Books like this reveal my inadequacies as a book reviewer.

You see, there are novels, and there are romances. I’m not speaking here of love stories, but rather of romances in the classic sense of the term: a book-length tale involving imaginary characters, usually in a remote time and place, and involving adventure, heroics, or mystery. A novel, by contrast, is a book-length tale involving imaginary characters in a realistic setting. There’s another distinction I’ve found useful. A romance is about its plot: a series of events, external to the characters, and often leading up to a happy ending. A novel, by contrast, is about internals: about what’s going on inside the characters. The action may be minimal.

It’s possible, of course, to combine the two, and write a book with both significant and enjoyable externals and significant and meaningful internals, but usually one or the other predominates. When I first encountered Patrick O’Brian’s Aubrey/Maturin novels, for example, I was frequently non-plussed when I reached the end of a volume—he often seems to stop almost in the middle of the action. At the end of one book, for example, Aubrey, Maturin, and crew are shipwrecked in the middle South Pacific. Why stop there?

On re-reading, I discovered that each of O’Brian’s books has two stories going on: the big bold romance, usually centered on Jack Aubrey and his exploits, and the smaller, interior story, usually centered on Stephen Maturin. And it’s the latter, the interior story, that determines when the book is over. O’Brian’s novels are, in fact, novels, not romances, though they undeniably have strong romantic elements.

Now, most “novels” that I read are, in fact, romances. Most books I have reviewed over the years are, in fact, romances. I understand romances. Romances are about what they seem to be about.

And every once in a while I run into a genuine novel, and enjoy it…and when it comes time to review it, I’m not sure what to say. I can talk about the externals—the setting, the premise, the initial conflict—but I’m not generally sure that the conflict I see is the most important one. And sometimes, the plot almost seems to be beside the point.

So what does all this have to do with Lonesome Dove? Everything. McMurtry’s book is a genuine novel set in a strongly romantic locale: the wild west. How do I know it’s a novel? Because I enjoyed it, but it doesn’t make sense as a romance. That means that there’s more going on than I’m quite aware of.

The plot is remarkably simple. Two retired Texas Rangers are running a livery stable in the south Texas town of Lonesome Dove, mostly for lack of anything better to do. Looking for a change, they gather up a herd of cattle and drive them north to Montana, looking to be the first cattlemen in the territory. Along the way there’s considerable incident: cattle rustling, horse-thieving, murder, pursuit, stampedes, sandstorms, thunderstorms, grasshopper storms, love, death, birth, gentleness, brutality, horses, cowboys, prostitutes, competent men, weak men, copeless men, copeless women, competent women, villains,….I could go on and on.

But the characters don’t serve the plot; the plot serves the characters. And the characters are undeniably interesting. Some of them I liked thoroughly; others I liked despite themselves. Some of them I didn’t like at all, but then, I wasn’t supposed to.

I enjoyed it, and stayed up late a number of nights reading it (it’s a long ‘un). But still and all, I’m not sure what to make of it all. There’s a lot of incident, and considerable to-ing and fro-ing, but in a book like this the most important action is within the characters, and though I can see change within them (some of it fatal) I’m not sure what McMurtry was trying to say.

McMurtry has written a fair number of books, including three others in the “Lonesome Dove” series, one that follows Lonesome Dove and two that precede it. I’m expecting to get to them all over the next few weeks or months.

I suppose that everyone who reads my blog knows that Lars Walker is A) an author and B) blogs over at Brandywine Books. West Oversea is his latest book, a sequel to his outstanding Year of the Warrior. It’s just out, and he was good enough to send me a review copy. I feel a little bad about that, as I’d have bought it in any event, but not so bad as to turn it down.

A little history. The Year of the Warrior takes place circa 1000 AD, and concerns one Erling Skjalgsson, one of Norway’s first Christian lords. The tale is narrated by “Father” Aillil, a young Irish monk—ex-monk, really, as he’d just been thrown out of the monastery—who is taken as a slave by Viking raiders. The raiders cut his hair in a tonsure, and on the strength of the tonsure and Aillil’s monk’s robe sell him as a priest to Erling. Aillil finds himself as one of the few Christians in Erling’s village, acting as a priest as he dares not reveal the truth, angry at God for his capture and the death or capture of the other members of his family, and forced to defend himself and Erling against the powers of darkness.

The book is an interesting blend of serious Norse history and background, fantasy, and (here and there) mordant commentary on the philosophical mess 21st century America is in, which he manages to fit in without it being too jarring.

It’s not a perfect book; the historical and fantastic elements sometimes seem disconnected, and one or two of the scenes are a bit silly (I’m thinking of Thor’s reflections on justice, Lars—it breaks the tone a little). But it grabbed me immediately when I first read it, and it did the same when I re-read it this past week. I enjoyed it thoroughly.

