Here is the first draft of the cover art for my new novel, The Timekeepers’ War. I’ve made a few suggestions for changes, but I really like how it’s shaping up! What do you think?
Editing. I think I’m actually starting to enjoy the process. Although, by the time The Timekeepers’ War is actually released, I’m going to be so sick of it that I will never actually read the final version cover to cover. Well, maybe in a few years. You guys will have to do it for me. And please don’t tell me if you find any errors at this point, because I may do something drastic!
No, I’m not at that point yet.
But I’m continually amazed at how much a manuscript can change and still come out essentially the same story. It is incredible. I barely recognize my first draft anymore. Who is this flighty, overly descriptive show off? It’s embarrassing! At least no one else will have to read that version every again. Unless I post some before and after paragraphs…
The last time I wrote about editing (read the post here) I explained how I had received a sample of the kind of revisions I will be going through with my editor. Having already gone through the process once before (read about that experience here) I expected that this would be a fairly superficial once-over to make sure there were no hidden typos or formatting errors.
Ha! That was just my conceited writer’s brain talking. I don’t know about you, but when my writer’s brain is not telling me how terrible I am and that I will never make it, it’s telling me I’m amazing and can basically sit on my behind and wait for the accolades to come pouring in. It’s a little bi-polar.
Here’s the thing. No matter how many times you edit something, there is more to fix. Always. Part of that is because everyone’s style is different; some people prefer brevity and some detail, some focus on pace and others on world-building. The important thing about working with an editor is to make sure you both have a similar vision for what the end product will look like. Because you can edit a manuscript back and forth indefinitely if you are not working towards a common goal.
Luckily, my editor and I are on the same page. And that she has a much better idea of how to achieve this end goal than I (apparently) do. Amy, my editor, will be going through my manuscript in detail–just like she did with the first three chapters. But first, she had a little project for me…
She did a search for some commonly over-used words. These culprits are (in my case) “then,” “just,” “look,” and “but.” She asked me to go through my manuscript using the Find feature in Microsoft Word, and to look at every instance in which I had used one of these words (which means going through my MS four separate times, focusing on one word at a time) and to delete them when they were unnecessary, and to rework sentences to avoid them when possible.
Not that you should never use them, but I was grossly overusing them. I used the word “then” over 1500 times in a 130,000 word novel. The word “but” was used over 900 times (this number is somewhat inflated, because the count includes words that contain the letters but, like “button” or “butter,” neither of which are words every used in my novel… so I’m not sure why those are my examples, but you get the point). “Look” in it’s various forms (including “looked” and “looking,” etc.) was used over 500 times. And “just” was used about 250 times. And I never noticed, and none of my beta-readers ever noticed. But once she pointed it out it was impossible to ignore.
The thing about these words is that they are largely unnecessary, particularly “then” and “just.” I was able to get my count of “then” down to only 66 legitimate usages. From 1500. That is ridiculous.
The other trims weren’t quite as drastic, but I cut my usage of “look” and “just” by better than half. “Look” now comes in at 216 and “just” at 126. So the fast majority of “then” and “just” I was simply able to delete and the the sentence didn’t miss them. It’s basically the difference between “Then I opened the door” and “I opened the door” or “Just wait a minute!” and “Wait a minute!” These are simplified sentences, obviously, but the idea is the same. I cut every instance of “then” where the sequence of events was not critical, and in most of the places it cropped up in conversations. “Just” usually came up in conversations as well, because we use it often when we speak. But when we are reading a conversation, it usually isn’t necessary to the context.
“Look” I did not often eliminate, but I replaced with synonyms. Look is a very bland, undescriptive word. “I looked at him” does not have the same weight as “I glared at him.” And there are a lot of different ways to “look”: you can glance, peek, peer, glower, regard, survey, scan, etc. I tried to use more appropriate synonyms, which then allowed me to delete qualifying sentences that followed the “look.” There are also the other kinds of looks: expression, mien, air, etc. which I replaced. Not all of them, because sometimes “look” is the most appropriate word. But I really went through and considered if I was saying what I wanted to say in the best way that I could.
I am infinitely more happy with the way it reads right now, and Amy has barely touched it. She’s just guided me. Now she’s got her hands on it, though, and I’m prepared for some serious fat-trimming. Interestingly, I found myself strangely unable to eliminate my usage of the word “but.” So I have left these changes in Amy’s capable hands in hopes that she will guide me further.
