Context and quality

The other night, I was talking with a lovely poli sci student and wound up bringing up Jumper, which would appear to be three related things:

1. A 1992 book I greatly enjoyed reading several times 10-15 years ago and classed as an exemplar of the writing craft (though not necessarily the writing art).
2. A 2008 movie widely reputed to be bad.
3. A 2007 book written to tie into the screenplay.
   

I have yet to experience items number 2 and 3, but I wonder: Would, today, I still enjoy item number 1? Would I enjoy it if I encountered it for the first time now? The terrorist-obsessed vigilante might seem much more heavily worn after living through 8 years of terrorism-obsessed politics; the damaged young man struggling to connect with a normal life and normal relationships might not be nearly as sympathetic a character.

And perhaps my standards for the writing craft have changed. I was impressed not with the plots or characterizations of Jumper, but by what I saw as a remarkably smooth flow of words, a mechanically well-put-together piece of fiction. I read 1-2 other books by the same author not long after, and was unimpressed with them. But today, would I apply the same standard? Do I care more or less about the craftsmanship that went into a book - and do I consider the same things good?

I suppose I should re-read it and see what I think of the book now, but re-reading a book is never the same as encountering it for the very first time.

Werewolves and vampires and getting laid

One of the most persistent themes of modern fantasy literature set in the modern world is the theme of sex with the supernatural. The asexual nature of vampires has been one of the refreshing differences in Ilona Andrews' Kate Daniels books (Magic Bites et cetera) - of course, lycanthropes and shapeshifters are oh-so-sexy.

There are, of course, patterns within the details. I'm having trouble thinking of many leading pairs in which a female vampire and a male human connect together; much more often, it's the other way. The Librarian: Curse of the Judas Chalice comes to mind, but primary romantic arcs usually feature a female human and a male vampire, as in the much more widely watched contemporary film Twilight. And when I move to novels... the only cases I can think of where male human and female vampire pairings are exhibited are in secondary characters.

If anything, I think I've seen more male human/male vampire pairings in that type of literature. But when we shift over to werewolves... the same pattern isn't so clear. Werewolves in popular "modern" literature persistently feature both female and male werewolves, and it isn't unusual to pair a male human lead with a female werewolf (An American Werewolf in Paris) or suspected werewolf, as in the brief (and quickly canceled) show Wolf Lake.

Maybe it's because lycanthropy is often described as a family curse, passed on through the generations, and wolves are so well known to be social animals; perhaps it is a consequence of the originating literature. In the case of modern vampire novels, everything returns to Bram Stoker and Dracula, often taken as a commentary on female sexuality in the Victorian era; the brief flirtations of Dracula's brides with Harker is a single scene, while Dracula's designs on Lucy and Mina occupy the central plot of the movie.

The Ecolitan Lesson

Some books teach you things. At times, I wonder if I am drawing the right lessons from the novels I peruse; in L.E. Modesitt's Ecolitan books, the lesson seems a fairly pointed one, so I feel nearly sure that the point is what I think it is:

Know what your priorities are. In the Ecolitan books, the protagonist always has some goal in mind - preserving a way of life, breaking an Empire, something monumental. The protagonist stops at nearly nothing to achieve this - and because they know exactly what their priorities are, it is the thought of a single moment to determine which priorities an action works for or against.

Most of the protagonists are highly pragmatic, and the results are bloody - but in the end, the trade-offs they have made, they are satisfied with. I think there's at least a grain of truth to that, and a grain of danger. People who put a single goal above all else risk becoming monsters in pursuit of that goal - whether the goal is destroying a nation, overturning a law, or accumulating wealth. The truth, though, is that most of the regrets I've had, and the mistakes I've made - or watched others make - are related to not knowing exactly what priorities fall where.

It's a simple lesson, but a difficult creed, and I'm still not sure if the danger in taking an ordering of priorities to heart is more or less than its utility.