spying on captives in secret passageways, tormenting them on beds of pain, disposing of their bodies in corpse-chutes). That part-2 scene is also a terror. But it's the unexpected part-3 to this scene, at the novel's end, that goes through me like an awl: even though the house is indeed haunted by a ghost, that's not what Jimbo saw; it was the real-life Sherman Park Killer, the pedophile who has been abducting and murdering boys, and using the house as a place to meditate and get his rocks off. When in the end, from his jail cell, he casually relates that Mark and Jimbo ("the little snoops") were distracting him that night, with the flashlight and all, you relive that scene instantly and think, Christ, it was closer for Jimbo than he realized. (Mark wasn't so lucky: he paid for it later, abused and killed horribly off-stage.)

6. "A camel herder in Africa or a shepherd in Spain?" The Lions of Al-Rassan, Guy Gavriel Kay. 1995. In other words, do you want to be taken over by jihadists or crusaders? Either prospect is appalling to a civilized Muslim of Ummayad Spain, where fountains, gardens, ivories, advanced medicine, and decadent festivals make a pocket-paradise in Europe. Ammar chooses the former, an interesting choice, since the desert fanatics of his own faith are more hostile to Umayyad libertinism than even Christians. But for Ammar the jihadists are the lesser of two evils, and his explanation to Rodrigo (El Cid) rings true. He chooses them not so much for common faith but for common history: "Our sages, our singers, the caliphs of the eastern world. The jihadists? They are a part of that. Every people has its zealots. They come, and change, and come again in a new guise. The jihadists are as your crusaders -- righteous, convinced, unforgiving. The desert tribes are uncivilized, but I confess I find little of value in the Christian lands of Leon and Castile either. The desert is a hard place, harder than even your northlands in winter. Allah knows, I have no bonding with the jihadists, but I share even less with those who venerate your fanatic saints. Would I rather be with the jihadists? Again, put it a little differently, and then leave it, Rodrigo, as my last words, lest we quarrel before we part. I suppose I would rather, if Spain is to be lost, herd camels in Africa than be a shepherd in Spain." I disagree with Ammar -- I would choose the Christian crusaders as the lesser of two evils -- but I respect his reasoning, and completely feel his pain for the passing of an enlightened Islam.

7. The Alleluia Victory and Pelagian Heresy. The Eagles' Brood, Jack Whyte. 1994. I knew I was going to love Germanus of Auxerre the moment Merlyn rescued him from the Saxons, at the battle which became known as the famous Alleluia Victory. Defending his vocational contradiction as a warrior-bishop, Germanus says: "Our gentle Master bade us turn the other cheek to those who would defame us, Merlyn, but he seized a whip himself when he was outraged in the Temple. Turn the other cheek to such as these [Saxon corpses], and they'll rip off your Christian ears, before they remove your head." Everything about the unlikely friendship between these two men is compelling: their mutual respect, their refusal to budge one iota on spiritual convictions. Merlyn defends free will and the teachings of Pelagius against Germanus' verdict: "Pelagius stands apostate. You, as one man, may rail against the judgment, but you must, perforce, accept it. The bishops of Britain have now been informed, by me, of how matters stand. They may choose to ignore my message, but they will proceed in sin, and ipso facto under pain of excommunication and damnation. No one, however, will stand excommunicate for how he has believed or behaved prior to this time... Merlyn, I cannot utter words of condemnation to you personally. You will live, as you must, according to your conscience. You are a good man and I see no wickedness in you. When you go to Judgment, God will know how to deal with you, and He is merciful where mercy is warranted. Bishops, however, are another matter altogether. They are the teachers, the exemplars, and their lives are subject to intense scrutiny of God and His Angels. I have decreed the establishment of schools, and the teachings of Pelagius will be heard no more in Britain's Christian instruction. That is what has been achieved here, and I believe, with all my heart and soul, that the achievement is significant and good." The King Arthur legends portray Merlin in varying degrees as a Christian, though an unorthodox one, and Jack Whyte plants the seeds for this wonderfully in The Camulod Chronicles.

8. The Merlin Sickness. Hyperion, Dan Simmons. 1989. Of the six tales shared by the Shrike pilgrims, Sol Weintraub's is the most harrowing. Think about it: your 20-year old daughter is suddenly afflicted with a ruthless time-disease; her body starts aging backwards at the same rate it should be growing forwards; every morning she loses a day's worth of memories, as well as memories of everything that had happened since the onset of the disease; this goes on for years - waking up confused by her surroundings, frightened by your old appearance, needing to start from scratch to make sense of the world she lives in and what has happened to her. Think how that affects you, as you're forced to deal with this process over two decades as your daughter regresses down to infancy. Then imagine, amidst your tears and rage, you get a frequently recurring dream, from the Jewish God you don't much care for, commanding you to take her back to the legendary monster who so afflicted her, and offer her as a sacrifice. Which you finally do (see above image) in sheer desperation. These snapshots of a girl's reverse-life are emotionally pulverizing, and I'm not exaggerating by saying that the idea of the Merlin Sickness scarred me when I first read the Hyperion series.

9. Bertran de Born. Inferno, Dante Alighieri. 1321. Canto 28 of The Divine Comedy is the only one in which Dante explicitly uses the term contrapasso, though of course all levels of his Inferno are constructed on them -- punishments made perversely to fit the crime. For instance, false prophets have their heads twisted around 180 degrees, forced to look behind themselves for eternity; suicides are turned into trees, unable to regain the bodies they mistreated in life; flatterers are buried to the nose in shit, since that's all they ever spoke. But the ninth bolgia of Hell's eighth layer presents the most graphic and quintessential example of a contrapasso and has stayed with me ever since first reading it in high school. The sinners in question are the sowers of discord, forced to walk in a circle as a sword-wielding demon hacks and slices them apart -- dividing parts of their bodies as they divided people in life. As they circle around, their wounds heal, and the demon cuts them open again. The chief sinner is Muhammad (for creating Islam, in Dante's view an off-shoot of Christianity) and his son Ali (who split Islam into the rival factions of Sunni and Shiite). But the French troubadour Bertran de Born is legendary for carrying around his decapitated head like a lantern. (His crime: sowing animosity between Henry II of England and his sons.) Bertran is famous for his lyric poems, and I prefer the more sympathetic view of him in Guy Gavriel Kay's novel, A Song for Arbonne. But whatever your opinion, his fate in Inferno is fantastic, certainly one of the most iconic images in western literature.