Every time I finish a step like this I come out feeling like a better writer. I feel like I’m learning something, and that my novel is evolving into the best writing that I am capable of. It makes me very excited to take what I’ve learned (hopefully I retain some of it) and apply it to the next novel that I write. Much of it will be directly applicable to the sequel to The Timekeepers’ War, Children of Bathora.
So there you have it. Does anyone have similar experiences with their writing? Any weird words that keep popping up without you realizing it? How do you edit? Please share!
The Forever War by Joe Haldeman is a short but sweet military sci-fi masterpiece. What makes it a masterpiece, of course, is that it’s not really about military sci-fi. It’s about people. It’s about war and the devastation and alienation suffered by those who are fighting, compared to the world they leave behind. It is about the futility of warfare on a cosmic scale (and, therefore, on a more local one). It is about how we live to die, and how we can still find room for aliveness. Does that make any sense?
Is it the best military sci-fi ever written? How the hell do I know? I can only read so many books. I think a lot of people are touting it as such without having read nearly enough (which would be all) other contenders. In my experience, it’s a solid front-runner. But there are hundreds of thousands of books out there that I haven’t read, and will never read. And which many people will never read. Maybe one of these unknowns, or lesser-knowns, should really claim that “best ever” title.
There are enough reviews out there to give you a decent idea of the plot of Forever War. I’m not into plot summary. But I did enjoy this book. Almost every aspect of it. Even the anachronistic horror surrounding homosexuality, because at least Haldeman tried. He was able to envision a time in which homosexuality was normalized. And although his protagonist, born in the 1970’s, never outgrows the prejudices of his era, those born afterwards see heterosexuality as the deviant behavior and turn “modern” ideas on their heads. In fact, if the book hadn’t ended with so many of the homosexual characters choosing to be brainwashed into becoming heterosexual at the end (seemed like Haldeman’s way of making these characters “likable” as opposed to “repulsive”), I would have given The Forever War a five star rating.
But I love Haldeman’s vision of war in space and the conundrums which arise with light-speed travel. The notion of a Forever War is frighteningly realistic (in my admittedly unscientific mind) in its futility. Never have I read a book which made me question human nature’s apparent inclination towards violence so thoroughly. And Halderman’s solution to our humanity is equally terrifying. The Forever War is definitely worth a read. And it will be a quick one. I promise!
Let me say first that my rating of Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World is through an “enjoyment as reader” lens, rather than a comment on its historical and cultural value. There is no doubt that Brave New World is a hugely influential and important piece of literature. It crosses the boundaries drawn around it by the Science Fiction genre and has been accepted as a classic work of English Literature. And there are a lot of valid reasons for this to have happened.
I thoroughly enjoyed the first third of the book—the broken and disjointed viewpoints worked to build a comprehensive setting and provided us with all the background we needed without coming across as an info dump (which it certainly was). Unfortunately, as the novel progresses, the readability does not. The characters reveal themselves to be little more than shallow “place holders” for Huxley’s vision. Brave New World is an allegory, sure. But it becomes increasingly difficult to care about these puppets as they are pulled from one predictable scene to the next. Part of their banality is obviously intentional, Huxley is emphasising the lack of individuality and independent thought in his dystopian London. By this rationale, we would expect something more from John Savage. But he too is a puppet. A puppet inexplicably reciting Shakespeare with no linguistic or socio-cultural reference for what it actually means.
As we switch perspectives from Bernard Marx to John Savage, my compassion for the characters actual wanes further. Bernard is a flawed, though, oddly sympathetic character. Of all of the characters I actually felt I understood him, even if he was a cad. Lenina is vapid and pointless. Helmholz may have been interesting, but we’ll never know as he never does more than lurk at the periphery of the story. Savage is all misplaced teenage angst and over-the-top romanticism, but he translates all of his experiences through the words of Shakespeare so that I got the feeling he wasn’t really present in his own story, merely acting out a role in a play he didn’t understand. The only time John Savage interested me was during his debate with Mustapha Mond, when Huxley puts his vision to the test.
