Winter Games is a thriller, a “gripping tale of military cover-ups and international crime,” according to the description on the back cover. The novel blurs the edges between science fiction and thriller with the use of a female, and very helpful, robot named Sarah who comes to the aid of the human protagonist, Tim Sutton.
I read a lot of thrillers and mysteries written by such authors as James Lee Burke, Val McDermid, Michael Connelly, Craig Johnson, and others, so I was looking forward to reading Winter Games. I have to confess to not being gripped.
The back-cover plot synopsis says, “Mild-mannered 24-year-old Tim Sutton runs a humble comic store in a small New Hampshire town.
“But he receives a mysterious message on cold winter morning that turns his simple life upside down. Tim suddenly finds himself racing against the clock to find his long-lost brother Eric. The perilous quest soon sweeps Tim around the globe and across hostile borders into a deadly landscape where laws are ignored and life is cheap.
“As Tim quests for his missing sibling, he is forced to ally himself with jilted government agents, hardened criminals, and other shadowy figures whose backgrounds are as nebulous as their motivations for helping Tim. Tim is gradually forced to question the true identity of the brother he is desperately searching for.”
There, on the book’s back cover, lie both the central problem and its cure. Ground between the passive writing and excessive detail, the exciting concept of the story does not hold a reader’s interest. At least not this reader’s interest.
For example, after his long search, Tim finds his brother. On page 100, he sees lighted windows in a building: “Someone was inside.” After 67 lines, in which Tim enters a room and the narrator describes the room and its contents, Tim sees a “table surrounded by twelve chairs, all of which were empty.
“Except one.
“At the far end of the table, leaning over a laptop computer and a mess of paperwork, sat a single man. When he saw Tim standing at the far end of the room, the man jumped up from his chair in shock. Frozen, his eyes focused on Tim.
“The man was about five-feet, ten-inches (sic) tall. He was Caucasian, with a slender, unimposing frame and pale-white (sic) skin. The man’s cleanly-shaven, brown-eyed face was capped with a crop of short, neatly cut blond hair.
“Tim exhaled. A cornucopia of emotions flew through his head: joy, satisfaction, fear, trepidation, validation, and of course, curiosity. Tim’s legs seemed ready to buckle beneath him as he slowly approached the conference table. When Tim reached the table, the two men stared at one another in silence.
“Then, with the best smile he could muster, Tim spoke.
“’I’m here,’” Tim said, “’Little Brother, I’m here.’”
A character – or a person – who has just found his long-lost, beloved sibling does not pause to count the chairs and note that there are twelve of them. The more logical behavior would be to realize that his brother is present in the room, then look around to be sure it’s safe to approach – if he had the presence of mind to do that after coming on his brother unexpectedly. And listing the various emotions does not work for me, either. It’s the old recommendation for fiction writers: Show, don’t tell. Show the reader what the character feels by the emotion’s effect on him. Don’t tell us that he feels a cornucopia and then dump the thing on the page. How do you feel a cornucopia, anyway?
That sentence tells us that a cornucopia flew through the character’s head. Think about it. The emotions are secondary and come in the list of what’s in the cornucopia.
The English language works in a very simple manner. Its basic pattern for action is: Subject-Verb-Object. To write strong sentences, don’t clutter the pattern with adjectives or adjective phrases. The cornucopia didn’t fly through Tim’s head, obviously, but that’s not what the sentences says. The emotions are stuck off in an adjective phrase, or as English teachers used to tell us, in a prepositional phrase used as an adjective.
The author has endowed the robot Sarah with less emotion than a rock. But before anyone reading this review jumps up yelling that robots are machines and can’t experience emotion, let me site two of the most famous robot characters in science fiction: R2D2 and C3PO. They have no facial expressions because R2D2 doesn’t have a face, and while C3PO has a face, he has no muscles to work it. He can blink his eyes and move his mouth and gesture with his arms and legs, and he can talk in various tones. R2D2 can only tilt, chirp and waddle. They are lovable. Our introduction to Sarah tells us that she can function effectively well below anyone’s radar or motion sensors, that she drinks coffee to warm herself, and she “never smiles.” Rational and emotionless, Sarah may be one of the heroes of the story, but I didn’t find her particularly appealing. And I wanted to. A super-human female robot is a fine invention.
This novel could have a lot going for it. The story is original, and the main character, Tim, is engaging. I found his naïve willingness to undertake this bizarre adventure a bit of a stretch, based as the whole story is on a translated comic book that purports to be his brother’s plea for rescue. He is so naïve that Sarah has to remind him to prepare for a week in a sealed container and sends him off to buy food and toilet paper. Tim has made no preparations for food or potty needs but is willing to travel in a sealed container bound for North Korea.
Thank goodness for Sarah, whose robotic practicality makes up for Tim’s naïve lack of thought. Together they could make a good team, and sometimes do.
About the Author: Carol Buchanan
Steven Reynolds said on September 24, 2009
If anyone is getting tired of hurling brickbats at Carol or declaring their love for John (for the record, I’m increasingly fond of both people), and would like to stretch their mind in a different direction, they might like to track down Roland Barthes 1967 essay, “The Death of the Author”.