10. The Crucifixion of Tom Flanagan. Shadowland, Peter Straub. 1980. Why this isn't as famous as anything Stephen King ever wrote I don't know. A teenager is crucified in an evil fairyland: "The pain in his enormous hands brought him back. Sweat dripped down his nose, itching like a dozen ants. His throat had been sand-blasted. His muscles screeched; his ears pounded. At intervals a loud crump! from the outside rattled the frame on which he was suspended, and he deliriously thought that bombs were falling, that Shadowland was being shelled, and then realized that the explosions were fireworks. He was afraid to look at his hands. One of the nails kept a bone from being where it wanted to be, and the pressure, which faded in and out, made all the other pains increase. His hands sagged, the fire returned. He uttered a high, floating falsetto wail. 'Kid sounds like a female alcoholic,' Pease said. 'Kid gets on my fuckin' nerves,' Thorn said. 'Give him a break,' Pease said, 'he's in a tough spot. Ain't you, kid?' Tom passed out again. When he woke, he thought it was night. He was soaked in sweat, he was ice cold, and his hands were soaring and sobbing. The bone fought the pressure of the nail, lost, and bounced in his hand. Hundreds of nerves sang." All Tom has to do to save himself is push with all his might (this kills me just thinking about it) until the nails pop free, then watch helplessly as the magician kills his best friend by shapechanging him into a glass bird. I'm not sure why Shadowland is so often overlooked in favor of the overpraised Ghost Story; sins from the past have nothing on this fairyland of brutal horrors.

11. Father's Child/Mother's Child. The One Tree, Stephen R. Donaldson. 1982. Linden Avery is twice as depressing as Thomas Covenant. She revels in self-blame, self-pity, and a moribund refusal to move on. She represses suicidal and homicidal urges under the veneer of her medical profession. And like all Donaldson protagonists, the more compassion you give her, the more she rains fury on you. No wonder Covenant fell in love: she's misery porn personified. On the ship of Starfare's Gem, she tells how her father locked her in the attic when she was eight, and forced her to watch his suicide. It's a harrowing tale, and when Covenant doesn't react the way she wants, she gives him an avalanche of accusative bile. In the latter part of the sea-voyage, she tells the story of her mother, who got cancer seven years later, and from her hospital bed heaped guilt trips on Linden for driving her husband to suicide and herself into poverty. To which the fifteen-year old Linden responded by shoving Kleenex tissues down her mother's throat until she stopped breathing. Only in a Donaldson novel would a confession of sickening murder prompt confessions of love. When Covenant says, "I love you", Linden is poleaxed; as far as she knows, there is no such thing. "Father's Child" and "Mother's Child" are the most depressing chapters in the entire Covenant Chronicles -- and that's saying something -- but they're brilliant and perfectly pitched in a world under attack by Lord Foul, who thrives on people's inner Despite.

12. Escape from Thanatos Minor. A Dark and Hungry God Arises, Stephen R. Donaldson. 1993. Donaldson is no less depressing in a science fiction setting, and also brutally suspenseful. As one critic put it: "The essence of Donaldson's artistry is his ability to construct narrative crescendos that build and build and keep on building, unremittingly, until they have reached a pitch which no composer of texts has ever attained before." No work of his better illustrates this than the five-volume Gap Cycle; no book in this series better than A Dark and Hungry God Arises (the third); no part of this book better than the last 100 pages -- and the last 10 put me over the edge. The vilest characters break into a bootleg shipyard to rescue a tortured woman, one of the rescuers being her own rapist now transformed into a cyborg serving the covert agendas of the police. Plots and counterplots unfold, and allies turn out more lethal than enemies. The getaway is relentless: Angus (the cyborg) and Nick -- arch-enemies hell-bent on killing each other -- team up and co-pilot away from the planetoid mere seconds before it explodes: "A wail that Angus couldn't utter filled his chest -- a cry of fear which his zone implants and prewritten instructions refused to permit. He sounded as bleak as the grave as he told Nick, 'Now.' Nick slapped keys with his palms. A structural roar seemed to deafen the speakers as Trumpet's thrust leaped to full power. Scan detected targ from several sources tracking the ship, swinging guns into line. But two seconds later, a nuclear blast tore the heart out of Thanatos Minor. Impact screamed through Trumpet's hull as the shock wave struck. Rock like a maelstrom ripped the vacuum in every direction. In seconds, fractions of seconds, the stone storm would catch her, tear her shields apart like vapor, twist her to scrap in the vast dark. Already half the human ships were gone, punched to pieces by Thanatos Minor's ruin. Through his ship's screaming Angus also screamed: 'Now!' Against the brutal kick of the blast, Nick pitched at his board, slapped keys with his open hand. Scant meters ahead of the rock, Trumpet went into tach; plunged like Morn into the gap."

13. The Poisoning of the Two Trees & Theft of the Silmarils. The Silmarillion, J.R.R. Tolkien. 1977. The great turning point in Tolkien's world. What Melkor and Ungoliant do brings an end to the bliss of the gods and elves. The Age of the Two Trees become, in hindsight, a paradise which can never be re-attained, not only since the Trees can't be replicated, but even more critically because the elves fall from grace. Feanor covets his Silmarilli gems and refuse to aid the Valar, and most elves join him in rebellion, departing from Valinor and going to make hopeless war on Melkor who stole the gems even as Feanor rejected the gods' plea. John Howe's imagination (see image above) of the Two Trees is staggering: "Melkor and Ungoliant came hastening over the fields of Valinor, as the shadow of a black cloud upon the wind fleets over the sunlit earth; and they came before the green mound Ezellohar. Then the Unlight of Ungoliant rose up even to the roots of the Trees, and Melkor sprang upon the mound; and with his black spear he smote each Tree to its core, wounded them deep, and their sap poured forth as it were their blood, and was spilled upon the ground. But Ungoliant sucked it up, and going then from Tree to Tree she set her black beak to their wounds, till they were drained; and the poison of Death that was in her went into their tissues and withered them, root, branch, and leaf; and they died. And still she thirsted, and going to the Wells of Varda she drank them dry; but Ungoliant belched forth black vapours as she drank, and swelled to a shape so vast and hideous that Melkor was afraid. So the great darkness fell upon Valinor. Yet no song or tale could contain all the grief and terror that then befell. The Light failed; but the Darkness that followed was more than loss of light. In that hour was made a Darkness that seemed not lack but a thing with being of its own: for it was indeed made by malice out of Light, and it had power to pierce the eye, and to enter heart and mind, and strangle the very will."

