The Three-Body Problem by Liu Cixin
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

If you have a reasonable level of scientific literacy and if you are fascinated by mathematics and physics, then you will love this book. On the other hand, if you are not so turned on by science this may not be the best read for you.

The first part of the story deals with the Cultural Revolution. Clearly, the author has been personally affected by this phase of Chinese history and is a bit preoccupied with it. If you are not particularly interested in history, persevere and read through these introductory chapters. They do provide context that assists in understanding the rest of the narrative.

This novel has several themes that are revealed as the story unfolds. I think its better to not know too much about the story at the beginning, so that you will be surprised and intrigued as events occur. And this is a surprising narrative.

While an alien civilisation will ultimately be revealed as a key protagonist, most of the novel deals with events and characters in China over several decades. Strange behaviour, unexplained events and human motivation drive the narrative forward and the reader feels compelled to continue reading to discover the truth.

An overriding theme is the significance of scientific thought and the threat from anti-scientific influences. Another, related theme is the threat to the environment posed by human behaviour. both of these themes have particular resonance in the contemporary political context. This illustrates that the differences between western democratic societies and Communist Chinese society are not as great as you might have anticipated.

No novel is perfect, and novels translated into English from other languages are particularly problematic. There will always be sentences that seem to jar, phrases that do not seem quite right, and here and there clumsy use of words. Having made that precautionary statement, I nonetheless feel that this translation compares well to other translated novels I have read in recent years. There were very few points at which the language distracted me from the narrative. However, if you are not from a North American background you may find some of the phrasing suffers from seeming too noticeably American in tone and grammar. But this is a minor quibble. This is a novel of ideas and plot, linguistic aesthetics is not the raison d'être.

At the heart of the Three Body Problem is hard science. For those of readers who are less geeky, the three body problem is not about inhabiting three different human corpses. The three body problem is a real mathematical problem which concerns the difficulty of predicting where in space a body (such as a star or planet) will be at any point in time. There are many such scientific motifs which arise in the course of the narrative, and references to real people, such as Peter Singer. You may find yourself consulting Wikipedia.

The only point of the novel where I really reacted skeptically was the point at which it was revealed to a number of characters that aliens truly did exist. Not one character expressed any doubt about this revelation. I think most people would at least say "What! You're kidding?". I think the next edition should at least include a sentence or two demonstrating that the audience had some response apart from just accepting the news without at least raising an eyebrow.

Overall, this is a great book in the tradition of speculative fiction written by a scientifically astute author for a scientifically literate audience.


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The Silent Invasion by James  Bradley

My rating: 2 of 5 stars


The premise for this book is intriguing - the notion of an infection which alters human personality and behaviour is a fascinating one. The prospect of the Earth's ecosystem being altered by the introduction of alien bioluminescent organisms seemed like a promising scenario for a dystopian novel.

Unfortunately, the first novel in the trilogy was disappointing. There are a few interesting ideas buried in this story, but in order to find them you have to wade through a couple of hundred pages of tedious and somewhat cliched narrative of a young girl running away and making a perilous journey in order to save her younger sister from being detained by the authorities tasked with preventing the spread of the infection.

This novel is really a road story, a tale of a teenager leaving her home and traveling through unfamiliar territory towards an unknown future. For the adolescent reader (the target audience being "young adult") this theme is probably an appealing one. But for older readers, its all too familiar and predictable.

There is very little in this book about the alien life forms or their influence on the people infected by them. I'm sure they will be explored in the second and third volumes in the trilogy, and I would hope that the later installments in the story demonstrate the intrigue and imagination that I was anticipating when I picked up the first volume.

The sad thing about this book is that it is so boring, that many readers will not bother to read the second book in the series, yet that is where I would expect the story to get interesting, since it takes place after the protagonist has reached "the Zone", where the infected people are held in isolation from the rest of the population.

I think it would have been preferable if the three parts of this novel were published in a single volume, and the editors had cut the length of the chapters relating the story of the heroine's escape with her sister. This first volume merely hints at the story that might emerge from the later chapters.

Publishing novels aimed at the Young Adult market in multi-volume format has become standard practice in recent years. But for this particular story, the introductory chapters just do not work as a stand alone novella.



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work in progress

Life has a tendency to take the form of lengthy periods of extreme tedium which make you yearn for some drama to alleviate the boredom, punctuated by bursts of anxious melodrama of such intensity that you long for the tedium to return. Work, unsurprisingly, generally follows the pattern of life, so predictably you'll find yourself bored and idle one day, and suffering from PTSD the next. You might even say that the pattern of work takes the pattern of life to its ultimate, with the typical work week being either soporific or nerve shattering in its impact. Only rarely do we get those moments of blissful contentment, when we're "in the zone", being engaged and energised and brimming with enthusiasm.