West Oversea picks up where The Year of the Warrior leaves off, and has much the same recipe, though the commentary is more pronounced (Aillil has a number of disturbing visions of the future). King Olaf, Erling’s brother-in-law, has fallen in battle, and in the resulting political shake-up Erling finds it advisable to leave town for a while. He and Aillil and a number of members of his household making a trade journey to Iceland and Greenland. (I’ll note that Erling, an historical figure, is a contemporary of Leif Eriksson.)

My feelings about the book are mixed. On the one hand, I enjoyed it; had I bought my own copy I’d not have felt cheated, and I very much hope that Lars continues onward. On the other hand, it’s not on a level with The Year of the Warrior. (To be fair, The Year of the Warrior is two novels packed together; West Oversea is really the third in the series, rather than the second.) I’m particularly dismayed with Father Aillil. One of the best parts of the previous tales is watching Aillil struggle with his temptations and (mostly) succeed. At the beginning of this tale Aillil falls fairly seriously, and doesn’t seem to put up more than a token resistance. His repentance, when it comes, is also underplayed.

But the real strength of these books is the historical and cultural background, and that’s as good as ever. Read The Year of the Warrior first, and if you like that you’ll find West Overseas to be worth your time.

After reading Sanderson’s Alcatraz Smedry books, I discovered that he’s also an author of fantasy novels for grown-ups. (He’s also the guy selected by Robert Jordan’s estate to finish up the Wheel of Time series, but I’ll forgive him for that. He’ll be working from Jordan’s own outline, and apparently he expects the “last book in the series” to fill three volumes. Apparently, Jordan’s disease is contagious.) Anyway, I went out and got some, and I’ve read three of them. I enjoyed them all, but of the three this one, Mistborn, is the best of the bunch. In fact, it’s truly outstanding, the best new fantasy novel I’ve read in ages. I’m not going to tell you much in particular about it; if you like the fantasy genre, you’re going to want a copy.

Instead, I’m going to reflect a bit on Sanderson as a writer, and on the things that seem to make him tick—the themes common among the five books of his that I’ve read (two Alcatraz books and three others).

First, he’s really, really good at coming up with new and interesting magical systems. Each of the books contains a different one, with its own basis, mechanics, and logic, a logic that Sanderson has clearly worked out in detail. And the magical system isn’t just tacked on; it affects the economics and culture of its world, just has high technology affects our own. L.E. Modesitt, Jr., did something similar with his Recluce books, which he’s been milking for all they are worth for years; but by comparison, Sanderson is astoundingly profligate with his ideas.

Second, he’s fascinated with the idea of God-men—men worshipped as Gods, men with God-like power—and with religion in general. (Three grown-up books; three sets of God-men. Interesting.)

Third, there’s a goodness about his books. I don’t mean to say that he’s a Pollyanna; far from it. But he understands the importance of virtue and the nature of moral strength, which is a rare thing in fantasy these days. I’ve spent quite a bit of time pondering that goodness, and the manner in which religion is presented, and wondering whether he might be a Christian, and coming to no definite conclusion. There are a variety of religions in his books, some of them similar to Christianity in some ways, and different in others, and though some seem better than others, the author isn’t obviously rooting for any particular one. And—I’m going to be hopelessly vague, here, as I can’t quite say just what it is that I’m responding to—although the goodness tastes Christian, the flavor is jut a little…. Off? Odd? Unorthodox? (I don’t mean to be insulting.)

And then I finished Mistborn, and looked at the About the Author blurb on the last page. It turns out that he teaches Creative Writing at Brigham Young University. A glance at his Wikipedia page confirmed that he’s a member of the Mormon Church, and suddenly everything snapped into place.

Virtue? Natch. Men becoming gods? Natch. Slightly odd taste? Natch. I won’t argue here whether Mormonism is Christian or not, but there are significant theological differences between Mormonism and Nicene Christian in general (and Roman Catholicism in particular).

That slightly odd taste works both ways, of course. We’ve got four kids, and so Jane’s a member in good standing of our local “Mother of Many Kids” club (an unofficial organization, to be sure, but no less real for all that); and many, perhaps most of the other members of the club are Mormons. And Jane’s often noticed that little moment of hesitation, that short burst of surprise and wariness, when another mother she’s talking to by the school gate realizes that Jane’s not in fact a fellow member of the LDS Church.

I don’t want to leave you with the impression that Sanderson’s books are thinly disguised Mormon tracts; they certainly don’t seem to be. And they are very good. I’m quite pleased to note that Mistborn is the first book in a trilogy, and—wonder of wonders—all three volumes are already in print! (In fact, the second and third are on shelf, within easy reach.)

Highly recommended.

From Andreas I discover that David Eddings has passed away. He wrote a fantasy series called the Belgariad that I was very fond of once upon a time, as well as a sequel series called The Mallorean that I was almost as fond of. After that he began a series that I didn’t like at all, and I stopped following his career.

Still, the Belgariad was good fun, and I still have the paperbacks I bought lo those many years ago. Perhaps I’ll read it again one of these days.