14. The Green Lady. Perelandra, C.S. Lewis. 1943. The devil's strategy on Earth was simply to call God a liar (which he was, and I suppose it's no surprise that Lewis took a different approach in his re-enactment story) and entice Eve with the promise of godly knowledge that comes by eating the Forbidden Fruit. On Venus the prohibition is against dwelling on the Fixed Land, and the devil's strategy becomes more complex, involving penetrating arguments in a relentless verbal onslaught. The debate goes on for chapters and hinges on a moral paradox: to refuse something offered for the sake of something expected is inconceivable ("evil") in a world where everything is, naturally, good. "What you have made me see is as plain as the sky, but I never saw it before. Yet it has happened every day. One goes into the forest to pick food and already the thought of one fruit rather than another has grown up in one's mind. Then, it may be, one finds a different fruit and not the fruit one thought of. One joy was expected and another is given. But this I had never noticed before -- that the very moment of the finding there is in the mind a kind of thrusting back, or setting aside. The picture of the fruit you have not found is still, for a moment, before you. And if you wished -- if it were possible to wish -- you could keep it there. You could send your soul after the good you had expected, instead of turning it to the good you had got. You could refuse the real good; you could make the real fruit taste insipid by thinking of the other." The devil grinds this logic by encouraging her to think outside the box of God's plan and step on the Fixed Land. This idea, inconceivable to an unfallen person (who can't entertain, on her own, anything that goes contrary to God's will), suddenly becomes conceivable at the suggestion of an outsider, and to refuse to enact on it is to spurn offered fruit. The logic unfolds dreadfully but persuasively; the devil is like an exit counselor curing a brainwashed woman of blind obedience. I've never been fond of Lewis, but Perelandra is a brilliant sketch of the psychology of unfallen humanity.

15. The Five's Last Concert. The Five, Robert McCammon. 2011. Stephen King hasn't written a decent novel since Misery, but he still calls greatness right, and The Five is just as he says, Robert McCammon's best novel -- even better than Boy's Life, though I admit that's pushing it close. I was completely hooked by the Band That Won't Die, dirt-poor rock musicians who become famous overnight when their bass guitarist is killed by a stalking lunatic. Their battered histories, rough personalities, inner torments, and devotion to one another are fleshed out so organically that they feel 100% real; and the long segments of introspection make sudden scenes of murderous and rapist violence twice as searing. This, in turn, syncs with an unexpected horror, which could be supernatural or psychological or both. It's the kind of ambitious artistry seldom achieved by today's novels, in this sense very reminiscent of Boy's Life, and the final scene is what makes my cut: the last song played at The Five's breakup concert (by now they are three, as the keyboard player has also been killed), a collaborative effort from not only all five band members, but from the FBI agent who has been protecting them: "Welcome to the world, and everything that's in it... Write a song about it, just keep it under four minutes... Try and try, grow and thrive... Because no one here gets out alive." By this time I was actually hearing music, something that almost never happens when I read lyrics in a novel. In itself that testifies to the scene's power.

16. Peasants and Agriculture. Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy. 1877. It's stunning, really, how the social commentary in Anna Karenina transcends itself in the way true literature aspires, since social commentary rarely does that. The debates of Czarist Russia -- the relation of peasants to the land, education of the poor (and women), the question of zemstvo activism, the Serbian war against the Turks -- orbit bigger questions about life, death, religion, love, jealousy, ambition. In particular, Levin's reflections on the "Russian Peasant" is a part I've read too many times to count. His liberal colleague claims that peasants need to be educated and given medical care, following European practice, while his conservative interlocutor insists that serfs should have never been freed and peasants will never be efficient without the cracking of a whip. Levin has no use for either, believing that education makes peasants worse farmers, giving them ideas at odds with their station in life (he's arguably right within the context of his framework, even if it alienates us today), and that slavery is repulsive; peasants, says Levin, should instead earn profit shares even as they pay rent, to provide the incentive to work hard (essentially an agricultural version of modern business jobs that pay with stock options). As compelling as these musings are, they are never really about that, serving rather to funnel Levin's larger odyssey of self-identity, as in (my favorite) scene where he joins his peasants in the fields for a days' work, and "felt the moments of oblivion during which it was no longer his arms that swung the scythe, but the scythe itself that lent motion to his whole body" in an act of communal empathy.

17. Jilted at the Altar (Bertha Revealed). Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte. 1847. Last minute wedding interventions are cliche, but there's no melodrama here. This is pure edge-of-your-seat suspense and gothic horror in the best romance ever penned. Jane and Rochester are finally at the altar for the marriage we want for them. A lawyer walks in and publicly announces the existence of a wife still living, which suddenly explains all the crazy happenings at Thornfield. Bertha Mason -- a homicidal pyromaniac who crawls around on all fours snarling like a beast -- has been locked away in the attic for the past decade, and Rochester, unable to deny it, takes everyone to to see her: "Mr. Rochester flung me behind him: the lunatic sprang and grappled his throat viciously, and laid her teeth to his cheek: they struggled. She was a big woman, in stature almost equaling her husband, and corpulent besides: she showed virile force in the contest -- more than once she almost throttled him, athletic as he was. At last he mastered her arms; Grace Poole gave him a cord, and he pinioned them behind her: with more rope, which was at hand, he bound her to a chair. The operation was performed amidst the fiercest yells, and the most convulsive plunges. 'That is my wife. And this (laying his hand on my shoulder) is what I wished to have; this young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell, looking collectedly at the gambols of a demon. Compare this face with that mask, this form with that bulk; then judge me, priest of the gospel and man of the law, and remember, with what judgment ye judge ye shall be judged'!" But what few realize is that Bertha is Bronte's alter-ego, almost a dark representation of Jane herself. Bertha is "a wild animal" imprisoned inside the attic, as Jane was "like a mad cat" when punished in the Red Room as a child; Bertha is insane, and Jane hears voices; both are made furious by injustices. There are mountains of disturbing subtext to the figure of Bertha Mason.