In it, Barthes posits the notion that the interpretation and meaning of any text lies with the reader, not with the intentions of the author. Meaning is created in every reading. Writing defies adherence to a single interpretation or perspective.
Lest I be perceived as part of a Global Conspiracy of Evil Reviewers closing ranks with my own kind, let me spell it out: I am not for one moment suggesting “Sarah is a robot” is a justified reading of John’s book, or that authorial intention is irrelevant and unrecoverable. This controversy simply reminded me of the Barthes essay. It’s a short but seminal work in twentieth-century literary theory, and I thought people might like to read it. Wikipedia has a nice summary if you can’t find the original.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_of_the_Author
Sam Rutting said on September 24, 2009
Steve,
Hurling brickbats? I hardly consider the most recent posts harsh or unfavorable. Writers are challenging Buchanan’s interpretation, and some, rather well. You can try to bail her out with Barthes, but she really needs to defend herself sufficiently on her own. I don’t think she has.
If I ever read “The Death of the Author,” I long forgot about it. So thanks.
In Henry Baum’s “dialogue” you’re asked “why the difference in reviews?” You write:
“It’s because Carol doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Just Kidding.” If the “meaning of any text lies with the reader,” so is there “a little truth in every joke.”
Pearl said on September 24, 2009
Steve:
Using the concept of intentional fallacy doesn’t mesh well in this case. Sarah is an enigmatic, complex character, and Buchanan’s assignation of robot is prosaic.
If readers debate whether or not Charlotte Bronte’s Shirley Keeldar is a lesbian, for example, intentional fallacy fits. One could argue that the name Shirley was commonly assigned to men at the time, or that she carries her female friend, as a gay lover might. However, few reviewers would definitively write “Bronte’s LESBIAN character Shirley,” and so forth, without adequately defending their analysis. If Bronte did not intend Shirley as a lesbian, Barthes’ thoughts are germane.
A reviewer who writes “the MALE character Shirley” need anticipate some heady criticism.
Discussion of intentional fallacy could indeed fit with Winter Games, though. Did Lacombe choose the name Eric intentionally? Is Eric another example of public school failure (think Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold) and is North Korea his Columbine? Is Lacombe suggesting that the United States is well aware of, yet powerless to defeat North Korea’s nuclear arsenal? Is his point that parents love their children unconditionally?
Gareth Hayes does a thorough job rationalizing why Sarah isn’t a robot, and his examples of blood, batteries and engineering illustrate that Carol Buchanan did not give her interpretation enough thought.
One must, in a sense, earn the right to use Barthe as a defense. Otherwise, students of today will claim Emma Bovary was a 19th century porn star and “Miss Piggy” is really Hilary Clinton. It has been done.
Steven Reynolds said on September 24, 2009
Sam, Pearl – Did I not just get through saying I didn’t think Barthes applied in this case, only that this discussion reminded me of his essay?
Of course, you think I’m being disingenuous and trying to “bail her out with Barthes”. I couldn’t be less interested in defending Carol’s view of Sarah. Frankly, I think Carol made an error in her reading.
Is that plain enough for you?
Sam Rutting said on September 24, 2009
Steve,
I was just thinking of that courtroom scene with Jack Nicholson in “A Few Good Men” where Colonel Jessup demands,
“ARE WE CLEAR?”
“Are we Cul LEEE R?”
And the Tom Cruise character says, “Crystal.”
That seems more fitting than “Is that plain enough for you?”
But yes. Thanks.
Kalidah said on September 24, 2009
That is a nice essay to be reminded of for readers and writers. And for the record, I appreciate all the intellectual points (on all sides) that have been brought up by Steve, John (on Author’s Response), Carol and many of the posters here. Questioning and considering the answers makes all better readers and writers.
Gareth Hayes said on September 24, 2009
Mr. Reynolds,
The Barthes piece was interesting, I hadn’t read it before. I think it speaks to, partially, the art for art’s sake view of literature. I personally don’t like it and think it is impossible to look at any work save, perhaps, the most obtuse poetry (something well too sophisticated for my simple taste) wihtout considering the context within which the author wrote it. A work can stand alone but I think that Barthes’ take speaks to a simpler, rather than, as he implies, a richer or truer, interpretation of a novel. Words were put down based on what an author saw in his mind. To remove the importance of the influences on that mind is, in my opinion, disingenuous.
I can in some way appreciate a good turn of phrase or elegant composition but personally don’t find that to be the most compelling, or important, facet of literature. I think literature is there to tell a story and that story has to be, at least in some way, influenced by the life lived by the author. Gulliver’s Travels isn’t what it is if Swift were sane and writing one hundred years before or after he did. Tolstoy isn’t Tolstoy without being in the military and aware of Napolean getting bogged down in a Russian winter. Camus’ post-war literature cannot be fully understood without taking into account his WWII experiences or his life in Algeria. There is a story told within the works of these authors that would not have been the same if they had not lived the lives they did. As such, how is it possible to read and consider their works’ by the content alone?
