Light, by M. John Harrison
Light looked promising, I'll give it that. Between Catherine and I, it's obvious who's the science fiction fan. I mean, I read the Doom novels for crying out loud. That doesn't mean, though, that I'm not delighted and relieved at the prospect of scifi with literary heft -- high quality writing, hurrah! Light promised to be just that, with a boatload of positive reviews, classy graphic design, and that ultrasexy ragged-edge paper you get when they don't trim the pages after printing. (I know, I shouldn't be affected by things like that. In the interest of honesty, though, I'll say it flat out. I'm more likely to buy a book if the paper is nifty. There. It's out.) Unfortunately, the paper test failed me this time. The writing is interesting, from a technical standpoint, but the story itself falls flat. Way flat.
The premise has promise. Michael is a physicist, not unattractive, enough of a cipher that ladies find him intriguing. He and his partner are scraping the bottom of the funding barrel as they delve into the world of chaos and quantum theory, searching for meaningful patterns in the statistical noise of the universe. Investors are nipping at their heels, Michael's relationship with his estranged wife is pornographically unhealthy, and -- oh, can't forget this part -- Michael is a serial killer. For years, a terrifying otherworldly entity has been chasing him, hunting him through time and space for reasons he can only begin to guess at. It knows his steps before he makes them, and it's closing in. The only way he can throw it off his scent, he's learned, is to kill. The real energy of the book comes from this central tension. Will his research unearth the secret of this thing? Will his secret life as a murderer destroy him before he can find out the truth? Does he want to kill, or is he forced to? Is he even human anymore?
Two other fast-forward plots, hundreds of years in the future, are woven into the story. We learn that Michael's research did bear fruit and became the basis for civilization and species-altering societal changes. The characters in these flash-forwards are clearly tied to Michael in some way that we don't quite yet understand, and John Harrison unfolds the puzzle like an origami trick. Unfortunately, the trick turns out to be about as interesting as a perfect origami recreation of a DMV office. Novel, technically impressive, and depressingly pointless.
Ultimately, if you make your main character a serial killer, he'd better have a hell of a lot of positive qualities to maintain a shred of sympathy. His terror is palpable when the mysterious entity is stalking him, but when that crisis disappears, Michael is a cold fish. Arrogant. Distant. Cold. Self-absorbed. And, yeah, a complete sociopathic killer. The supporting characters in the flash-forwards are just as unsatisfying. While they lack Michael's taste for blood, they're postmodern ciphers, random quarks bouncing around the plot with no real life and no real connections. When we discover that two key characters, haunted by foggy memories of their childhoods, are actually siblings, it's hard to even muster up the will to care. "Yeah, yeah, the bit in chapter 11 makes perfect sense now... Should I be interested?" When the solution to the book's great mystery is finally revealed -- Why does Michael kill? What is the creature? -- it's all a big misunderstanding. In perfect postmodern style, none of it meant anything.
Maybe I'm being too harsh. The scifi geekery helps smooth the rough edges for genre fans like myself. The writing is technically good -- it's not the pulpy "Biff! Pow! Gadgets!" cliche you'll find in the average Tor paperback. But hundreds of authors come up with inventive scifi geekery every day, and hundreds more write compelling, engaging high-quality fiction every day. Light, for all its promise, feels like a cheat. Harrison hints at intriguing ideas but never explores them. Touches on unsettlingly cruel themes in humanity, but never has the guts to confront them. Suggests a fascinating plot, but leaves it to the reader to imagine the tricky details. Even the darkness of the premise is an affectation, a tease of something deeper that never delivers.
Man. I really am being harsh. But I think it's the truth. Let this be a lesson to you, publishers: if you make a book out of nifty paper, I expect it to deliver. Here's hoping that The Eyre Affair is a better read. From what Catherine says, it will definitely be a step in the right direction.
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