THE SIXTH NIK, we need a new literary adjective..."Krausian"

THE SIXTH NIK
DANIEL KRAUS
Saga Press (non-affiliate Bookshop.org link)
$14.99 ebook, available now

Rating: 4.75* of five

The Publisher Says: Perfectly aligned for readers of Iain M. Banks’s The Culture series and Ursula K. Le Guin’s “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas”, The Sixth Nik is a galaxy spanning adventure from the New York Times bestselling and Pulitzer Prize–winning author of Angel Down and Whalefall.

Deep into space, far past the triworld outposts, beyond range of the lethal trollbot internet, soars The Sickness: a ship woven from biomatter and capable of reacting to every need of its human crew. Sisilla, a nine-year-old cultist with a brain enhanced by arcane tech known as “niks,” has boarded to investigate the enigma of Fém—a plague-riddled planet that has abruptly gone rogue.

The mysterious crew includes a faceless assassin, a beautiful engineer jigsawed by plastic surgery, a peyote-addicted medic, and—most lethal of all—a rugged, NonModded captain with a score to settle with Sisilla. Other dangers abound. A hacked robot begins to believe Sisilla is its daughter. The Sickness itself is mutating, possibly even pregnant. And the secret of Fém is more horrific than anyone could have imagined. To survive, Sisilla will need to forsake her predetermined fate and embrace the unknown.

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My Review: Sisilla is a weird protagonist. She knows when she will die: after she completes her "Chore," the issue/problem/situation her birth family gave her life to resolving with the aid of major surgical brain modification and enhancement by alien tech. It's...distancing, for we-the-reader and most certainly for the Inuit people her birth family sent her to live among (it's the custom, it's required). She is the fifty-fifth child to have this life wished on her before she's got anything like the ability to offer consent, and then there's the fact that she will be killed when her "Chore" is complete. The alien-tech brain mods, the "niks," will be removed from her dead brain, the next sacrificial child will be found and modified, and giant social/technical/existential problems will be solved.

I was appalled and repulsed by this system of abusive exploitation. I was revolted by the most bizarrely powered transport that took Sisilla from her place of education and preparation into distant reaches of space, that "plasmagraphic" ship's name...The Sickness...apt for the ship and the "Chore" Sisilla is to accomplish at the cost of her life. This being Author Kraus, I was expecting seriously effective descriptive language everywhere. I got it in spades. I've seldom liked a character I sympathized with *less* than Sisilla, mostly because the Omelas-ness of her world is a truly effective backdrop for creating kind feelings by way of contrast. I was actually nauseated by The Sickness, thus felt a reluctant protective urge towards the child it was created to transport. A misplaced emotion...Sisilla is not a person in need of protection, but one to be protected against as normalizing a brutal, utilitarian corruption of innocence in a very questionable enterprise. I won't call it a cause.

I finished this read in May. I wrote three reviews, discarded them for being inaccurate and overly emotive. This review goes up no matter what. Author Kraus does a tremendous job of creating fascinating, flawed, awful human being protagonists in the two books of his I have now read. I know a lot of people read Angel Down (review linked on first reference) very differently than I did...it is my favorite WWI novel, despite the war being only the setting of a far, far more damning commentary on capitalism, anomie, and sociopathy writ large. Its commentary would not be as effective as it is were it set in another time and place. That is why I call it my favorite WWI novel. I won't call The Sixth Nik my favorite SF novel, or my favorite alien-contact novel; it is my favorite body horror novel. This is a finely gauged story that evokes sympathy and disgust simultaneously. There is a direct presentation of revolting meaty awfulness. Then there is, as one thinks about it, an awful emotionally excavating familiarity to its meaty awfulness. It is a story wherein People...that giant amorphous guilt-ameliorating construct...have chosen to sacrifice the humanity and the life of a little girl to solve a problem more quickly, more expeditiously, more seamlessly, at that cost.

Is the bell ringing yet?

So this read is not for everyone, not likely to be one you'll undertake unless you are willing to spelunk some dark caves of the soul with only a little light to carry with you. It will reward you with an undistorted assessment of the world, the humans in it, and (from Shakespeare in Love, remember that film?) a bit with a dog aptly named "Positive Roy." I suspect the fairly heavy-handed symbolism of the ship's mode of propulsion...one of my few true objections to the not-subtle nature of the story's worldbuilding...will cause eye-rolling. I offer to the rolled eye a reminder of "the Snarl," an equally unsubtle but much more palatable metaphor for tech-mediated human communication, and quite possibly an equally useful organizing principle to use along with Cory Doctorow's "enshittification."

Would I recommend you read this story? Yes. Do I expect you will? Not many of you. Do I hope you will try to overcome your reluctance to engage with something this complicated emotionally?