18. On the Subject of Frenchmen. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain. 1884. I'm not big on humor, but this scene is a gut-buster. When I first read it, I laughed so long and hard I cried and couldn't breathe. What makes it exponentially funnier is that it's so outrageously offensive by today's PC standards -- like almost everything in Huck Finn. Poor Jim just doesn't get the French. Huck: "S'pose a man was to come to you and say Polly-voo-franzy -- what would you think?" Jim: "I wouldn' think nuff'n; I'd take en bust him over de head." Huck: "Shucks, it ain't calling you anything. It's only saying, do you know how to talk French?" Jim: "Well, den, why couldn't he say it?" Huck: "That's a Frenchman's way of saying it." Jim: "Well, it's a blame ridicklous way. Dey ain' no sense in it." Huck: "Look Jim, does a cat talk like a cow, or a cow talk like a cat?" Jim: "No, dey don't." Huck: "It's natural and right for 'em to talk different from each other, ain't it?" Jim: "Course." Huck: "Well then, ain't it natural and right for a Frenchman to talk different from us? You answer me that." Jim: "Is a cat a man?" Huck: "No." Jim: "Well, den, dey ain't no sense in a cat talkin' like a man. Is a cow a man? -- er is a cow a cat?" Huck: "No, she ain't either of them." "Well, den, she ain't got no business to talk like either one er the yuther of 'em. Is a Frenchman a man?" Huck: "Yes." Jim: "WELL, den! Dad blame it, why doan' he talk like a man? You answer me dat!" (Huck:) I see it warn't no use wasting words -- you can't learn a nigger to argue. So I quit.

19. "Who Will Rescue Me from this Body of Death?" Letter to the Romans, the Apostle Paul. Mid-50s. I've read Romans more times than any other piece of writing, and pondered the text of Rom 7:7-25 more than any other passage of scripture: "I was once alive apart from the law, but when the commandment came, sin revived, and I died. The commandment which promised my life proved my death, because sin, seizing opportunity in the commandment, deceived me, and through it, killed me. (Rom 7:9-11)... I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. For I delight in the law of God, but I see in my members another law at war, making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. (Rom 7:15-23)" On the surface, this is about the futility of obeying the law, which contradicts Paul's insistence that he had been completely blameless by the law as a practicing Pharisee (Philip 3:4b-6). On a deeper level, it's an assurance (no doubt a self-assurance as much as to the Romans) that God acted for the good in giving the law, against his earlier perverse claim (Gal 3:19-24) that the law is an active agent consigning people to sin and where God intends such a result "so that" he may save by faith instead. By taking on the role of Adam in Rom 7:7-13, Paul is able to shift the blame for disobedience onto the power sin itself (~the serpent), exonerate God, and make the law passive in its relationship to sin. Sin (~the serpent) uses the commandment as a host, as it were, and foils God's intent. Then, by taking on the role of a pagan Medea-like character in vv 14-25, Paul is able to go a step further and remove the law from sin's influence entirely. Sin now invades human flesh directly, using people as hosts, and turning them into pagans -- unable to do what they know to be right. Which do we trust? Paul's experience (Philip 3:4b-6) or his rhetoric (Rom 7:7-25)? Or is the latter as much true, but from an unfallen perspective?

20. Up the Stairs. 'Salem's Lot, Stephen King. 1975. Something I relate to: "Going up the stairs was the hardest thing Matt Burke had ever done in his life. Nothing else even came close. He mounted the steps, one by one, avoiding the sixth, which creaked. He held on to the crucifix, and his palm was sweaty and slick. He reached the top and looked soundlessly down the hall. The guest room door was ajar. He had left it shut. Walking carefully to avoid squeaks, he went down to the door and stood in front of it. The basis of all human fears, he thought. A closed door, slightly ajar. He reached out and pushed it open..." When I was 11 years old I saw The Exorcist -- the most terrifying experience of my life -- and after watching it, going up the stairs to bed was certainly the hardest thing I'd ever done. So when I read 'Salem's Lot years later, I relived the horror through Mr. Burke's eyes. In the room waits a supremely frightening vampire, with chilling eyes, delivering the hideous threat, "I will see you sleep like the dead, teacher." I'm not a Stephen King fan and revile his post-Misery work, but do appreciate some of his early books. 'Salem's Lot in particular remains the best vampire novel of all time, and it's this scene from the middle act that scorched my soul, more than even the end-game with Barlow.

Read More

Guy Gavriel Kay, Ranked

Most fantasy readers are familiar with Guy Gavriel Kay. He practically invented the sub-genre of historical fantasy, that mixed tricky ground which models alternate worlds on historical reality, and only sparsely invokes magic. He's chosen tasty figures from juicy times: Bertran de Born in 12th-century France, the troubadour Dante famously put in Hell; El Cid in 11th-century Spain, Christian hero of the Reconquista, but also mercenary for Islam; Justinian the Great in 6th-century Byzantium, and Alfred the Great in 9th-century England; An Lushan in 8th-century China, and Yue Fei in 12th-century China. By shifting all these to fantasy settings, Kay is able to neutralize historical nitpicking. What inaccuracies can we complain about in worlds that never existed? A writer of historical fiction would be pounced on -- scorned as incompetent, and rightly so -- for making the reconquest of Toledo (1085) coincide with the First Crusade (1096), but in a historical fantasy like The Lions of Al-Rassan, it works fine. Or for having Justinian the Great assassinated and his general succeed him as Byzantine Emperor, a final act that cuts like a razor in The Sarantine Mosaic. Kay's worlds take inspiration from ours, simplified or altered to serve plotting interests or heighten drama. It's time to size up, assess, and rank his work.

What inspired me to do this -- to reread all of Kay's books before this month's release of River of Stars -- was the realization that it had been so long since the early ones and I could only vaguely remember what I liked about them or why. I wanted to see how they hold up. But also this: while Kay is a good writer, he's often praised uncritically. He leans on foreshadowing devices and cliffhangers when he should just spit things out. He can also be overly sentimental, especially in the early novels. As he's matured, he's become more gritty and realistic, yet also prone to extraneous narrative. Ranking his work thus turns out an interesting exercise. Here's how they line up, in descending order. My star ratings are per usual: 5 = excellent, 4 = very good, 3 = good (decent), 2 = mediocre (dud), 1 = bad. There are no bad novels here (Guy Kay is incapable of writing a bad book), but neither are they all 4's and 5's.

