Note: I have written this review with reservations. I am cursed to find fault in all things (most often my own work), and therefore any review by me will likely be a listing of faults. I have chosen to write this review nonetheless because I thought that I could use it to say some of the things I have not been able to say elsewhere, and to demonstrate the application of my aesthetic as I have defined it in previous essays. I have been unspecific in my discussion of the story with the hope that I will not ‘give away’ its plot--though I must comment that any story truly damaged by a prior knowledge of the turning of its plot suffers its own kind of failure--and any reader of this review should be able to enjoy the story with only minimal influence from my commentary.
January 9, 2010
I recently read Brandon Sanderson’s novel Warbreaker. I do not read a lot of strict Fantasy-genre books anymore, but I have been curious about Sanderson as an author for some time. He participates in a weekly writing podcast, to which I have been listening since it began a few years ago, and he has gained quite a bit of attention recently in being chosen to complete the Jordan series (which I have not read). I am always interested to hear how other writers talk about writing (even though I’ve never heard anything newly revelatory since reading John Gardner’s On Becoming a Novelist), and Sanderson seems well-versed in talking about the craft--I was curious to see how he managed it in practice.
Warbreaker is an interesting story, and despite anything I will say below, I do not think it is bad. At its best, the story is good, and at its worst it struggles to be mediocre. It drew me forward for the most part, and Sanderson constructed an intriguing plot with the popularly requisite reversals and mystery. The characters were interesting and at times well drawn, but unfortunately the story was not contingent on the moral dilemmas of the characters.
Anyone who has read the book will immediately argue with me on that point, and on the surface I will agree: yes, the final resolution of the story is based on each of the main characters facing and making a decision. However, those decisions come about not through any struggle with moral dilemma, but revelation of fact. There are a few rare gems where characters wrestle with their situation and commit to a decision, but for the most part, Sanderson’s plot smacks them in the face and makes choices for them, often by forcing them against their desires. Characters don’t face the consequences of choices, because they never get to make them, and instead they wind up merely reacting to events outside their control. The plot is primarily revelatory, in that it is the discovery of information that drives events, and the ultimate choices the characters make are based on those discoveries--choices made because new information makes the decision clear. There is very little moral dilemma, and no conflict of convictions.
Sanderson does do a fairly decent job of depicting his characters as recognizable human beings, but they all share particular traits, making the collection seem to be merely variations on common characteristics. There was no variety in the prose between character viewpoints, and common ticks shared among the characters--most strongly a wry and cynical point of view. It may be a feature of the world Sanderson has made, or even a commentary on the main premise of war, but if that is the case, I do not think it was pulled off (and there is little to support the intent). I would surmise that the similarity of character is merely a failure of the challenge to create truly unique personalities. The two sisters in Warbreaker very quickly become the same person in different situations, despite a constant insistence by the narration that they are different. This failing is probably a result of the plot-driven narrative style, in which any characteristic decision-making is stymied, and the characters are buffeted into proper course by auctorial control through outside event--it is impossible to limn contrasts when no one is able to act on his own.
The narrative almost tries to make a comment on war, or on the fomenting of war between two kingdoms. However, that comment, and even the portrayal of the problem, falls quickly apart. We are given vague narrative insistence that ‘debates’ occur within range of the characters, and it is suggested that the characters themselves might care about the wider implications of a brewing war and its consequences, but the effect is set aside and becomes merely a background device, an excuse for otherwise-serving action.
There is also a distinct disconnect between an abstract concept of ‘war’ and the reality of mortal conflict. A character much involved in the fomenting of war between the two kingdoms, though supposedly horrified by the thought of it, has no real reaction to the violence and brutal killing that she helps commit. Horror is sometimes suggested in narrative but quickly forgotten, and the characters in successive scenes suffer no lingering concern. Even the narration exhibits a peculiar cognitive disconnect between rhetorical horror and true suffering. There is much abstracted comment on how horrible a new war might be and on the in-world history of conflict, but the immediate brutality of contemporary events--in the story’s rampant killing and magical viciousness--is glossed and given little reflection. Mass slaughter and carnage--though ostensibly the fear and horror of it is a driving influence on each character--becomes a mere plot device. Brutal killings become a way in which to move forward the plot (this failing to truly describe any effect of death is not unique to Warbreaker, but common among much modern popular media--there is a queasy fearfulness that makes most writers ignore or gloss death).
That failure of portrayal is not limited to abstract concepts, either. Throughout the narrative we are told that the streets of the city are ‘crowded’, but Sanderson does little to show us the crowd or make us feel its heat and pressure.
As I said before, none of this really makes the story bad. In all honesty, these are really quibbles that arise by the application of my defined aesthetic. Though I don’t think a case can be made that Warbreaker is special or remotely ground-breaking (except perhaps in Sanderson’s unusual choice to offer his rough drafts and the final product free for download), it does succeed as entertainment. Popular media pays only lip service to true character and cares strictly for characters as plot-motivators (perhaps an Aristotelian holdover), and Sanderson has gone beyond that bare requisite and given his characters the semblance of self-motivation, though they become servants of the plot instead of instigators. The story too stands up among the shallow, plotted narratives common today, giving us the requisite twists and reversals with all their momentary appeal, but also drawing an interesting setting and progressive dilemma. Unfortunately Sanderson’s story is ruled by its plots rather than its characters.
