Not a review of…
The Nightmare Stacks
by Charles Stross
The purist might heckle me for listening to this book as a recording. The purist might say, soothe, he hath not read. I would maintain that this is the sort of book where there ought to be concessions from the purists.
This was not a brilliant book. It’s not even a wise one. It’s cumbersome and it lacks efficiency and it does not always justify its existence. Words such as “a meander through the hedge rows, forever forgetting our next appointment” come to mind.
What, then, a punter may ask, has the book got to recommend it? Does sir not have standards? Does he not have standing orders to shoot on sight any book which threatens to waste his time? And a punter may well ask.
The gist, noble reader, is this: the book has to major points in its favor.
In the first place, it is clever. It is clever as a very charming sneak thief, who has just dropped a watch, and you have returned it to him, remarking that you rather think you have seen one like it before. Then you bid him farewell, and he wanders toward the horizon, reminding you to check the time, only to discover that your watch has been summarily nicked.
That is how clever it is.
The second point that the hon. Chas Stross imbued this book with is a feature both rare and wondrous. I don’t mind telling you that it brought a sigh and a demure smile to the lips more than once during the narration.
The feature in question was, in short, characters. Practically every character lurking the pages was both dimensioned and charming. Dimensioned like an architect’s model, and no less intricate. And charming in the sense that if you came upon them at a mixer, you might have a real conversation with them, and come away only perhaps three quarters of the way towards homicidal thoughts, much like most experiences in life. Not like the charming people of Hollywood or one of those charming places, entirely peopled by individuals who want only for a clout or two about the ears. I mean what I say when I say the hon. Chas Stross knew the way to real charm.
A good book. Not a great book. But sometimes a good book satisfies far more than a great one.