1. The Lions of Al-Rassan. 1995. 5 stars. This is the book Kay was born to write, and it's as perfect today as it was two decades ago. Every character is compelling, every chapter a page-turner. Whether through court politics, introspective drama, or bloody devastation, Kay puts us on 11th-century soil as the Umayyad dynasty in Spain was collapsing and Islam on its way out the door. Few realize that the Christian reconquest was effectively a crusade, predating Urban's famous sermon which launched the "First Crusade" to the Holy Lands, though Kay telescopes the two events. In this alternate world, Asharites stand for Muslims (worshiping the stars), Jaddites for Christians (the sun), and Kindath for Jews (the two moons). They co-exist by the tensions of real Spanish history, and the social dynamics are handled brilliantly, though with certain license. For all their sophistication, I doubt the Umayyads were quite as libertine as implied by the Carnival of Ragosa. At heart, The Lions of Al-Rassan is about the pain of cross-cultural friendship in time of war. I found myself torn and hurt like the lead characters -- Jehane, Ammar, Rodrigo (the El Cid analog), and Alvar -- this unlikely group of mercenaries who know their friendship is doomed. Unlike Tigana, Al-Rassan is a place we grieve for, not only because we experience it before it's crushed -- the fountains, gardens, ivories, advanced medicine, and decadent festivals -- but because it compels by all its tensions. It's enlightened for its time, but not in a romantic or propagandist way. Muslim Spain was Europe's paradise, but a paradise with a ruthless enough infrastructure, and Kay captures that dichotomy wonderfully. Not only is this his best work, it's one of the best fantasies of all time.

Favorite scene: "A camel herder in the Majriti or a shepherd in Esperana." Either prospect is appalling, but in the end Ammar chooses the former. It's an interesting choice. The desert fanatics of his own faith are more hostile to Umayyad civilization than even the Christians, but for Ammar these jihadists are the lesser of two evils, and his explanation to Rodrigo rings true. For my part, I would reluctantly choose the Christian crusaders; but I respect Ammar's reasoning. Close second: The Carnival in Ragosa. The entire chapter of the night of masks -- Alvar dragged on a leash into a wild sexual liaison, Ammar confronted by the king who exiled him, the three-story fall of Rodrigo, the death of Velaz -- ranks among the most powerful sequences I've read in any novel. Third: King Ramiro banishing Rodrigo, and King Almalik banishing Ammar. The twin exiles of the Christian warrior and Muslim assassin are each unfair and perfectly just, and the court sentences ring with suspense.

2. The Sarantine Mosaic. 1998, 2000. 4 ½ stars. Set in the alternate Earth of Lions of Al-Rassan, and almost just as good, this duology contains some of the best writing Kay has ever put down. Superficially, it's about Justinian the Great's ambitions to reclaim Rome and accommodate religious heresies. Profoundly, it's about leaving a legacy. Whether in politics, art, or sport -- even the gourmet cooking of a fascist chef -- the characters of this story want desperately to leave their mark on the world. They all lack children, intensifying that drive. True to life, they're ultimately thwarted: the emperor is killed before his fleets can sail for Rome; Crispin's mosaic in the Sanctuary is torn down, deemed blasphemous by the new emperor; Scortius' outrageous chariot victories are subject to the instantaneous distortions and hyperboles of oral memory. This last offers a brilliant meditation on entertainment in a world devoid of videocam, as the tumultuous maneuvers (and lethal crashes) of chariot racing, like gladiatorial combat, can never be replayed: "Could the fragility, the defining impermanence actually intensify the glory? The thing lost as soon as made?" Perhaps modern DVDs dilute a film's magic even as they immortalize the artistry. (I'll always be moved to tears by Peter Jackson's Grey Havens, but never on the same emotional level as the first time I saw it in the theater.) This is surely Kay's most thoughtful work, spiritual as it is dramatically intense, and I love his stand-in for the Monophysite heresy, which claimed that Christ had only one nature (divine) against the orthodox belief in a "fully human and fully divine" Jesus. Kay cleverly inverts things so that the heresy insists on a mortal savior: Helladikos the Charioteer, Son of Jad, who died bringing the gift of fire to humanity. This upsets the orthodox Jaddites who believe that an offspring (mortal or otherwise) diminishes the ineffability of the god behind the sun. For all the theology, The Sarantine Mosaic is suspenseful in the extreme, and Byzantium ("Sarantium") a place you thrill to never feeling safe. The scenes at court are infused with backbiting and two-faced interplay, the races at the Hippodrome a massive adrenaline rush. To match excitement like this with the introspective wonder of a man literally floored by a stern monotheistic approbation of the divine, after a harrowing pagan encounter, is no mean feat. It's worth citing this passage:

"Crispin saw that the eyes were the same. The world's sorrow he'd seen in the forest was here in the sun god above him... This work of mortal men in a domed chapel was as much a manifestation of the holy as the bison with its blood-smeared horns in the wood, and as appalling. The fierce wild power of Ludan, accepting sacrifice in his grove, set against the immensity of craft and comprehension on this dome, rendering in glass and stone a deity as purely humbling. How did one move from one of these poles to the other? How did mankind live between such extremes?"

This gives you an idea as to how ambitious Kay is in these books, taking risks on par with his metaphor of "Sailing to Sarantium", which goes beyond geographical travel -- "when someone throws himself at an obvious and extreme hazard, risking all, changing everything one way or another, like a desperate gambler at dice putting his whole stake on the table". That's what Crispin does, and returns home deflated: his art destroyed, his lover's eyes torn out, his hope small; yet strangely empowered by his losses.