Very much. I did. I got a lot out of reflecting, revisiting, rethinking my ideas in this story's mirrors.

LITTLE JEWEL: A Novel, a very different kind of storytelling from 2014 Nobel Laureate Modiano

LITTLE JEWEL: A Novel
PATRICK MODIANO (tr. Penny Hueston)
Yale University Press
$16.00 trade paper, available now

Rating: 4.25* of five

The Publisher Says: A mesmerizing novel by Nobel Laureate Patrick Modiano, now superbly translated for English-language readers

For long standing admirers of Modiano’s luminous writing as well as those readers encountering his work for the first time, Little Jewel will be an exciting discovery. Uniquely told by a young female narrator, Little Jewel is the story of a young woman adrift in Paris, imprisoned in an imperfectly remembered past. The city itself is a major character in Modiano’s work, and timeless moral ambiguities of the post-Occupation years remain hauntingly unresolved.

One day in the corridors of the metro, nineteen-year-old Thérèse glimpses a woman in a yellow coat. Could this be the mother who long ago abandoned her? Is she still alive? Desperate for answers to questions that have tormented her since childhood, Thérèse pursues the mysterious figure on a quest through the streets of Paris. In classic Modiano style, this novel explores the elusive nature of memory, the unyielding power of the past, and the deep human need for identity and connection.

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My Review: I understand that many Modiano fanciers find this to be a slight, even a negligible, entry into his oeuvre. I am, of course, required to bow to their expertise since I do not have it. I will say, though, that if this is a slight entry into Author Modiano's catalog, the Nobel committee slept on this award by leaving it unawarded until 2014.

Thérèse, in common with most of us whose mothers weren't all that motherly, sees and feels the present with intensity and immediacy that our better-grounded peers seem to lack. It's a hypervigilance, an awareness of things that aren't always notable or even noticeable to others.

Thérèse's mother abandoned her for that most selfish of reasons, addiction, and so Thérèse can never really find her mother in her memories. We, listening to Thérèse, don't know what images among the blurry watercolors inside her head are real. Is her mother dead? Did she abandon Thérèse in that absolute and final way? Thérèse doesn't seem to know, so we don't know.

But that's the nature of the child of loss: We don't know what, if any, of our memories are valid, externally valid that is, and that is all we've come to trust. Validation must come from outside when your life has consisted of things you simply can't control, can't even influence...they just Happen, from the outside. So that is where Reality lies.

And lie she does, does Reality.

That is the genius of this work. It's not the usual third person exploration of the Idea of Identity, the Scenes of Paris, that Modiano is so very very good at. Thérèse is telling us about the grey, grim Paris of her life. Thérèse is putting herself in the frame deliberately, and that is unique. To Modiano, whose work is always at a very French remove from the immediacy of American novels. To Thérèse, whose marginal life is never even the center of her own thoughts...that position belongs to her mother. (That there is a father is self-evident, but one it never treated to a thought centering him. He exists only because The Mother got pregnant by him, whoever he was.)

We, the audience, see that there are men...an older pharmacist, a young student...who care for the waiflike Thérèse. She remains unable to process their proffered affection. It is here that Modiano achieves something I am absolutely stunned by: In a novel told all in first person, he manages the feat of making the emotional reality of other characters as clear to the reader as are Thérèse's disordered thoughts. It is a rare stylistic attempt, and it succeeds more often than not.

Why, you'll be excused for asking, isn't this a five-star review? Because, ma amie, Thérèse is nineteen and solipsistic in the extreme as are all emotionally abandoned children. It grows wearisome to trudge around after this yellow-raincoated woman to no avail, with no closure, by no authority empowered to address her. I don't for an instant think this is Thérèse's mother. I'm familiar with the trajectory of addiction and it's unlikely that someone lied to the girl Thérèse about her mother's fate. That's the sort of lie that comes with good intentions. No one's ever had an intention towards Thérèse, good or bad.

The ending of this novel is not really an ending. It is a place where we can leave Thérèse, like a safe street-corner near a police station, but knowing that we're out of there and no longer responsible to looking on at her life's messy, pale, unlikely to come into focus, trajectory. It's the proper place to leave her. It's what the entire trajectory of the story demands.

It feels a bit like we, the only people who will ever see Thérèse from the inside, are repeating the cruelty and abandonment that has been and will be her lot.

Brilliant. Unsettling. Evoking the eternal question that consuming art, novels in particular, wrenches forth from the sensitive: Is this just fancied-up voyeurism? Am I not being the low-life peeper that I condemn when she's listening at bedroom doors, he's got one eye on the braless busty babe?