The sad thing is that much of the time we have no choice in how we spend our time. The task that is making you yawn, like the one that sends your blood pressure skyward, is the one that you can't avoid - usually because it pays the bills. The activity that would generate in us some level of enthusiasm is almost always the one that we don't have time for. So we live out our lives frustrated, bored, tense and exhausted. Then we die.

At the moment I'm frustrated because I don't have time to do anything creative, like painting. On the other hand I'm spending many hours a week bored, often because I'm waiting for somebody else to give me feedback for work I've already done but can't finalise until that somebody gives the OK. I'm also spending many hours a week trying to decipher the hieroglyphic scrawl of a senior member of staff whose pedantic alterations punctuate my drafts in a most undecorous manner. The imperative to obey these scratchings, combined with the inertia which comes from being unable to read or comprehend them, induces a level of anxiety only matched by the weekly sojourn up and down the Hume Highway so that I can pursue something in the nature of a personal life outside of work. I have this overwhelming urge to put my head on a pillow and sleep and wish away the whole scenario. If only it were possible.

For the time being I'll plod along in my tedium, punctuated by instances of high anxiety, in the certain knowledge that millions of other people are plodding along beside me. Strangely, I don't find that knowledge in the least reassuring.

A shock to the system today as I struggle to readjust to being back in work for the first time in exactly one year - I was made redundant at the end of the 2008-2009 financial year and I started a new job today, 1 July. I woke up at twenty to five - practically the middle of the night - on a freezing cold winter's day. Coffee, dress, brush teeth, do makeup, grab backpack, handbag, phone, iPod, coat, jump in car, find place to park, jump out of car, shove notes in ticket machine, jump on train, kill 80 minutes on train (trying not to fall asleep). Present self at new workplace with smile painted on face, even though filled with murderous thoughts re those Kafkaesque bureaucrats down at Centrelink.

I realise with dismay that I'm going to have to share a pokey office, something I haven't had to do for seven years. During the course of the day I discover that the office computers are blocked from checking Facebook or even webmail. No email AND no Facebook! I'm going to feel even more isolated than I was sitting at home by myself for the last twelve months.

Still, the new colleagues seem congenial enough. But the biggest shock is yet to come: No coffee in kitchen! Now, how can I get any serious thinking type work done when there's no coffee? I'm obviously going to have come prepared tomorrow. Where did I put that spare espresso machine?

The 2IC presents me with something I hadn't expected - my very own Blackberry. Ah, but its an old model which has had a previous owner, and it shows. When Blackberries first appeared they were a status symbol, like having a sports car or the corner office. But this model's looking pretty tired. I can't work out how to configure it to get the office email. That's just one more login I have to add to the half dozen I've been given to access various computer and online facilities. I write all the passwords down in my diary and make a note of the new mobile number.

In due course I scurry back to the station, wait with all the other wage slaves for the train to arrive. I climb aboard, squeeze into one of the few available seats, and steel myself for the grim commute home. Before the train has ferried its payload of workers halfway to their destination the sky has turned black as pitch and its impossible to divine the proximate location by looking out the window - all you can see is darkness punctuated by the occasional point of light. I stumble out of the train and back into my car.

On returning home I debate with myself as to whether its worth cooking dinner and whether or not I should just go to bed. I eagerly boot up the computer in order to get my overdue hit of mail and Facebook, only to discover that there's some technical problem preventing me from getting online. Gradually the reality sinks in that this is how my life is going to be for the foreseeable future. I groan silently and wonder if life as a homeless bum might not be that bad after all.

A Handful of Journals?

Some of you may be familiar with the "One Thousand Journals" project. If you haven't heard of it, this project is a collaborative art project. You could describe it as feral art, or organic art, or perhaps grunge art.

The project was devised by an American artist, John Copeland. He purchased a thousand blank journals and distributed them at random. The idea was that each recipient would keep the journal for a period of two weeks, during which time they would contribute to the journal. Their contributions might be a drawing, a poem, a comment, a record of their thoughts or emotions, an account of their travels or their responses to current events, or it might be in the form of a clipping from a magazine, a collage, a snapshot of their friends or family, in fact anything at all was acceptable, there were no rules. Then the journal would be passed on to another person who would also make a contribution and pass it on, and so on, until the journal was full. Then it was to be returned to John Copeland to be ultimately included in an exhibition. During the journal's travels it would be periodically scanned and the scans uploaded to a website so that all participants could view other people's contributions and discover when and where the journal was last sighted.

