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gipanu's review
adventurous
challenging
dark
emotional
funny
hopeful
informative
inspiring
lighthearted
mysterious
reflective
relaxing
sad
tense
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
5.0
chalicotherex's review
4.0
"If anyone found out, you could be arrested for unlawful dreaming!"
Impeccable dream logic that leads to great moments of catharsis, where you realize what you're reading is totally ridiculous but you don't care because you're having too much fun.
dead dreams were an exceptional source of pollution
Similar in concept to Inception and The Matrix, but it's a lot more fun. Kind of like [b: Heroes Die|311864|Heroes Die (The Acts of Caine, #1)|Matthew Woodring Stover|https://d2arxad8u2l0g7.cloudfront.net/books/1403193753s/311864.jpg|302782]. My only quibble is that by the end of the first chapter it almost feels as if he's exhausted the possibilities of his dream world, because you imagine it getting solipsistic, stuck inside his own head. I have trouble caring for characters that the narrative doesn't consider 'real'. But the author gets this and the focus temporarily switches to how dreams impact the real world, and by the time we re-enter the thief's dreamworld the solipsism problem has been neatly sidestepped.
Without thinking, he patted his jacket pocket, where he kept a dime bag of realism powder. He could sniff it on the glass-topped desk right here and now, but even though the powder curbed oneiric drift, it also hastened the ascent: a side effect he had to keep in mind. He fingered the bag, hesitating. Too much realism and he could take off right in the middle of the heist. He didn’t relish the prospect. Better to try to push forward through the parasitic drift, keeping his eye on the prize.
His last few dreams had died in quarantine, poisoned by ham-fisted vets who thought they were still working on plow horses and jabbed at dreams as if inoculating hippopotami.
High priest of breakfast, David conducted a ritual at once epicurean and austere, banishing jam, croissants, and even brioche, which for him represented an extremity of depraved sybaritic decadence. For a while he’d tried making his own bread, obeying some strange inner stubbornness to live off the grid, depending as little as possible on others. Fermenting yeast had given him too much trouble, and he’d been forced to give up. At first it had upset him, since he had a hard time finding a bakery with bread that met his standards. People today were fine with any old subpar product, and the bakehouses of yore had become automated factories where an artisan’s barely flour-dusted hand was reduced to pushing buttons. David had wandered from bakery to bakery, sullen, despairing of ever finding the spongy bread that was his one and only fare, when he’d met Madame Antonine.
Only then would the blue depths of dream open, would he feel himself sucked toward the bottom, would he sink like a stone. And David knew the hour had not yet come to step over the ship’s rail. His nerves weren’t crackling, they seemed relaxed, limp, like the strings on an old tennis racket. When he touched things, he didn’t feel that little crackle of static electricity at the ends of his nails that announced his internal battery was ready once more to short-circuit reality itself. He was flaccid, emptied out, condemned to wait, and that drove him crazy. Some divers resorted to drugs to speed up their process, but David didn’t believe in those techniques, which smacked of charlatanry. Besides, chemical substances filtered directly into the world down below, its rivers and streams. Hadn’t Soler Mahus said so? They ran from its faucets and stagnated at the bottoms of soda bottles, poisoning everything. No, he had to make do with waiting. And it was a long wait. Terribly long.
There were concentrated rationality pills, logic tablets, plausibility adjustment drops. And above all, an array of fast-acting tone powders that allowed him to instantly modulate the nuance of a moment: irony powder, comedy powder, distancing powder, which when snorted off the back of your hand immediately attenuated the excessively tragic outline of any situation. Used wisely, these chemical tools enabled He reckoned he had set things straight enough to wake his companions. He grabbed the saucepan and poured the water slowly over the grounds filling the paper filter. He was a bit afraid of seeing Nadia emerge from the sleeping bag with a misshapen, cuboid body, her legs crooked, her breasts square. He’d never dragged them this far down before, to these unfathomable depths, the hunting ground of great dreamers. How would they take the submersion? The smell of coffee spread through the air, supplanting that of gasoline. Nadia stirred, then Jorgo. Their awakenings were always difficult, mechanical, their gestures horrendously approximate. Whenever they came out of sleep, it was like they needed to learn to stand again, to walk, to speak. They were like babies with only a few minutes to learn everything. However brief, these moments were extremely painful for David, who felt each time like he was seeing cardboard dummies or lobotomized simpletons come to life. He decided to let the aroma of the coffee do its work and left to get dressed. His clothes had been tossed in a heap on the suitcase of brushed steel he was never without in the world of the dream. He knelt and undid the clasps. The armored luggage contained quite an assortment of drugs whose vials were lined up like strange ammo on a sheet of black rubber, held in place by leather loops.
