The Amsterdam Metro’s oldest trains are some thirty years old, dating back to when the underground was first opened in the late seventies. They were revamped and gotten a mid life update a couple of years ago and to give them a fresher image, the GVB got some forty artists to design a carriage. The above is my favourite, a representation of what a similar carriage would look like in Mumbai. The complete set of carriages can be seen at the GVB website
So about a week ago, on my booklog, I wrote the following about Nicola Griffith’s Slow River:
What I only noticed about a quarter of the way in is that these three interwoven stories are actually written in three different viewpoints. There’s the first person point of view for the present, tight second person focus for the years with Spanner, while the chapters focusing on her family are in a much looser second person focus. The difference is that in the first form of second person focus we’re still inside Lore’s head most of the time, with the text refering her as “she”, while the second form, we see her from the outside, as “Lore”. It is of course symbolic for her growing up, maturing, going from what others see her as, to what she sees herself as. A coming of age story that is not nearly as obvious as most such are in science fiction.
I also wrote that it had been first published in 1991 rather 1995, which prompted Nicola herself to correct me in order to be polite and in passing she also explained about how Slow River is arranged (all quoted by permission, natch):
The three narrative layers/POVs (I think of them as points-of-view lacquered on top of each other so that the imagery and emotion bleed through) are formally arranged in an ABA C ABA C ABA pattern:
– C = Lore age 5 to 18 in third person, past tense
– B = Lore age 18 to 21 in third person, past tense
– A = Lore age 21 and up in first person, present tenseI’ve talked in various places (I really should pull it all together at some point, but haven’t yet) about why I chose the POV and tenses. Short version: present tense is an indicator of a dream-like state, which is what childhood is; third person, like past tense, is the traditional POV and tense; first person is my way of signifying that this is the narrative present, this is the Now of the book, telling the reader “You are here.” At the same time, I really wanted the emotions to form an easy narrative through-line so the reader never feels confused.
It worked for me and I’m not the only one who noticed this structure; so did Russ Allberry for example. What struck me about it is that this works even if you don’t notice it consciously, which is the hallmark of a good writer.
If you want to read more about how Slow River was written, the essay layered cities about the city at the heart of the story, as well as writing Slow River, an interview, are highly recommended. Nicola Griffith’s latest novel is the historical novel Hild, which won’t come out until next year unfortunately.
It’s been a while since we’ve done a booklist meme, but the recent publication of Science Fiction: The 101 Best Novels 1985-2010, as determined by Damien Broderick and Paul DiFilipo gives a good excuse. Which one of those below have you read (italics), do you own bold or dislike (struck through)?
A decent enough list, with only two books I hate. There are the usual sort of problems with any such list, in that the more recent choices are also more debatable as not enough time has passed since they were published. The Quantum Thief was enjoyable, but one of the best books of the last twentyfive years, or even one of the best books of 2010, I’m not sure. It also overrates decent efforts by mainstream novelists when similar efforts by science fiction writers would not have been included. Some choices are also strange: Barrayar instead of e.g. Komarr or A Civil Campaign? But still, a decent enough list on the whole.
Rhiannon at Feminist Fiction makes an interesting and important point about the idea of the Mary Sue:
And even though I hear the term “Mary Sue” all the time, I don’t think I’ve ever seen or read about a female James Bond, or a female Indiana Jones, or a female Bruce Wayne. At least not in adult fiction. The idea is almost inconceivable, because female characters are already despised and dismissed for far more realistic flaws, like being too well-liked, too successful or too favored by the narrative. So the Doctor in Doctor Who swans around saving the universe and being loved by everyone he meets, but Rose Tyler is a Mary Sue because the Doctor falls in love with her. No medieval knight is called a Marty Stu, but Alanna in Tamora Pierce’s Tortall series is dismissed because she fights gender conventions to become one. Harry Potter is the youngest seeker in 100 years, not to mention the Chosen One, but Ginny Weasley is a Sue because she’s also talented at Quidditch, has a talent for a particular hex and eventually married her childhood crush. Any time a female character becomes important in the narrative, or loved by an idolized male character, or seems to lack humility and sweetness, someone will disparage her as a Mary Sue. And it creates a painful mixed message about the kind of female characters the world wants to see. They can’t be weak and silly and unimportant, but they can’t be too strong, too important, too appealing as role models and heroes to female viewers. They must remain in a safe, unthreatening middle ground.
The Mary Sue is an idea invented in Star Trek fan fiction circles, sometime in the late sixties/early seventies. This was arguably the first media based fandom, the first fandom to be dominated by women and the first in which fan fiction, stories written by fans based on the show, were a huge and important part of that fandom. It’s where slash was invented, the ancestor of all fan fiction fandoms. In that context, the Mary Sue was invented as the name for the new, somewhat too perfect ensign that joins the Enterprise, wins the hearts of both Kirk and Spock, can beat the latter in logic puzzles and the former in bravery, knows more about medicine than Bones, more of engines than Scotty, is loved and adored by everyone, but often dies tragically and above all is a standin for the author.
As with many critical terms divorced from their original context, its meaning has slipped to the point where, as Rhiannon notes, it can be used as a slur against any female character somebody dislikes for being too good, when the same perfection would go unnoticed in a male character.
Male characters can be Mary Sues as well of course; one could argue James Bond was one for Ian Fleming in the same way Harriet Vane was for Dorothy Sayers: an obvious author standin. In Fleming’s case, to live the life of adventure he himself wanted, in Sayers case because she had fallen in love with her own creation, Lord Peter Wimsey. Sometimes these are called Marty Stu rather than Mary Sue, but that is a much rarer term. As seen from both of these examples, a Mary Sue is not necessarily a bad character, but it is the sort of character used more by bad writers…
What Rhiannon sees, that difference in how male and female characters are often judged, where it’s much more acceptable for a male character to be a (male) wish fulfilment fantasy than it is for a woman to be a (female) wish fulfilment fantasy, is important. But perhaps we shouldn’t blame it on the poor old Mary Sue, who really is pretty harmless.
There’s an interesting discussion about “Lola” on Andrew Hickey’s blog, mainly about whether or not it’s problematic in its depiction of trans people:
I’ve dreaded writing about this song, because it’s witty, clever, and one of the catchiest things Ray Davies ever wrote, but it also perpetuates some negative stereotypes about trans people. However, it also shows more respect to trans people than any other pop song I could think of
Which might just be laying too much weight on what’s largely an ironic song gently mocking a young boy having his first encounter with what I always thought was a male transvestite, what with the last line of the song being “But I know what I am I’m glad I’m a man and so is Lola”. It’s the old story of boy meets girl, boy discovers girl is also a boy, boy discovers he couldn’t care less: well, nobody’s perfect.
If you look at it unfavourably, I guess you could say that it enacts that hoary old homo and transphobic fear of straight men being “tricked” into having sex with somebody who’s “really” a man, something that used to be a staple of bad American raunch comedies (or even the Police Academy series).
But I think that’s completely missing the point of “Lola”, which is really about love conquering all, gender not mattering and becoming fluid anyway (“Girls will be boys and boys will be girls, It’s a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world except for Lola”). It’s all done with a wink and a smile, but at its heart it is accepting of trans people more than you could say it is damaging.