Favorite scenes: Listed chronologically. First: The sacrifice of Linon. The alchemy of glass birds with human souls are the only fantasy element in these books, and they work brilliantly. Linon's (second) death is incredibly affecting. Second favorite: Crispin floored by the chapel mosaic (see above). Third: Crispin received by the Emperor. Making enemies with blunt opinions about mosaic techniques, shaming a lady of the court with a gift after exposing her presumptive one-upmanship of the empress, then guessing how Scortius won the chariot race, is some of the most dynamic court intrigue I've read in any work of fiction. Fourth: Scortius' suicidal ride. Bleeding from a knife wound, the charioteer pulls outrageous maneuvers -- swerving wide, up, then back down into the path of his oncoming colleague; causing his rival to crash into the chariot that's actually moving out of his way to assist. Fifth: Valerius' assassination. Liquid fire from old enemies, a knife in the back from a malicious historian, impossible to stop reading. Sixth: Leontes orders Crispin's mosaic destroyed. It's stunning how this tragedy outdoes even the horrors of the assassination plot and city riot right before. And the new emperor is no cheap villain; he respects Crispin despite his artistic heresies; for Crispin, of course, the death of his six-month labor cuts as deeply as the loss of his family to plague.

3. The Fionavar Tapestry. 1984, 1986, 1987. 4 stars. Before the historical textures came this trilogy of high fantasy, and it's an odd duck. I think of it as a Reader's Digest version of a classic, and was half-expecting to rank it at the bottom. But it holds up astonishingly well. It's full of fantasy cliches, underdeveloped characters, and myths which have no business marching together... and yet it all comes together like fireworks. Think Homer and Tolkien, and throw in King Arthur. Take a ring of wild magic, and giants who grieve through fire; that's Donaldson. Then, in that open-minded space you've carved out, let in five college students from our world who become heroes of this one. Two of them die, one is raped; only two return home in the end. For all its triumphs and euchatastrophes, the The Fionavar Tapestry is dark and painful, and still a damn good story after all these years, with complexities simmering beneath the blunt prose. The theme is sacrifice, which is on constant demand. Paul's in The Summer Tree and Kevin's in The Wandering Fire evoke redemptive myths, the former reenacting Odin, Jesus, and the Fisher King, the latter blending Osiris, Adonis, and Attis, neither feeling syncretically artificial. Paul is crucified and made to replay his worst guilt on the Summer Tree for three whole days; his death and resurrection by the sky god end drought and starvation. Kevin dies not in torment but sexual ecstasy, mating with the earth goddess, and stays dead; his sacrifice ends a year-long crippling winter. (I'm not sure whether I'd prefer life after divine torture, or death after divine sex.) There are other sacrifices: Ysanne's suicide; the child Finn's assumption into the Wild Hunt and later death on a battlefield; Loren's un-maging after he destroys the evil Cauldron; Diarmud's hopeless duel against Uathach; the unicorn's hopeless clash with the dragon; and, of course, Jennifer's child Darien, who takes the Darkest Road to the blackest hell, and lets Rakoth kill him in order to enable the deity's destruction. For '80s fantasy this was bold stuff, and frankly it still is; even in the wake of George Martin, few authors kill off so many heroes, especially children. More proactive than Paul and Kevin are Kim and Dave, but their actions cost too. Kim is able to save the giants from extinction only by destroying their essential nature. And when she refuses to copy this nasty strategy in the dwarven kingdom, the wild magic shuts down on her, rendering her powerless. Dave, for his part, becomes a plains warrior and adopted into the Dalrei tribes; when he summons the Wild Hunt to save them from invaders, the undead kings slaughter his friends as much as the forces of evil, to his helpless fury. The Wild Hunt is a fascinating explanation for free will: "The Hunt was placed in the Tapestry to be wild in the truest sense, to lay down an uncontrolled thread for the freedom of those who came after. People have at least some freedom to shape their destines because of the Hunt cutting across the Weaver's measured will." There are heavy shades of Donaldson's white gold in the wild magic of Kim's ring and the wild hunt of Dave's horn, either of which can "save or damn the earth". No surprise that they relinquish their talismans in the end, and are the ones who return to our real world. As for Jennifer, she's the most curious of the five, a victim like Paul and Kevin, and hero like Kim and Dave. Her violation at the hands of Rakoth and Blod is probably the most harrowing gang-rape I've read in any work of literature, and almost ruins her mind. The grace comes by her child Darien, who alone has the potential to destroy Rakoth. But when we learn in book 2 that she also happens to be Guinevere reincarnated, things get...odd. This "insignificant" woman broken in the worst way turns out to be a legendary adulterer, with more fortitude than we (or she) ever guessed, and I'm not sure what Kay was trying to do here, or if one was the punishing consequence of the other. Once we adjust to this identity shift, and to the arrival of Arthur and then (yes) Lancelot, Jennifer takes on a heartless role herself, turning away her terrified child and pushing him to the side of evil precisely so he can reject it. In the end, she leaves her friends and does what she couldn't before, sailing into the west (to Avalon) with both Arthur and Lance, whom she loves equally. I can't say I begrudge this trio a bittersweet ending given their repeated cycles of tragedy suffered across so many worlds, and it plays well. Speaking of sailing west, it should rankle, but doesn't, that Kay models his elves (the lios alfar) so closely on Tolkien's, to the extent that they even have a Valinor equivalent. But if Tolkien's elves suffered the doom of time and fading, Kay's suffer slaughter: those who have been supposedly sailing to paradise have been killed, everyone of them, for the past thousand years, by the Soulmonger sea-serpent before getting halfway there. The victory over this serpent in book 2 is as much a victory for elves as for wizards. Which brings me, finally, to Loren and Matt. The mage and dwarf are the only Fionavar natives with American names, which is truly bizarre, but whatever Kay was thinking, I'm not complaining. They make this story resonate on a personal level for me, given that my name is Loren and my best friend Matt; it's like reading about us in an alternate world, where I get to be a wizard and he my source. Even the concept of magic in this world involves sacrifice: a "source" is needed for a mage to work magic, someone bound by rituals and oaths, and whose lifeforce is drained to provide energy for spells. In extreme cases, the source can be killed, which of course is what happens to poor Matt... and which I enjoy fantasizing doing to my own friend. It's odd, because The Fionavar Tapestry feels today like it did so many years ago: like it was written just for me, and doing all the right things high fantasy seldom does. If it has a Reader's Digest feel, that works for rather than against it given Kay's particular ambitions.