Huxley’s take interest in eugenics is surely a response to the emergence of Nazism, Fascism, and Stalinism. The twist on pronatalism speaks to the 1930’s population concerns regarding low fertility rates during the depression era. The two combined, and taken to extremes, are in essence a recipe for great dystopian SF. Had the narrative kept up with the ideas, this would be a fabulously good read. But the problem with readability was, for me, compounded by the Huxley’s problematic treatment of race, class, gender, and sexuality. This isn’t an undergrad paper, so I’m not going to go into ridiculous detail, but I will highlight some of the issues I had with this novel:
On Gender: Ya, I know. It was written in the 1930’s and I really shouldn’t expect anything more. But all of the female characters in this book are completely insipid. All of the characters who challenge ideas in this Brave New World are male. Bernard, Helmholz, Savage, and Mond. That is it. The only possible exception to this is Lenina’s tendency to “fall in love,” first with Henry Foster and later with John Savage. Linda challenges some ideas, but not by anything that she does, merely by the fact that she gets fat and old and therefore ugly. Not exactly screaming examples of female agency.
On Sexuality:In this world of required promiscuity and universal sterility, there is not an inkling of anything other than heteronormative relationships. Even when the goal of sex is just “fun” there is no room for bi-sexual or homosexual attraction, except maybe by accident during a compulsory orgy. Again, ya, I know. Written in the 1930’s. But it’s not like homosexuality was unheard of. In some circles it was even recognized and accepted (albeit in a limited sort of way). Huxley’s hetero world just comes across as unimaginative at best and cowardly at worst.
On Class: There’s a lot going on in Brave New World if you are interested in class issues. Huxley’s dystopia abides by a rigid, genetically engineered and enforced, caste hierarchy of Alphas, Betas, Deltas, and Epsilons. In many ways, Brave New World is a scathing commentary on American-style capitalism; consumption is the name of the game. However, in Huxley’s world of supply and demand, there are those who demand and those who supply. Alpha’s and Beta’s go about their lives doing the “important” work in sciences (mind you, they aren’t actually allowed to think for themselves) and they happily spend their money on stuff, they are the demand. The lower castes exist solely to supply the labour to fulfill these demands. They are genetically engineered to not want or expect anything more than their station requires of them. And they are happier for it. The unspoken sentiment seems to be that if poor/uneducated people would accept their positions and quit trying to rise above their stations, they too could be happy. [This flies in the face of the capitalist fantasy of the “self-made man,” and seems contradictory to Huxley’s other points against the ideology… colour me confused.] Furthermore, the idea that castes are somehow naturally ordered based on intelligence irks me. Granted, there is some social conditioning involved to keep the Deltas and Epsilons content, but the suggestion appears to be that all you need to do to create a happy slave caste is kill a few brain-cells in the embryo stage.
On Race: Ahhh, racism. This was the biggest issue for me. Racist imagery occurs repeatedly throughout this text and it repeatedly grated on my nerves. A pair of Delta-Minus twins are described as “small, black, and hideous,” (Pg. 55) they look at Bernard with “bestial derision,” (Pg. 56). Later, another group is described as “almost noseless black brachycephalic Deltas “ (Pg. 138), or another as “dark dolichocephalic male twins…[with faces like]a thin, beaked bird-mask” (Pg. 183). Now, I should not that there are Deltas and Epsilons that are described as sandy and red-haired, but they are never dwelt upon with such horror as the “dark” ones. Also, it is only the “dark” workers who are described in animalistic language (beastial, beaked). And none of the Alphas or Betas are ever described as dark; they are all Caucasian variants.
Since the caste structures are achieved through eugenics there are two possible scenarios which would account for this: a) dark-skinned embryos are purposefully chosen for the Delta, Epsilon and Gamma castes and not for Alpha and Beta, or b) stunting the development of an embryo somehow creates dark-skinned outcomes. Neither of these possibilities makes me feel any better about what Huxley is trying to say.
Further racist images include the Indians on the reservation, where the once-fair Linda is polluted by her sexual relationships with the dark skinned “savages.” John Savage, Linda’s blonde haired fair-skinned son, appears to be instinctually repulsed by this. When he comes upon Linda and her lover Popé, John describes the scene thusly: “…white Linda and Popé almost black beside her…[a] dark hand on her breast, and one of the plaits of his long hair lying across her throat, like a black snake trying to strangle her,” (Pg. 114). He is so revolted by this that he attempts to kill his mother’s lover.