“My body,” the young man confessed. “I left it up there, unmonitored. It’s the first time, see? No one knows I’m here, and I can’t figure out how long I’ve been gone. If something happens to it up there—”
Nadia frowned. No one, indeed, knew how time down below compared to time on the surface. The flow of time in the dream world seemed to proceed by fits and starts. Sometimes gestures stretched out endlessly Nadia frowned. No one, indeed, knew how time down below compared to time on the surface. The flow of time in the dream world seemed to proceed by fits and starts. Sometimes gestures stretched out endlessly like in a slow-motion scene, and at other times, it all went by very fast. Actions fled by, sped up, while conversations became an incomprehensible chirping. David wondered if the temporal flux wasn’t governed by purely subjective criteria, the mind condensing painful or boring moments in order to protract pleasant ones instead, dragging them out until they were a kind of amber where you wound up getting trapped. It was just a theory, but he knew an hour of dream didn’t equal an hour of reality; the exchange rate was much more complex.
Impeccable dream logic that leads to great moments of catharsis, where you realize what you're reading is totally ridiculous but you don't care because you're having too much fun.
dead dreams were an exceptional source of pollution
Similar in concept to Inception and The Matrix, but it's a lot more fun. Kind of like [b: Heroes Die|311864|Heroes Die (The Acts of Caine, #1)|Matthew Woodring Stover|https://d2arxad8u2l0g7.cloudfront.net/books/1403193753s/311864.jpg|302782]. My only quibble is that by the end of the first chapter it almost feels as if he's exhausted the possibilities of his dream world, because you imagine it getting solipsistic, stuck inside his own head. I have trouble caring for characters that the narrative doesn't consider 'real'. But the author gets this and the focus temporarily switches to how dreams impact the real world, and by the time we re-enter the thief's dreamworld the solipsism problem has been neatly sidestepped.
Nadia frowned. No one, indeed, knew how time down below compared to time on the surface. The flow of time in the dream world seemed to proceed by fits and starts. Sometimes gestures stretched out endlessly Nadia frowned. No one, indeed, knew how time down below compared to time on the surface. The flow of time in the dream world seemed to proceed by fits and starts. Sometimes gestures stretched out endlessly like in a slow-motion scene, and at other times, it all went by very fast. Actions fled by, sped up, while conversations became an incomprehensible chirping. David wondered if the temporal flux wasn’t governed by purely subjective criteria, the mind condensing painful or boring moments in order to protract pleasant ones instead, dragging them out until they were a kind of amber where you wound up getting trapped. It was just a theory, but he knew an hour of dream didn’t equal an hour of reality; the exchange rate was much more complex.
ederwin's review
3.0
About 10 years ago I started reading SF books in French to help improve my language skills. It is more fun for me to read modern books in SF than to try to read the classics, and the language is much closer to what is currently spoken as well. (Though SF, and especially fantasy, often has many made-up words.)
Along the way I've discovered some really interesting writers, most of whose works have never been translated to English. Serge Brussolo is not one of my favorites, yet his work is consistently interesting and strange. I already had a copy of this in French, but when it came out in English I decided to go for the simple route and read it that way.
Brussolo is a *very* prolific author in multiple genres, so it is puzzling why this book in particular would be the first to get a translation. His works have a dream-like logic, sometimes tending towards nightmares, but also mix in other genres. This is no exception, with half of the story taking place in dreams. The main character is an artist who dives into dreams and brings back 'ectoplasms' which are then sold as art. (Thus even the real-world part of the story has a dream-like logic.) Inside the dream world, the story plays out like a detective story, because the character happens to like detective stories. These sorts of genre shifts are common in Brussolo.
One problem I've had with Brussolo before is that he sometimes seems to just put one new idea after another without much thought to structure or to developing individual ideas further. That is a bit of a problem here, with some interesting ideas left undeveloped, but the overall structure of this book does make sense.
The biggest discovery for me in this work is the translator [a:Edward Gauvin|3234624|Edward Gauvin|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1264630868p2/3234624.jpg]. Without realizing it, I had already read and enjoyed five or six books that he has translated, including [b:Aama, Vol. 1: The Smell of Warm Dust|18405534|Aama, Vol. 1 The Smell of Warm Dust (Aama, #1)|Frederik Peeters|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1381355749s/18405534.jpg|21951774], [b:Last Days of an Immortal|13235673|Last Days of an Immortal|Fabien Vehlmann|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1391979225s/13235673.jpg|18433036], [b:A Game for Swallows: To Die, to Leave, to Return|13773346|A Game for Swallows To Die, to Leave, to Return|Zeina Abirached|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1346958476s/13773346.jpg|2769651], [b:Best of Enemies: A History of US and Middle East Relations, Part One: 1783-1953|13543448|Best of Enemies A History of US and Middle East Relations, Part One 1783-1953|Jean-Pierre Filiu|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1414453808s/13543448.jpg|19107758], [b:A Life on Paper: Selected Stories|7328344|A Life on Paper Selected Stories|Georges-Olivier Châteaureynaud|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1328690135s/7328344.jpg|8959555]. He seems to have similar tastes to me, and his translations are clear, so I'll be looking for more of his translations.