Favorite scenes: Listed in chronological order, though the first does happen to be my very favorite. First: Paul on the Summer Tree. I feel crucified myself when reading this. Second: Jennifer raped by Rakoth and Blod. Still pulverizing after all these years. Third: Kevin at Maidaladan. When I die, I want to go out having a transcendent orgasm like this. Fourth: Dave summons the Wild Hunt. The undead kings massacre the forces of evil -- and then turn right around and do the same to the forces of good. Fifth: The last kanior. Kim rescues the giants from an obscene holocaust, but also brings them down, destroying their gentle nature to make them useful in war. Sixth: Lancelot in Daniloth. Fionavar's version of Lothlorien is a bit distressing; non-elves who enter are frozen in time throughout various parts of the forest -- some visually frozen, others unseen but audible as they yell in blind terror. Seventh: Matt kills Blod. An exhilarating Indiana Jones moment; we have every reason to believe the fight between these two dwarves will be a long drawn out melee, but Matt -- driven by a year's worth of fury over Blod's rape of Jennifer -- kills instantly without fanfare, throwing his huge battle-axe with murderous force straight into Blod's brain.

4. The Last Light of the Sun. 2004. 4 stars. I doubt Kay intended this as a dramatic inversion of The Lions of Al-Rassan, but in many ways it is. Lions is about the clash of three faiths in Europe's most civilized region; Last Light intersects three cultures -- Viking, Anglo-Saxon, Welsh -- in its darkest backwaters. Lions is a brutal tragedy, or downfall; Last Light is a long defeat in the vein of Tolkien and the old sagas, where everything is already fallen, and the best virtue is a noble courage without any real hope. Thus King Aeldred's daughter: "Courage is without meaning or impact, though perhaps resounds with having done something." (She could have been raised in Rohan.) Or Prince Alun: "I don't believe it is possible to do what I intend. I expect to die." (Like Frodo and Sam on the way to Mount Doom.) Then there are the Vikings, for whom raping and looting are as virtuous as sea-raid slaughter: "You don't ponder things. You drink, pray to Odin and Thor, and then fight and kill -- and take home what you find in the fury and ruin you shape." They do a good share of "blood-eagling", the battle tactic that involves carving open the back of an enemy, breaking the ribs so they resemble blood-stained wings, and spreading the lungs on the back, all while trying to keep the victim alive as long as possible. This is Kay's bleakest work, with none of the usual court intrigue, and another curious inversion: usually he uses culture to magnify the story, but here the story is more incidental and an excuse to spotlight culture, and some of the best parts are actually descriptions of everyday northern life filtered through the misanthropic viewpoints of inconsequential characters. Kay always disciplines his prose to square with the time period, and here his writing is curt and rhythmic in the manner of the old sagas. The story? A Welsh, Anglo-Saxon, and Viking race to stop a nasty Viking (by even Viking standards) from taking vengeance on a Welsh farm. All have their reasons, none terribly altruistic. A depressing novel, and refreshingly honest, probably Kay's most underrated.

Favorite scene: Ivarr's death. Brand slaying him for his perfidious lies, then commanding the Viking ships to go exactly where Ivarr had been manipulating them, is a George Martinesque moment I never saw coming. Second favorite: All of chapter 5, which is as honest a canvass of the Viking world-view portrayed in any work of fiction -- the stoning of the six women ("bony and slackbreasted, hags fit for no man"), Bern's evasion of the Jormsvik mercenaries and his sanctuary with a whore; finally, his death-challenge, victory, and acceptance into the mercenary ranks.

5. River of Stars. 2013. 4 stars. The sequel to Under Heaven stands cultural heroism on its head. Where Shen Tai was a solider suddenly gifted (cursed) by impossible fortune, Ren Daiyan is a peasant outlaw climbing military ranks by sweat and tears and endless deception. He's Kay's analog for Yue Fei, who could have easily preserved the Song Dynasty against the invading Jin, but instead was executed for treason so that the new emperor could keep the throne to which he had no right. The Song represents a shamed and diminished nation, struggling in the shadow of a lost glory, and Kay is at home in these Al-Rassan worlds which seem to go out of their way to bury themselves. He paints a convincing portrait of an imperial court that nurtures military impotence out of rebellion paranoia, fearing the 400-year old ghosts of power-hungry generals like An-Lushan more than real-life enemies over the border. He also shows how literature and art flowered at this time, around increased misogyny and oppression. Lin Shan is despised as a rare educated woman, and the emperor kills thousands to build his colossal rock garden. River of Stars compels by its dualities, and is an improvement over Under Heaven, certainly more polished, though the canvass is too crowded in the first half. The lead characters of Ren Daiyan and Lin Shan get far too little space in favor of auxiliary characters who disappear as soon as they're introduced, and it's hard to get hooked by the narrative. The second part moves like a juggernaut and brings Daiyan and Shan into sharp focus, with the right levels of court intrigue, about-face political favors, alliances broken as soon as they're made, and the inevitable downfall of the northern part of the Song Dynasty. In Ren Daiyan, Kay has brilliantly conflated the legends of Yue Fei with Song Jiang (the Robin Hood of China if there was one), especially in the early chapters, which exude the mythic landscape of social banditry and portray wilderness outlaws who fight for the weak and poor -- even for the demonically possessed.

Favorite scene: Conference at Hanjin. Frustrating politics play wonderfully here. Daiyan despises the prime minister but wants what he does (war), against the opposite judgment of those he respects, and his suicidal maneuvering against Wu Tong in front of the emperor is splendid. Close second: Daiyan's prison cell, on the eve of his execution. His confession to the prime minister that China needs an example of military loyalty, even if the emperor doesn't deserve it, is a wonderful Man for all Seasons moment. Last: Fall of Hanjin ("Kaifeng"). Unlike the fall of Xinan ("Chang'an") in Under Heaven, the fall of the Song capital is portrayed intimately through the main characters, and it hurts. I was particularly moved by the scholar's Qi Wai's decision to die for his archaeological possessions.