Later, there is the “feely” that Lenina takes John Savage to. The film is about a love affair between “a gigantic Negro and a golden-haired young brachycephalic Beta-Plus female,” (Pg. 146). The black man suffers a blow to the head and develops an unnatural and uncivilized attraction to the blonde woman, kidnaps and rapes her, before she is saved by “three handsome Aphas” (Pg. 147). Tellingly, the gigantic black man is not given a caste, signifying that even before his injury he is outside of civilized society.
Likely there are more examples, but I’ll leave that up to the scholars…
Now, I’m not going to say they no one should read Brave New World because it’s racist/classist/sexist. Despite these shortcomings, Huxley’s dystopic vision is interesting. Indeed, because it’s dystopic once could argue that Huxley is not advocating racist/classist/sexist views, but speaking against them (I would argue that you are wrong, but it might be fun anyways).
These issues did, however, disrupt my enjoyment of the novel for reading’s sake. And that is what I have based my review on. I have never studied Brave New World in an academic setting. I would be interested to hear from any of you who have, who may be able to enlighten me on any points that I have missed or misinterpreted. I am essentially arguing in a vacuum here. But for now, I’m going to go with a whopping two stars. Brave New World, “It was okay.”
This has been in the news for the last couple of weeks: giant virus comes back to life, etc. etc. But, “according to the researchers, the revival of the virus could mean there may be other threats to human or animal life hidden in the permafrost.”
So this is fucking scary. Also, totally intriguing. Any SF writers/readers that have come across this theme before? Does it make you think of possible themes in future work? I know it’s been done before. But has it been done well? And should it be done again? Let me know in the comments 🙂
I came across this quote by Gina Torres the other day and I thought it described perfectly why I love science fiction so much. Our day to day lives are ruled by social norms and conventions, even when we don’t subscribe to them personally; no one can escape being measured against cultural expectations, even if we define ourselves by our lack of conformity.
Not so in the world of science fiction and fantasy! Good SF pushes and redefines boundaries. I love a book that questions our ideas of normalcy. When reading science fiction I am disappointed when the characters/environment do not defy the confines of current “real life” social/economic/political landscapes. Science fiction becomes the perfect platform to discuss and challenge questions and ideas about gender, sexuality, race, class, spirituality, etc.
Not to say that I expect an author to challenge every convention out there all at once. But please challenge something!
But back to Torres… Can I just say that I love her? She was my inspiration for Mirielle in The Timkeepers’ War (Summer 2014); I harbour a secret fantasy that if any of my novels are ever made into a movie, some brilliant Director will cast Torres to play the feisty barmaid-cum-boxer. Mirielle will be playing a much more integral role in The Children of Bathora (Fall 2015, I hope), so stay tuned.
Any thoughts? What do you expect from a science fiction or fantasy novel? What would you like to see more of in SF&F?
What would ultra-violet and infra-red light look like if we could see it? Will the technology exist, someday, to allow us to see colours outside our normal range of perception? Not as heat signals on a screen, but to somehow translate these other wavelengths into something our brains can see as “just another colour?” Maybe, maybe not. But it is fun to think about.
There seems to be a lot in the news lately about colour. Or maybe it just seems that way to me because I’m interested in it. As an artist as well as a writer, colour is always on my mind. I am in constant search for the “perfect” colour combination to suit a particular idea, or emotion, or imagined scene. I fuss over descriptions of colour in my writing, trying to balance brevity of language with richness of image. I sometimes find myself in a battle against purple prose as I try in vain to define the indefinable.
To me, colour has always seemed a very individual experience. How do we know that one person sees colour in the same way as another? Even our ability to see colour varies, from the hyper-sensitive to the colour-blind and, one assumes, everything in between. Other animals view colours differently from humans, some on upper and lower ends of the colour spectrum beyond human capabilities. How would they describe these invisible colours to us? How do you describe the green to someone who has never seen it? How would you describe a colour that is not visible to us now, but which may be in the future?
One of the many things I love about science/speculative fiction is that it allows us to push the boundaries of what is real into what could be. The only limitations on what you write is your own imagination, your own skill as a wordsmith. This is at once intimidating and liberating. Colour can be a great inspiration, and a great starting point for a number of writing exercises. Try the following:
1) Your character has an ocular implant that allows her to see ultra-violet light. Describe what she sees looking at sunshine reflected on the surface of a lake.
2) Describe the summer sky without using the word “blue”
3) Many animals can see infra-red light. Describe what a snake sees as she is hunting a mouse.