When I heard about this project I immediately thought that I could do my own version. Instead of having a thousand journals, I could get just two or three and ask my friends to contribute and to get their friends to contribute. As I have such an amazing and eclectic group of friends this could yield quite interesting results.

So, if you think this would be an interesting project and you'd like to participate, email me and I'll get things started.

If you want to know more about the One Thousand Journals project or its successor, go to 1000journals.com or to 1001journals.com.

Kookaburra has the last laugh

The victory by Larrikin over Men at Work in their case for copyright infringement presents a significant threat to the creative process. You think I'm exaggerating? If you've ever studied art or music or if you've ever tried to create a work of art or write a song you'll know that it's difficult, if not impossible, to do something completely unique or new. One of the frustrating things about the artistic process is that everything's been done before by someone. When people try to describe an image or a body of work they'll usually make references to other images or other artists. We learn art or music by studying the works of other artists and musicians. In contemporary literature writers invite their readers to pick up references to earlier writers. Artists will always refer to their "influences" when explaining their professional practice. Art is all about appropriation. Not outright copying, but taking a bit of this and a bit of that, adding, subtracting, changing and distorting. As artists, we look at the work of others and use it to stimulate a train of thought which leads to our own work. That is the nature of art.

Now, knowing how artists and musicians work, how do you think the creative world will continue if the Larrikin case is not challenged? Will musicians have to censor themselves when creating new works? Will rock bands have to hire copyright lawyers to "legal" songs before they can be performed in public? How can artists create new works when almost every image can be compared to an earlier image to which it inevitably bears some similarity? Creative block has always been a problem for artists, musicians and writers. After the Larrikin decision, it will be that much harder for creative professionals to push through and create new work, we'll all be staring at the blank page or the blank canvas, pen or brush poised, struggling to think of a concept which is absolutely unique and which can't be attacked for being a reference to another artist or a previous song or a previous work of art.

Copyright has its place. Art should be more than just copying someone else's work. But if artists cannot borrow a motif or a phrase or an idea from what has gone before, we are heading into a period where creativity will be smothered by the threat of legal action.

Painting with Codeine

Working in my studio

Where are the groovy intellectuals on the Central Coast?

There was a time when I only wanted to live in the groovy, hip, cool inner-city (i.e. Newtown, Paddington, Darlinghurst, Glebe, Surry Hills etc) or on the beautiful Northern Beaches (where I grew up). Then reality kicked in and I succumbed to real estate prices, interest rates and the need to have a back yard for the dog. So I became one of the thousands of refugees who've emigrated to the Central Coast in search of affordable housing (preferably close to the beach). I still have a $500 a week mortgage but, hey, I've got a backyard and a studio!

I'm more or less coping with the three hours or more a day spent sitting on the train, and I suppose I've adjusted to the fact that my beloved Sydney is now 70 km away and that fact that drivers around here don't give way at terminating intersections. But there is one aspect of life up here that has me scratching my head. Where are all the interesting people?

Now I've never been much of a socialite and I generally prefer my own company to that of others (with the possible exception of my dog). But I did have a vague notion of where, in Sydney, one might hang out in order to have a chance of having a chat with some groovy (or at least literate) persons.

Like the time I was sipping a quiet cappucino at a certain Darlinghurst cafe frequented by students of the National Art School and spied, at the next table, one notable radio personality and ex-member of the Doug Anthony All Stars who stood, in what I perceived to be a most gentlemanly manner, when a colleague arrived and joined him. Of course, I pretended not to recognize him (one of the fundamental rules of etiquette being that one pretends not to notice celebrities, since sycophancy on such occasions tends to undermines one's own air of importance). Or the time, when attending an exhibition opening in Paddington, I dropped my hat and Martin Sharpe gallantly picked it up and handed it to me.

But no, I don't mean to drop names. My point is that I prefer the company of people who've read the odd book or two, who can engage in conversation without inevitably turning to the subject of cricket and/or football and, in Sydney, I've got a vague idea of where I might find such conversations.

But the Central Coast is an alien landscape. The topography may be stunning and the climate mild but I haven't stumbled across anything which I could describe as stimulating company since I landed here. Yet I know that there must be some interesting people around here somewhere! I just can't find them. I believe that Bill Leak lives around here somewhere. I sent him a friend request on Facebook but, sadly, he did not reply (I feel utterly dejected).

Now if I could just work out which pub is the best watering hole for us artsy-political-argumentative types...

Life sucks more than usual

This is one of the saddest days of my life. My mother has had to be moved to a nursing home. Which would be fine if she were happy there. But she's not. She's miserable. Not because they're not treating her well. The problem is more complicated than that. The problem is partly that she's in pain, but that's not it. She feels trapped, having lost control of her life, unable to escape, unable to make her own decisions, unable to look after herself.