6. Under Heaven. 2010. 3 ½ stars. There's a great story here, but it's buried under slow pacing and extraneous excursions. Especially in the first half, Kay tells more than shows; he's clearly inspired by the Tang Dynasty, but relies on an abundance of description instead his usual narrative ploys. Eighth-century China, as a result, doesn't leap from the pages in the way his other worlds do. The second half improves on this, revving up with court intrigue and the eventual rebellion of An-Li ("An-Lushan"), only to wrap things up abruptly in the final chapters. I was left wondering what the whole point of Tai's sister was; her time spent in Bogu ("Mongol") territory was atmospheric, but never impacted the main story in any real way. I understand that Kay began working on this novel and then set it aside to write Ysabel, then, reportedly, hastily finished it to meet a deadline. Under Heaven reads like a rough draft -- the first half needing a ruthless axe, the second an expansion and better integration -- but where it delivers, it does so very well, and the setting of China under the Tangs is ideally suited for a Kay fantasy. The Sardian horses are an extremely effective device pushing an obscure soldier onto the board of power politics and unlimited wealth (250 Sardian horses is like the 10,000 talents in Mt 18:23-34, the equivalent of billions of U.S. dollars). Tai has been cursed with grace, needs bodyguards everywhere he goes, and can hardly even give away the horses as a gift to the emperor without shaming the Son of Heaven as warned by his concubine: "Our exalted emperor's is the duty of supreme generosity. He'd have to return more than you gave him or be shamed in the eyes of the world." I like the fact that we never learn why the Jade Princess gave Tai the horses to begin with. Her motives are ultimately irrelevant and remain better clouded in mystery, just as she remains appropriately off-stage. It could have been a political maneuver; it could have been malice, if she resented being sent away to Tibet and wanted to ignite a war in her country; or (as I prefer) it could have been just a capricious way of flaunting her power. This is the story of a man thrown into the world of ruthless court politics, which copies the plot of The Sarantine Mosaic -- and could have been almost as good with some clean-up work.

Favorite scene: Court intrigue at Ma-Wai. The story's midpoint is the confrontation everything has been building towards, and after which all catastrophe falls. Tai watches as the prime minister gets skewered for his incompetence in dealing with An-Li, and dances around the shameful implication that he engineered Tai's assassination; Tai confronts him, engaging in a brilliant challenge-and-riposte; finally, Tai and his elder brother spar off in a poetry contest to please the emperor's concubine.

7. Tigana. 1990. 3 stars. It's hard to be fair with Tigana. It's Kay's most ambitious novel and by far his most polished. Many consider it his masterpiece. Certainly the Palm is his most carefully constructed locale. And the theme is tragedy, where heroes and anti-heroes pursue revenge at all costs. What could possibly go wrong here? Dianora's half of the story is near flawless: the tragedies of an occupied nation unfold through her eyes, and her vow to assassinate the tyrant crumbles under falling in love with him. The problem lies in the other half, which revolves around Alessan's leadership: the revolution is hyper-idealized and the recurring sentimentality overwrought. In Baerd especially, the slightest things trigger melodramatic grief, as if Tigana had been destroyed 18 days ago instead of 18 years. Maybe I've become too jaded after George Martin, whose venal rebels under Beric Dondarrion and Stoneheart are much more believable. Kay portrays too romantic a rebellion -- sort of the way revolutionaries reinvent themselves from a hindsight perspective, rather than the way you'd expect a good novelist like Kay to show in its complicated ugliness. Alessan's claim over Erlein's soul is an exception showing the prince's dark side, but even here urges the reader to view him as ultimately noble, as if the ends (and his melodramatic grief) justify the means; moreover, he later frees the wizard in an altruistic gratitude that feels as much a cop-out as the miraculous rescue of Catriana. The Tiganan revolutionaries would have been more convincing as IRA or PLO analogs; they keep their hands way too clean igniting rebellion across the Palm. The two plots intersect at a juggernaut-climax, and Dianora goes out perfectly, while the Alessan crowd gets a happy ending that's completely inappropriate in a tragedy like this, and Tigana is restored to a glory it had no business re-attaining. Is Tigana overrated? Not exactly: it's a brilliantly plotted epic that balances action and introspection in all the right measures. But it misses the mark where it counts most. It remains Kay's magnum opus and his most inspired work. It's also his least compelling.

Favorite scene: Alessan's mother cursing him on her deathbed, for not being aggressive enough with the rebellion; she's twice as bad as he is, and I can't think of anyone who deserves her more. Close second: The sorcerer Alberico dissipating his body barely in time to save himself from being shot in the head, then reforming hideously crippled. And three: The identity of King Brandin's Fool, revealed superbly at the end.

8. A Song for Arbonne. 1992. 2 ½ stars. This is Kay's least impressive effort, though not for reasons commonly asserted. A frequent criticism is that the characters are a bit sketchy and don't leave a strong impression, and while that's true, that particular "flaw" happens to work for rather than against A Song for Arbonne given its sentimental thrust. It doesn't repeat the mistake of Tigana; it keeps patriotic zeal at arm's length by subordinating it to the theme of courtly romance, and the notorious death of a noblewoman, where the sentiment becomes more excusable. Even better, the troubadour culture is filtered mostly through the eyes of Blaise, a "crude" outsider from Northern France, who only gradually gets won over to this southern culture of lyrical passion. This encourages us to view the Provencals as foolish, intriguing, and narcotic at once. Blaise is also a mercenary, defending himself by saying, "There are principles behind what I do. Attachments are dangerous in my profession. So is sentiment." So when he finally evolves in a sentimental direction -- acknowledging suppressed feelings for his home territory in the north alongside his new respect for the southern heretics -- it plays authentic for the most part. And the court politics are admittedly fascinating, as noblemen play the dangerous game of inviting troubadours into their castles for the express purpose of wooing their wives; on the one hand, their honor is enhanced by a wife being exalted by a lovestruck poet-singer; on the other, they run the risk of extreme dishonor if the verse gets too presumptuously out of hand. Not to mention adultery, and the historical figure of Bertran de Born (whom Dante put in Hell as a "sower of discord") pretty much fucks his way through the entire novel. It's irritating, however, that Kay chooses to make almost every woman in this story a glamorous beauty, as if troubadour rhetoric is reality. But where the story really buckles is in the plotting, which is often forced and contrived, especially the about-face rescue by Bertran's arch-enemy on the battlefield, which is predictable way in advance. Things slide into place too conveniently and too often, with Blaise acquiring friends and allies too easily. The double-reveal in the last chapter as to the fate of Bertran's son is nothing impressive. Aelis' tragedy is worked around a substandard national invasion plot that shows Kay not quite knowing what to do with an intriguing subject matter.

Favorite scene: I don't have one from this book. A Song for Arbonne doesn't take enough risks. Dialogue, encounters, and events never really distinguish themselves. Then too, the story has an odd dreamy quality to it, and perhaps for this reason makes me forget details as soon as I finish it.

Read More