I, in some way, can see what Barthes is saying but can’t agree with him. I understand that there can be beauty in literature apart from the story and apart from the writer. I also understand that interpretations of the written word can go on without any knowledge of the author. I read Animal Farm for the first time without knowing anything about Orwell (hell, I’m pretty sure my English teacher at the time told us he was a defender of capitalism and the American Way) and still enjoyed it. Reading it with a better understanding of the author and the context within which he lived and wrote, though, added to my appreciation of the novel and added a richness to it that the words alone could not. I do not think that it is possible to seperate the author from the work and gain a true understanding of what that author wanted to say which, in contrast to what Barthes seems to say, I find to be inextricable from the work. I, personally, enjoy a novel much more when I know something about where the author is coming from or at least the time in which he or she wrote.
Not sure what your take on Barthes is but I think he is wrong to put interpretation of a work over the author’s original intent. I know that symbolism can be found where none was intended and readers can get different things out of the same novel but I think, at heart, a novel is a work that came from the author and therefore the intended meaning of this author is important. I just don’t think that what the words of a novel, in a vacuum, mean to me is as important as what those words meant to the author. My take is biased, to a degree, because I don’t really like art for art’s sake and tend to take a fairly simplistic approach to reading. I want to know what the author was saying and why he said it. My interpretation is less important to me. I also may be reading into Barthes more than is there. I disagree with him, however, whether he means that the reader’s interpretation of a work is more important than the author’s alone or if to this he also adds that the “beauty” in form of the text is of primary importance to the quality of a novel.
Also, thanks for coming clean on the Global Conspiracy of Evil Reviewers.
Steven Reynolds said on September 24, 2009
I don’t think Barthes is saying context, biography and intent are uninteresting. He’s saying they can’t be objectively and unambiguously recovered from the text itself, as his example from Balzac demonstrates. And thank God for that. Literary studies would have ceased to exist as a discipline long ago if there weren’t competing readings of, say, Shakespeare.
Personally, I quite enjoy exploring context, biography and authorial intention. One of my favourite writers is Philip Roth, and I think reading his novels is a far richer experience if you understand his personal history, and the history of Jews in America. Reading “I Married a Communist” is a whole different experience if you do it through the lens of Roth’s marriage to Claire Bloom and her memoir that followed their divorce. But it’s a good example of Barthes’ point: none of that personal history can be gleaned from the text. It’s what the reader brings to it from other sources that allows a particular interpretation. This is why “the role of the reader” is elevated by Barthes.
I still think intention is fascinating. I love reading interviews with writers where they discuss the process of writing a particular book and what they wanted to achieve with it. In the manuscript assessments I write for authors, I always include a section where I describe what I think their intention has been. They’re sometimes surprised to discover my interpretation is quite different. Gareth mentions Camus, which reminds me that Penguin’s “Selected Essays and Notebooks” of Camus includes some fascinating diary entries that trace the composition and reception of his novels “The Outsider” and “The Plague”. Check them out if you’re interested in this sort of thing.
Steven Reynolds said on September 24, 2009
Sam – Given Colonel Jessep was a vain and delusional villain who wound up destroying himself, I’m not sure I like that comparison! But I guess I’d rather be Jack than self-righteous Tom in his “faggoty white suit”.
Janet said on October 2, 2009
Ms Buchanan,
In your review you write this about Tim:
“He is so naïve that Sarah has to remind him to prepare for a week in a sealed container and sends him off to buy food and toilet paper. Tim has made no preparations for food or potty needs but is willing to travel in a sealed container bound for North Korea.”
It was nagging at me, so I reread the pertinent section in the book and I believe you’re wrong. Sarah doesn’t REMIND Tim. Tim Sutton does go to Seattle, following the cryptic comic book message. Earlier, FBI agent Jeff Hutchins had promised Tim that he would have an operative’s help.
When Sarah iinforms Tim that SHE is the agent who has been dispatched, Tim responds, “Whoa. . .this is all happening a tad fast for me (page 61) Tim isn’t exactly “willing,” at this point. He’s hesitant. He wants answers. Sarah tells him to go get supplies. But up until this point, he has no idea what’s expected of him. Sarah doesn’t have to “remind” him, as you state. Once he realizes an agent hasn’t brought the necessary gear, Tim gets it.
While the “robot” issue could be open to interpretation, I suppose, your recounting of the events on page 61 are simply inaccurate. What makes this problematic, is that you use this inaccuraty as a springboard for further criticism.
It has been pointed out that most folks accept a difference of opinion. Yet, much has also been written about whether of not you gave Winter Games a careful read. I find myself wondering if reviewers ever go back and check what they’ve written, against the facts as presented to them. Everybody makes mistakes. It’s nice to fix them.
I think if would be fair of you, in this case, to reread the pages surrounding 61.
I also note that in your continuing dialogue with Steve Reynolds, part 2, you state:
“Quality,” that much over-used term, includes both the good and the bad. Aside from pointing out the book’s flaws, the reviewer should point out what the author did well. There’s always something to recommend a book.”
I’m interested to know where you think you followed your own advice, in the above review of Winter Games. On the off chance that you don’t think you did, I’m wondering what you’d add or change.
Thanks.
Kristen said on October 9, 2009
Another post about this?
Incredible.