My heaviest criticism must be saved for Sanderson’s prose, and I feel that much of the shortcoming I outlined above is a result of his not taking the time to care for language. The prose of Warbreaker is quite inelegant and strays often on the clumsy. Sanderson has a problem with verb tense, specifically the continuous, incomplete-action of the -ing form, and the inarticulation of succession, insisting instead on simultaneity. A character “pushed the door closed, locking the bolt.” (page 359) This may sound like another quibbling complaint, but the problem is so common in Sanderson’s prose that it almost becomes a joke.
On page 546, there is this sentence: “[She] felt a stab of terror, backing away.” While it is an example of Sanderson’s problem with the continuous verb form (does she feel the ‘terror’ as it backs away or as she backs away?--the editor should have struck that out with a blue pencil and written, “[She] felt a stab of terror and backed away”), it also demonstrates a problem of specificity: no one in the world actually knows what this character’s ‘stab of terror’ looks or feels like. Such clichéd, empty phrasing gives no real insight on the character’s state of mind. How did the ‘terror’ manifest in this character? Was she shocked motionless? Did she run screaming, clawing at walls and drapes, shredding them and ripping the nails from her fingers? Did she collapse onto the floor shivering? This is the perfect moment to demonstrate how a particular character manifests ‘terror’ (but please don’t use that word) and how her reaction to events differs from other characters. That is how characterization is done.
A few paragraphs before this, still on the page 546, we learn that “A sound came from a nearby room.” I don’t know how that particularly empty statement survived to the final manuscript (thanks to Sanderson’s online drafts, I was able to discover that the entire section of text on this page was inserted in the fourth draft and not significantly revised afterward).
But it’s not merely the disinclination to draw such things more clearly. There are many places where Sanderson chooses words that have an inappropriate meaning. For example, on page 303, “[She] stood up and began to walk through the statues,” apparently without the heavy magic of Sanderson’s preferred Fantasy tradition (this survived from the very first draft). I will admit that a case can be made for ‘through’, but only if she moves through an arrangement of statues, not the statues themselves. Regardless, ‘among’, ‘between’ or even ‘amidst’ work far more clearly. In case anyone might think I’m picking on a single slip in an otherwise pristine text, on page 316 Sanderson writes, “[He] said, taking back a plate containing the peeled and sliced guava.” ‘Containing’ here again is the wrong word for what Sanderson probably means. In any case, regardless of potential ‘poetic’ license (there is none in this case), it hesitates the comprehension of the scene, jerks the reader out of her appreciation and apprehension of the story. In that way, it is a glaring fault. (This is another word choice that appeared in the first draft and survived at least seven revisions.)
On page 23, Sanderson writes, “He stepped around the pool of blood--which was seeping down the inclined dungeon floor--and moved into the guard room.” Really, this sentence is passable and has no obvious faults. However, I stumbled over the word ‘inclined’ when I read it. It is the most obvious Latin word in the sentence (‘move’ and ‘guard’ are single-syllable with back vowels and thus do not suffer the normal flightiness of Latinate words), and it muddles up the preferred heaviness of ‘dungeon’ (a word of confused origin, but with enough Germanic flavor for us to call it original). The beginning of the sentence is good: ‘He stepped around the pool of blood,” the sharp aspirate and front-plosives that open it lending to the tip-toeing nature of the character’s movement, and the broad and heavy ‘pool of blood’ demonstrating the viscous liquid. I would recommend removing ‘which was’ and the parenthetical device, but letting it stand, the word ‘inclined’ clutters up the aside. If we have to establish the floor’s ‘incline’ here, instead of doing so before we get to the blood, I would insist on ‘sloped’ rather than ‘inclined’. ‘Slope’ is original English and not imported by the French, and ‘sloped’ is a single syllable, sibilant and swift, the final /t/ blending with the /d/ of ‘dungeon’ when read silently. ‘Sloping’ may work better in enunciation, but I would suggest that we establish the slope earlier or demonstrate it without stating it. (This sentence survived untouched from the second revision, at which point ‘floor’ replaced ‘hallway’ and ‘moved’ replaced ‘stepped’, both very good choices.)
I am probably hyper sensitive to such concerns, and my deliberations over that last sentence really are absurd. But the point I am driving toward is that I find little evidence that Sanderson cares about his prose except as a necessary evil, the means by which he is forced to put out his ideas. There were many obvious typos that should have been caught in the galleys—and I think would have been by a concerned composer. Additionally, the prose makes no suggestions on the text itself. The first line of the novel observes (in character), “It’s funny how many things begin with my getting thrown into prison.” It’s an interesting thought, but is it stated because it’s true? Not apparently. The only function of this sentiment is to suggest that the character has been thrown into prison for that scene alone. The comment has no further textual meaning and no bearing on the remainder of the narrative.
The main problem I have with clumsy prose is that when someone does not take the time or effort to care about how he says something, I cannot trust that he knows precisely what it is he is saying. Meaning is exceptionally slippery, and the ‘art’ of writing lies strictly in the choices of how to say things. I have quoted Mark Twain elsewhere, but it bears repeating: “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is really a large matter--‘tis the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.” Sanderson’s interesting story has been illuminated for us by the light of a lightning bug, flickering and shadowy, and we come away with only a minimal sense of it.
It bears repeating that I did enjoy the book, and I do not consider it bad. It rises above most contemporary writing, and it is entertaining enough that I do not regret having read it. Unfortunately, it offers little more than a momentary escape and has no further insight on the fundamental human question, as Faulkner put it in 1949: “The human heart in conflict with itself...alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.”