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Feb. 9th, 2019 11:04 amOkay, so Space Opera is a bit like Cat Valente wrote a book, and then ran it through a Douglas Adams filter, and then looked at the output and ran it through the Douglas Adams filter again but this time set to word-density=(2x), and then ran it back through a very light Cat Valente filter and dunked it in three layers of glitter and presented it to the world.
It's ... I don't think I disliked it? I probably liked it more than most Cat Valente I've read since The Orphan's Tales, on account of the fact that it doesn't feel like a less-interesting-to-me version of The Orphan's Tales and instead feels like Douglas Adams writing a sequel to Pratchett's Soul Music, but in space. It is A LOT, though. I don't think I'd ever quite realized that plain text on a page could approximate the sensation of complete sensory overload, but this book definitely does it. And it absolutely means to do it! There's a disco ball on the front cover, that's all part of the point, but like ... I'm pretty boring actually? I've never sampled mind-altering substances beyond alcohol? I don't actually go to discos very often? I haven't built up the stamina for this much glitterpunk.
The plot? The plot. Technically, there is a plot! Space Eurovision happens! Two Washed-Up Former Rock Star Humans Must Represent Humanity At Space Eurovision And Not Completely Lose ... OR WE ALL DIE! This plot advances precisely every other chapter; in the interim chapters, some more Space Eurovision happens, generally consisting of a lengthy satirical description of a weird alien culture and concluding with something like 'and the Googledyplexes won that year by vomiting up a horde of tiny singing butterflies who hovered in front of the eyes of every spectator and disgorged hallucinogenic spores that made them feel something magical.'
It's all very impressively inventive! Cat Valente's Imagination could probably power a nuclear plant on its own. Not infrequently I felt a bit like I was starting to drown under the sheer weight of intense space fabulism being thrown at me and had to flail around desperately for a single spar of a simple simile-free sentence to keep myself afloat, but, you know, that's not an unfamiliar part of the Valente Experience nor yet the Douglas Adams experience ... but I do feel a bit like I need to go detox with some extremely terse prose and a cup of black tea.
It's ... I don't think I disliked it? I probably liked it more than most Cat Valente I've read since The Orphan's Tales, on account of the fact that it doesn't feel like a less-interesting-to-me version of The Orphan's Tales and instead feels like Douglas Adams writing a sequel to Pratchett's Soul Music, but in space. It is A LOT, though. I don't think I'd ever quite realized that plain text on a page could approximate the sensation of complete sensory overload, but this book definitely does it. And it absolutely means to do it! There's a disco ball on the front cover, that's all part of the point, but like ... I'm pretty boring actually? I've never sampled mind-altering substances beyond alcohol? I don't actually go to discos very often? I haven't built up the stamina for this much glitterpunk.
The plot? The plot. Technically, there is a plot! Space Eurovision happens! Two Washed-Up Former Rock Star Humans Must Represent Humanity At Space Eurovision And Not Completely Lose ... OR WE ALL DIE! This plot advances precisely every other chapter; in the interim chapters, some more Space Eurovision happens, generally consisting of a lengthy satirical description of a weird alien culture and concluding with something like 'and the Googledyplexes won that year by vomiting up a horde of tiny singing butterflies who hovered in front of the eyes of every spectator and disgorged hallucinogenic spores that made them feel something magical.'
It's all very impressively inventive! Cat Valente's Imagination could probably power a nuclear plant on its own. Not infrequently I felt a bit like I was starting to drown under the sheer weight of intense space fabulism being thrown at me and had to flail around desperately for a single spar of a simple simile-free sentence to keep myself afloat, but, you know, that's not an unfamiliar part of the Valente Experience nor yet the Douglas Adams experience ... but I do feel a bit like I need to go detox with some extremely terse prose and a cup of black tea.
