“Eli, eli, lama sabacthani” (Matthew 27:46).
I just finished reading The Philosopher’s Apprentice – a deliciously wacky novel by James Morrow that Weidenfeld & Nicolson published a couple of years ago. The story basically centres upon the relationship between Mason Ambrose, a “failed philosopher” and loquacious intellectual, and Londa Sabacthani, who morphs from sociopathic student to utopian crusader over the course of the novel.
While this book certainly had its faults (namely an ending that I found slightly too glib), it was largely fantastic. The prose was detailed and slightly ridiculous, just like the story, which at one stage involves an army of “immaculoids” – adult foetuses, created in an “ontogenerator” and dispatched by pro-life fanatics to torment their “unfeeling quasiparents” - attacking Londa and her companions for their unacceptably feminist agenda. I also particularly liked Mason; as an avowedly cowardly, opinionated but moral fellow, he seemed refreshingly different from your usual protagonist. (Although this could be because I read too much epic fantasy and space-operas, ha...) Either way, I enjoyed it.
Awesome prose, p250:
I raised the urn high above my head and sent it on a collision course with the hardwood floor. The moment of impact was gratifyingly spectacular, ten thousand glittery splinters radiating outwards from the impact point. I thought of bombs exploding, universes expanding, paradigms shifting. With a demented cackle I dropped to my knees and, reaching into the rubble, closed my fist around a scraggly carbon nodule.
A longer and slightly spoilery passage, p227:
“I could only find three suits,” Jordan said, “but as your getaway driver, I don’t really need one.”
“Getaway driver?”
“Last night we burned three hundred gigabytes on to sixty CDRs and hid them inside our statue of Themis,” Londa explained. “Not the first place the mackies will think of looking, but not the last either, so the sooner we three go fetch the data the better.”
“Including me?” I said.
“The plan turns on us having as many Sabacthanites as possible inside the city,” Jordan said.
“Sounds dangerous,” I noted.
“Only if we do something amazingly stupid,” Londa said.
“We can count on you, right, Mason?” Yolly asked.
Of course they couldn’t count on me. Who did they think I was, Anthony Quinn in The Gunns of Navarone? “I would say we need two getaway drivers,” I suggested.
“Sheesh,” Jordan exclaimed.
“I’m a philosopher,” I said, “not a fucking commando.”
While this book certainly had its faults (namely an ending that I found slightly too glib), it was largely fantastic. The prose was detailed and slightly ridiculous, just like the story, which at one stage involves an army of “immaculoids” – adult foetuses, created in an “ontogenerator” and dispatched by pro-life fanatics to torment their “unfeeling quasiparents” - attacking Londa and her companions for their unacceptably feminist agenda. I also particularly liked Mason; as an avowedly cowardly, opinionated but moral fellow, he seemed refreshingly different from your usual protagonist. (Although this could be because I read too much epic fantasy and space-operas, ha...) Either way, I enjoyed it.
Awesome prose, p250:
I raised the urn high above my head and sent it on a collision course with the hardwood floor. The moment of impact was gratifyingly spectacular, ten thousand glittery splinters radiating outwards from the impact point. I thought of bombs exploding, universes expanding, paradigms shifting. With a demented cackle I dropped to my knees and, reaching into the rubble, closed my fist around a scraggly carbon nodule.
A longer and slightly spoilery passage, p227:
“I could only find three suits,” Jordan said, “but as your getaway driver, I don’t really need one.”
“Getaway driver?”
“Last night we burned three hundred gigabytes on to sixty CDRs and hid them inside our statue of Themis,” Londa explained. “Not the first place the mackies will think of looking, but not the last either, so the sooner we three go fetch the data the better.”
“Including me?” I said.
“The plan turns on us having as many Sabacthanites as possible inside the city,” Jordan said.
“Sounds dangerous,” I noted.
“Only if we do something amazingly stupid,” Londa said.
“We can count on you, right, Mason?” Yolly asked.
Of course they couldn’t count on me. Who did they think I was, Anthony Quinn in The Gunns of Navarone? “I would say we need two getaway drivers,” I suggested.
“Sheesh,” Jordan exclaimed.
“I’m a philosopher,” I said, “not a fucking commando.”