It's not unusual for my mother to be unhappy. For most of my life she's been unhappy. So chronically unhappy that it becomes painful to be with her. But this is different. She's paranoid, convinced everyone is out to get her, that the nursing staff are going to experiment on her, that their deliberately trying to make her uncomfortable.

Can you see a pattern here? I think Mum is beginning to lose the plot. Not that she's ever been especially rational or balanced. But I think she may be beginning to manifest the early signs of dementia.

Perhaps I'm being a bit self-centred, but when I left the nursing home today all I could think was how lonely I am. I've always been alone, I suppose. But suddenly I feel I desperately need a friend to share my sense of loss. But there isn't a single soul who I can turn to for support. I'm more alone now than I have ever been before in my life.

I know it's been a while.

OK, OK, I know haven't posted anything for a LONG time. I've been busy, all right? You know, making a living, paying the bills and so on. Doesn't mean I don't care.

Where to start... office politics, state politics, federal politics? No? Art? Not really. How about I tell you about my dog?

He's an old bloke now, lost most of his vivacity and joi de vivre. Still love him, though. He had a big operation about a year ago, he had a huge lump under his tail. Vet thought it was probably a carcinoma. So he cut off Mick's tail! He had such a beautiful tail, long and fluffy with a white tip and a white stripe. He used to talk with it. I'd ask him a question and he'd answer "yes" by vigorously wagging. Now I have to guess what he's thinking. A bit hit and miss, but we do understand each other most of the time. The vet also insisted on chopping off his balls. I didn't really think it necessary but I do trust my vet. The trouble is that ever since the big operation Mickey has virtually no control over his bladder. He leaks in his sleep. Then he wakes up, moves and leaves a big wet patch behind. I've been doing more washing in the last year.

I've got similar problems with my mother. She's incontinent, too. But the dog is much less trouble.

Well, the boss has come into the office. He's banging around in the kitchen, making a mess and expressing his frustration at the lack of fresh milk by making a lot of noise. He could go and buy some milk but he's much too lazy to do that. So I'll log off now and get to work (not that its my job to buy the milk but God forbid that the PA should be asked to do it!).

Start Here.

So what’s this weblogging thing all about then?

When I was a kid I was fed a lot of propaganda about not talking to strangers, so why am I talking to you? I suppose I’m really just talking to myself, or thinking out loud. If a virtual tree falls in the virtual forest is anyone in cyberspace there to hear it?

Enough of that crap. Shall I introduce myself? My name is Inez and this is my weblog. I won’t rant on about who I am, you can find that out by reading my log.

Not a lot to report – life is pretty dull at present. It’s a hot, steamy, summer afternoon here in Sydney and its difficult to find the motivation to do anything at all. Not that there isn’t any number of things I should be doing – washing up, bathing the dog, shopping, changing the sheets, washing the car etc...

I’ve been doing battle with my computer and my modem today, trying to get the internet connection to behave itself and do as its told. You don’t know what frustration is until you have developed an intimate relationship with a computer. A few years ago a man told me that owning a computer was like being married. And so it is. I ask my companion to show me the newspaper and he replies "I don’t understand you, you just can’t communicate". No, I’m not getting through at all.

I have a similar relationship with my 83 year old mother, who I live with (to be grammatically correct I really should say "with whom I live", but I don't want you to think I'm a wanker). She never listens to me either, nor does she do anything I ask her to do. But my god she talk and talk and never seems to take time out from complaining long enough to draw breath.

And so to politics.

Those of you who are in my own homeland of Oz know that the state of Western Australia is currently in the midst of an election campaign. We over here in the eastern states are a bit remote from the politics of WA but even easterners have been unable to avoid hearing that the Liberal Party challenger is proposing to build a canal all the way from the Kimberley to alleviate Perth's water shortage. It is irresistible to draw the analogy with the great builders of the Roman empire, who built great stone aqueducts, many of which stand even today. You may also have heard that the same candidate has promised to purchase a water cannon for crowd control. Obviously the canal will be essential in order to have enough water to power the water cannon.

Meanwhile back in the east the PM, John Howard, has been freely giving his opinion on the health of the ailing Pope JPII and the implications for the pontificate. Now, I may be underestimating him, but since when does little Johnnie know squat about either medicine or the church? He's not even Catholic! I would hope he'd know more about economics, but his off hand dismissal of experts in the area doesn't fill me with confidence. A number of economists from around the world have been warning lately that if the US doesn't address a few critical issues (notably the ratio of exports to imports), then a recession is on the horizen. But Little Johnnie says that these experts don't know what they're talking about. Hmm. We'll see who's right.