nicanical

Years ago, after inhaling all of Raymond Chandler's novels, I read The Maltese Falcon looking for a similar flavor from Chandler's predecessor. But, I found that Sam Spade wasn't that, and then I never got around to exploring the rest of Hammett's stuff.

This book though, sates the palate. First: the clear, straightforward prose keeps the action moving, gets punchy in the right places, and is just a pleasure to read. Second: the Continental Op is a cunning smartass with deadpan snarks that Marlowe himself might have quipped. (The Op acts more like a vigilante here than a private dick though, and his morals are a shade darker than Marlowe's).

Plotwise, well, I like hardboiled stuff for the scenes and characterizations, not the plots. The underlying impetus here is vengeance and vigilantism though, not the usual need to solve a mystery. I found this refreshing.

The story felt a little muddy towards the end, like Hammett was tiring and wanted to wrap it up. Still, a very enjoyable read, and now I'll have to see what else of Hammett's I might have overlooked.

The stories aren't bad, but they don't linger in the brain after reading either. Except Pearls are a Nuisance—Walter is amusing, and there's a nice twist. And maybe Spanish Blood, with its memorable ending.

Unlike the similar collection, Trouble is my Business, none of the stories here feature Philip Marlowe. All the protags still get up to sleuthing, but there's variety in their backgrounds. For example, the previously-mentioned Walter is a dandy playing an amateur detective, while Delaguerra in Spanish Blood is a police lieutenant. Unfortunately, the other main characters are forgettable, never developing beyond the basic brooding, hardboiled archetype.

The stories also vary in perspective and tone and other matters of prose. Some are written in the third-person for instance, and Pearls is playful in tone. Also, compared to Chandler's novels, the lyrical similes are few, descriptions and scene-setting are short, and aggressive brevity gives these stories a quick but tiring pace.

I've only read a little Hemingway, just The Sun Also Rises and some short story collections, but I enjoyed all that a lot. So I was disappointed that I couldn't get into this one.

Plainly, it's the fishing. It's boring to read about. It's handlining too, not fishing with a rod or a net, so you'll read a lot about Santiago's hand pain. I didn't even take it all in as a tragedy in the end, more of an admonition of Santiago's unpreparedness.

I enjoyed the beginning and the end the most, where Santiago interacts with the boy. And of course, the prose is beautifully crafted as expected of Hemingway.

I thought this story had a compelling setting and view of a possible future.

I liked the use of uplift here (i.e., the artificial acceleration of a species' intelligence). I feel like it's not a concept featured so frequently in written sci-fi (I can name several examples in film though), nor is it featured as prominently as it is in Children of Time. Usually, monkeys are the ones uplifted, and/or it's a horror story. Here, we have uplifted spiders in a non-horror story. Very cool! And jumping spiders too, the bros of the spider world—look them up.

I also liked that time dilation was featured, similar to how Alastair Reynolds does it. Most of the other SF stories I've read sidestep this by allowing faster-than-light tech, or drastically limiting distances traveled. So it's refreshing to see time dilation explicitly described and how it can affect characters, etc., even if it ultimately is a minor thing in this story.

The structure is relatively simple: chapters alternating between spiders and humans. Between the two, I felt the human side was weaker—the characterization for the humans was a bit meh. I would describe the prose as straightforward, direct, but not spartan—it's more detailed than, perhaps, Isaac Asimov's style. Personally, I prefer simpler styles like this that get out of your way, so the writing here was right up my alley. You might not like it if you prefer flowery and meandering, or dense and expository dump-style prose.

The Little Prince is narrated by a pilot stranded in the Sahara. The pilot meets a small, young boy (the little prince of the title) who has left his home on an asteroid to travel. The prince shares his experiences with the pilot, experiences which touch on loneliness, regret, and loss.

This is one of those children's books that can delight readers of all ages. Some parts are banal, like those criticizing grown-ups. Other parts, like the love of the rose, and the taming of the fox, have depth enough for even adult readers.

If reading this in English, you should know that there's fervor over which translation is best; mainly between Katherine Wood's—the first, flowery, with mistakes—and Richard Howard's—modern, stiff, but accurate.

I read Michael Morpurgo's English translation and it's good. It's a modern translation straight from the original French, so it passes the sheep test (an error in Woods's translation, propagated to other translations). And the tenor of Morpurgo's translation is gentle and guiding, not stiff as Howard's allegedly is. Morpurgo is known for his own children's books, so I imagine he took care to make the tone approachable here.