One note on the title: the translation "The Deep Sea Diver's Syndrome" is accurate, but I think it would also be accurate to translate it as "Locked-In Syndrome". I found one (but only one) online dictionary that supports my translation, so I guess this is an uncommon phrase. The French word "scaphandrier" is related to "scaphandre" or "diving bell". That immediately brings to mind [b:The Diving Bell and the Butterfly|193755|The Diving Bell and the Butterfly|Jean-Dominique Bauby|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1336930564s/193755.jpg|565494] in which the main character's condition is compared to being in a diving bell. The main character in this book also spends some time in a similar locked-in condition, alive and awake in a bed, but unable to move or communicate.
Along the way I've discovered some really interesting writers, most of whose works have never been translated to English. Serge Brussolo is not one of my favorites, yet his work is consistently interesting and strange. I already had a copy of this in French, but when it came out in English I decided to go for the simple route and read it that way.
Brussolo is a *very* prolific author in multiple genres, so it is puzzling why this book in particular would be the first to get a translation. His works have a dream-like logic, sometimes tending towards nightmares, but also mix in other genres. This is no exception, with half of the story taking place in dreams. The main character is an artist who dives into dreams and brings back 'ectoplasms' which are then sold as art. (Thus even the real-world part of the story has a dream-like logic.) Inside the dream world, the story plays out like a detective story, because the character happens to like detective stories. These sorts of genre shifts are common in Brussolo.
One problem I've had with Brussolo before is that he sometimes seems to just put one new idea after another without much thought to structure or to developing individual ideas further. That is a bit of a problem here, with some interesting ideas left undeveloped, but the overall structure of this book does make sense.
The biggest discovery for me in this work is the translator [a:Edward Gauvin|3234624|Edward Gauvin|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1264630868p2/3234624.jpg]. Without realizing it, I had already read and enjoyed five or six books that he has translated, including [b:Aama, Vol. 1: The Smell of Warm Dust|18405534|Aama, Vol. 1 The Smell of Warm Dust (Aama, #1)|Frederik Peeters|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1381355749s/18405534.jpg|21951774], [b:Last Days of an Immortal|13235673|Last Days of an Immortal|Fabien Vehlmann|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1391979225s/13235673.jpg|18433036], [b:A Game for Swallows: To Die, to Leave, to Return|13773346|A Game for Swallows To Die, to Leave, to Return|Zeina Abirached|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1346958476s/13773346.jpg|2769651], [b:Best of Enemies: A History of US and Middle East Relations, Part One: 1783-1953|13543448|Best of Enemies A History of US and Middle East Relations, Part One 1783-1953|Jean-Pierre Filiu|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1414453808s/13543448.jpg|19107758], [b:A Life on Paper: Selected Stories|7328344|A Life on Paper Selected Stories|Georges-Olivier Châteaureynaud|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1328690135s/7328344.jpg|8959555]. He seems to have similar tastes to me, and his translations are clear, so I'll be looking for more of his translations.
One note on the title: the translation "The Deep Sea Diver's Syndrome" is accurate, but I think it would also be accurate to translate it as "Locked-In Syndrome". I found one (but only one) online dictionary that supports my translation, so I guess this is an uncommon phrase. The French word "scaphandrier" is related to "scaphandre" or "diving bell". That immediately brings to mind [b:The Diving Bell and the Butterfly|193755|The Diving Bell and the Butterfly|Jean-Dominique Bauby|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1336930564s/193755.jpg|565494] in which the main character's condition is compared to being in a diving bell. The main character in this book also spends some time in a similar locked-in condition, alive and awake in a bed, but unable to move or communicate.
expendablemudge's review
4.0
Real Rating: 4.25* of five
#ReadingIsResistance to the dominance of timid, pale storytelling in urban fantasy! At my blog, I review this French urban fantasy, Melville House's latest gift to US English-language readers. It's the first time Serge Brussolo has appeared in English, but let's make sure it's not the last. Use #SciFiFri discover how deep a man's love can go. (Bonus points if you can name the 1970s group that sang that song.)
#ReadingIsResistance to the dominance of timid, pale storytelling in urban fantasy! At my blog, I review this French urban fantasy, Melville House's latest gift to US English-language readers. It's the first time Serge Brussolo has appeared in English, but let's make sure it's not the last. Use #SciFiFri discover how deep a man's love can go. (Bonus points if you can name the 1970s group that sang that song.)
zizabeph's review
2.0
I get that this preceded Inception by at least a decade. Still, Inception did it way, way better.
Felt like this author muddled metaphors way too much
Felt like this author muddled metaphors way too much
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