Hello out there, if anyone is still reading.
I apologize for how negligent I have been with my blog updates; I’ve had a lot going on. Actually a lot. I’m not just making that up.
But in the mean time, magic has happened and I’m super excited to announce that I am going to be published! I am looking at a June/July release date… so start saving those pennies! I hope to have links up soon for e-book and paperback purchases. I am looking for sci-fi reviewers to take a look, so if you’re interested, please message me and I’ll hook you up with a review copy. I plan to write a retrospective on how this came about, for those who have been following since the beginning… I just need a moment to collect my thoughts. Please leave any questions/comments below and I will try to address them in my next post!
This first book in Robert Sawyer’s Neanderthal Parallax trilogy tackled a lot of interesting ideas and touched on some interesting subjects. Unfortunately, I had trouble reconciling Sawyer’s high-concept plot with his flimsy and contradictory characters. Much of the book came across as unnecessarily preachy, and by the end of the trilogy it was more like beating a dead horse. Of the three, Hominids was the most intriguing novel and ultimately why I chose to continue with the trilogy. Humans did little for me, and felt a bit like a bridge between #1 and #3 and nothing else. Hybrids had potential, but I think the plot got bogged down in Sawyer’s extreme social commentary. This review is mainly of Hominids, although I can’t promise that the other two novels aren’t colouring my perception of it in hindsight.
I have no issues with the science behind Hominids. Granted much of it went over my head, and I’m not much of a hard-SF fangirl to begin with. But it didn’t get in my way, and Sawyer seems to have a good grasp of the concepts that he’s employing. I just went along with it, for the most part. I did find it interesting to read now that we have a little better understanding of prehistoric relations between human and Neanderthal than at the time that was published. For example, studies are showing that most people of European decent actually have some Neanderthal DNA which contributes to our ability to fight certain kinds of cancer and other diseases. Neanderthal may have been absorbed by modern humans rather than wiped out. Interesting, but inconsequential to this review 😉
My issue with Hominds is really an issue with Mary. A Catholic geneticist studying human evolution? Her attachment to the Catholic church makes absolutely no sense. Her work flies in the face of her religion, yet she somehow manages to make excuses for the inconsistencies in her belief as far as it is needed for her professional self. Meanwhile, she gives her personal self little leeway, being ashamed of using birth control throughout her failed marriage and refusing to divorce her estranged husband for fear of excommunication. Throughout the novel she steadfastly defends the more ridiculous notions of her religion with a blindness that is disturbing to witness in a supposed scientist.
And Mary is not the only religious scientist in the novel. I don’t think there was a single atheist character, other than the Neanderthals. As if being human and being religious were one and the same. As an atheist, I found this a little hard to understand and, frankly, to stomach. I couldn’t tell if Sawyer was intentionally pointing out the inconsistencies between religious belief and scientific progress, or if he is himself struggling with two opposing world views and using his confused characters to sort out his own issues. Mary’s confusion distanced me from her and really just ended up being irritating.
Her religiosity is not the only issue. Mary is fickle in her moods and opinions, continually on the defensive about her own position, closed minded, and shallow. This is really difficult to reconcile with what we are told of her being a brilliant scientist. She comes across as a caricature of a woman: jealous and suspicious of attractive females, angry at all men for the failures of a few, constantly insecure about her own body, etc.
Her relationship with the Neanderthal Ponter Boddit is confusingly shallow. It is as if she becomes attracted to him solely because of her negative experiences with human males, whom she blames for all of the world’s problems. This becomes more of an issue in the later novels when we are asked to believe in their relationship without any kind of understanding of what attracts each to the other. But in Hominids it’s more superficial. Why would a woman who has been recently raped be attracted to the biggest, most masculine male she finds? Granted, Ponter is a gentle giant. But Mary often comments on his size, his strength, even his massive penis (which she catches a glimpse of one morning), while at the same time she seems to be repulsed by masculinity in her own species.
The subplot occurring in the Neanderthal world is really what kept this book alive for me. Ponter’s observations of our world are interesting at first, but quickly come across as preachy (not in Ponter’s voice but in the author’s). While things are different in the Neanderthal world, they clearly would not be suitable solutions for our own. And there are obvious issues with the Neanderthal way of life as well, as we see in Adikor’s legal fight after the disappearance of Ponter. Hominids provides the best balance between the two worlds where, increasingly throughout the trilogy, Sawyer seems to lean towards idealization or idolization of his own creation in the Neanderthal society.
