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| A glimmer in the eye... is two in a bush? No, that's not correct... |
Folks, I finally saw that glimmer in someone’s eye. One that
made me question the human soul. But it wasn’t humanity that shone from
thither. It was an implant. As soon as you begin replacing bits of people with
bits of poly-molecular whatnots, those of us inclined to questioning begin
questioning at which point the person becomes more whatnot than whatever it is
that makes a person a person, what bits of flesh and tissue harbour conscience
(in the antiquated sense ‘of being’) and why-oh-why this even matters.
The last one being the most thought-provoking. It probably
doesn’t matter, but I am trying to avoid finishing actual work.
I waxed lyrical about The
Passage and now I think you may be very pissed off, if you read it instead
of just reading my mostly projected commentary. Because if you began the second
part of this treasure hunt to find our ‘consciences’, you will have found a
different book. If you are pissed about that, then you are pissed at me for not
warning you. In which case, you should be pissed at yourself too for taking me
seriously when I go out of my way to convince you otherwise.
The second book is called The Twelve, after the 12 original Virals (these being vampiresque
and bat-like humanoid creatures, except uglier, less seductive, primordial and
messy eaters). We follow some of the same characters from the first book,
except they are not the same and not because they have implants. The book picks
up years later, which I usually find unnerving because I then have to spend
time reconciling these people and the people who became my friends. Sometimes,
who they have become is not what I planned for them. Not cool, author. Not
cool.
Sorry, that was misleading. From my phrasing, it sounds like
there is going to be however. I very much do not like who my friends became in
the future to the future post-apocalypse called The Passage.
However (double mislead) the author also returns back in
time to the break-outs. One of my favourites is a character who was in the
military and then went to work as a sales assistant in a DIY shop. No, he
wasn’t undercover. No, he wasn’t working out issues. No, he didn’t shoot or
otherwise harm customers (everyone who has ever worked in retail give me a
hey-ho!). Whatever the reason, after the virus breaks out, he breaks into a too-young-to-be-so-wealthy customer's apartment,
with a rifle and camera, and videos and broadcasts what he can see. At night, he
sharpshoots the critters and avoids being sharp-massacred.
So, what does the military do? The higher-ups (however many
there are left) conclude that he is threatening morale among the survivors
(there are definitely not many left – in fact, the entire city centre he is in is infested, which is what he is
broadcasting, which is undermining the fantasy that anyone is alive). Logic shouts, send in military
cells and murder some murderous Virals, which will improve morale. Better yet,
ask the sharpshooter how he has survived in the enemy’s nest and copy him.
Better yet! Send the higher-ups and he can record how they slaughter the enemy.
(The enemy being despondency.)
Fear in the form of failure shouts, let’s hunt the scapegoat,
and take away his camera and gun. Luckily, he has a number of lettered plans:
Plan B is a Ferrari.
What I like best about this character is he is never the
victim that movies convince us is the only alternative to rage. He is tortured,
no doubt, but he is also considered: he knows that he is driven by his demons,
but he does not judge that nor does he spend the rest of his life staring into
his navel. He acts, with purpose, or he withholds, on purpose. He is kind, but
he was kind before, which is why he is showing people the truth from a
high-rise. He is a survivor, so he helps people survive, like the two are
co-dependant.
And this is what I enjoyed about both books: the characters,
even when they changed or did things I didn’t want what them to do. The author
relies on certain stereotypes, but more as a diving board. It bends and the
diver flies and suddenly you see them differently – as a shape or gliding projectile or missile or just purely corporeal – conscience or no conscience, meaningful or abysmal…
About-turn and march back to My Point.
That was my pitch for why you should enjoy the second book
and not be pissed at me, and not because no one wants people to be pissed at
them or because I warned you. The second book is self-indulgently about the characters and glimmers in
eyes that have nothing to do with implants. The first book set the scene and
spooked me, oh, and made me cry. The second book, at first, seems unrelated and
you wonder, why would the diver walk past the board and toward the changing
rooms? Keep watching.
Maybe I will write more about the actual book, and not try
to convince you to keep reading or to make you think kindly - or badly - of me. Maybe I will
find a metaphorical rather than literal glint in someone’s eye. Maybe. The
former is more likely. Also likely is that this trilogy will turn into a
nine-book epic. If it does… No, I will probably read them and review them. But
I will be pissed off, too, because plots and characters are like sleeping dogs:
you should let them lie. Navels are less interesting the more you stare,
glimmers flicker and weaken, and, Mr Lucas, you lied to me and I hate you.
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| All that glimmers... |
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