In article <
nsIKo...@kithrup.com>,
Dorothy J Heydt <
djh...@kithrup.com> wrote:
>
>Maybe I should dig up the review I wrote of it for _The Other
>Change of Hobbit_ when it came out. Hold that thought....
Dug up: this was several computer-deaths ago, but I tucked the
printout into my copy of the book. If you're not interested, hit
'n' now.
TO SAY NOTHING OF THE DOG
or, HOW WE FOUND THE BISHOP'S BIRD STUMP AT LAST
by Connie Willis
Time lag is a wretched thing. You make a dozen or thirteen time
drops within a week or so, and your brain goes wonky and you
can't think straight, and you can't see straight, and you can't
hear straight, and you think your friend said, "We've let the hat
out of the bag," when in fact he said something different
altogether.
And then you come down with spells of maudlin sentimentality that
make you talk, as Ned Henry puts it, "like an Irishman in his
cups or a Victorian poet cold-sober."
So when poor overworked, time-lagged Ned is sent back to 1888 for
a badly needed rest, not only does it start the story rolling,
but it gives Connie willis an excuse to write her novel in the
style of Jerome K. Jerome's _Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing
of the Dog)._
Now, there are grim somber Connie Willis books (_Lincoln's
Dreams,_ e.g.), and there are funny convoluted zany Connie Wills
books. This is one of the latter, even though it takes place in
the same universe as _Doomsday Book._ As you'll remember, it's
impossible to send anything back in time that might cause a
paradox, or anything forward at all. When something is brought
forward anyway, chaos threatens, and though they hastily send it
back again, something seems to have shaken loose. Things fall
apart, the center cannot hold, and poor Ned arrives days and
miles from his proper destination, too lagged to realize what
he's got in his possession and what he was supposed to do.
There are people in this world who don't like spoilers. Tell
them the plot of a story, even part of the plot, and they get all
huffy and say you've ruined it for them. For their sake (and
because when I tried to describe this one to my husband it took
me twenty minutes and I'd left several important points unmade),
I won't attempt to go into the plot of _To Say Nothing of the
Dog._ It would be deceptive if I did so, anyway. Willis (clever
minx) would have you believe that the integrity of the space-time
continuum is at stake, that the fate of the universe hangs in the
balance. Not a bit of it. It's about important things like love
and marriage and dogs and cats. Especially cats.
There are people in this world (they may be the same as the first
lot) who like solving puzzles. I'm not one of them, which may
explain why I liked this one better on the second reading than
the first, and still better on the third, all within forty-eight
hours of buying it. Once you've had a look at the middle and the
end, you can go back to the beginning and appreciate how Willis
inserts little clues and foreshadowings and hints under the guise
of minor decorative details. It's like tracing a page from the
Book of Kells, or following the threads of a cat's cradle.
Then, either after or before you've read it, I advise you to go
back and read _Three Men in a Boat,_ to say nothing of some P. G.
Wodehouse, Agatha Christie, and Dorothy L. Sayers. If you
haven't read Sayers, for example, how can you properly appreciate
the moment when the hero, with his wire wrist-hooks tucked into
his sleeves and the heroine, with her metal box tucked into her
garter, infiltrate the seance and deliver the essential message,
... I beg your pardon. I quite forgot.
If you really want a spoiler, I can tell you that the bishop's
bird stump is an ornate, cast-iron Victorian vase that claims to
be the McGuffin in the story, but it isn't really. The McGuffin
is the fan in the covered basket.