Overall, I think Hominids is definitely worth the read. The trilogy itself is pretty quick and easy, and I don’t regret finishing it. But there are some serious flaws in the characterization that make it difficult to be truly satisfied with the outcome of the plot.
Why did it take me so long to read this book? It should be mandatory reading material for anyone interested in dystopian Spec Fic, or any SF for that matter. What Burgess has done here, in relatively few pages, is so mind-bogglingly brilliant I wish I could exhume his corpse and dance into the sunset with it. The language! My Bog, the language! It’s amazing how a little thing like inventing your own slang can breathe life into a novel in a way that mere imagery, characters, and plot could never achieve.
But Anthony Burgess was an asshole, you say! The movie was so much better, you say! A Clockwork Orange is nothing like the rest of his work, you say! I say, “Shut up.” I’m sure he was an asshole. I don’t care. Here’s a little secret about writers—the good ones are all assholes! If we wrote off every writer who verbally abused his family, packed his nose full of cocaine and/or bled pure gin we’d have precious little left. And they’re never happy with their work. That’s probably why they’re assholes. Embrace it.
(I have no comment on the movie. I’ve tried to watch it a couple of times and always get bored after Alex goes to prison. I’m sure Kubrick is doing some amazingly wonderful cinematic magic in his rendition of the novel, but I didn’t get it. I get books.)
In A Clockwork Orange, Burgess does everything you’re not supposed to do in a novel—he makes up words, his characters are putrid irredeemable shit-bags, he revels in the cruelty and violence of human nature without giving us any respite—and yet this is one of the most readable un-readable novels I’ve ever encountered. Unlike Riddley Walker, which I’ve started and stopped more times than I can count, A Clockwork Orange lets you slip into its world on a wave of milk and blood. By the time you realize you have no idea what the fuck you’re reading, it’s too late. You’re in.
No, there are no likeable characters in this dystopian tale of horror and ultra-violence. Why are you so hung up on that? Why do you have to like someone to be able to learn from them? Alex and his droogs are the bi-product of a violent and controlling world. We are supposed to be horrified by them. That’s the whole point! They are the street-level doppelganger of the very government they think they are rebelling against. That’s what is horrifying about them.
It’s not just the suggestion that young men are capable of violence—robbery, rape and murder—for entertainment. Burgess’ not-so-subtle hint here is that all people are capable of this, that to be good or to be evil is a choice. There are no good people and bad people, there are good acts and evil acts, and any one person is capable of doing either. In our lives we may make a combination of choices, some good and some bad, and none are capable of defining us in that one singular act. This choice is what makes us human, rather than animals (governed by instinct) or robots (programed by their maker). If we take away this choice, human life becomes meaningless. We become nothing but an empty shell. A clockwork orange.
Yet for most, the empty shell is a preferable state to the human who makes anti-social choices. We are the ones being condemned by Burgess’ novel. Those of us who value humanity only when it is subscribing to society’s definition of right and wrong, even when that society is as corrupt and evil at its core as the “evil” people it breeds. The only time in which Alex is truly beyond redemption in A Clockwork Orange is when his programming has disabled his ability to make his own choices. At this point, he has no soul. He is little more than an object, a pawn in the world to be shoved about by others—whether this is to his detriment or to his gain is irrelevant.
When Alex is reconditioned again, when he is given back his ability to choose, we are disappointed that he goes right back to his old ways. What we forget is that it is the choice that makes him human and alive. And in the final chapter we see an inkling that perhaps Alex’s days of bad choices, of violent choices, are coming to an end. He beings to see other choices, other paths he might take. Had he remained in his conditioned state Alex would never have been able to evolve. He would have remained a toothless monster—a zombie—until the day he died, unable to defend himself from the world.
Anthony Burgess uses Speculative Fiction exactly the way it is meant to be used. This little novella explores more deeply into the idea of humanity than many philosophical and spiritual texts I’ve read. And it is able to do so because it’s not afraid to embrace the inner asshole lurking in every one of us. No, it’s not a complicated thesis. But it is one that is too often overlooked and glossed over. Our world is built upon the idea that we can categorize and classify everything in it from pond scum to architectural designs to personality types. Burgess suggests that things might not be as simple as we wish them to be.