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All Dystopian Fiction Coverage

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The idea at the heart of Gregory Scott Katsoulis’ dystopia in All Rights Reserved is a horrifying one. All citizens age 15 and over must pay for every single word and gesture they use to communicate.

Katsoulis explores the implications of this system with all the bleak panache of an episode of “Black Mirror.” His young protagonist is named Speth Jime because those sounds are cheaper than more conventional names. She has to cut her hair in a certain way so that it stays in the public domain and doesn’t grow into a copyrighted style. Lawsuits over the illegal use of copyrighted words are rampant, and families risk going into crippling debt for generations if they run afoul of the draconian rules that govern their society. If they say a word they can’t afford, their eyes are shocked by corneal implants.

Speth has grown up in this system, and her rebellion against it is not a calculated protest. After witnessing a classmate kill himself rather than spend his entire life working to pay off what his family owes, Speth refuses to speak beginning on her 15th birthday and upholds a vow of silence throughout most of the novel. A decision prompted by anger but also fear due to her family’s already precarious economic situation, Speth’s silence begins to spawn similar protests, and she finds herself the center of a growing controversy.

Katsoulis remains deeply invested in his protagonist’s emotional journey throughout All Rights Reserved. Speth is not a natural revolutionary, and her reactions to her imitators range from pleased confusion to embarrassed horror. Her primary focus is to protect and help provide for her family—a brother and sister at home, and parents sent away to work off the family’s debt. When she stumbles into an opportunity with the mysterious Product Placers—the rarely-seen figures who leave targeted gifts in citizens’ homes—Speth begins to make a living perpetuating the very system she’s rebelling against. The push and pull between Speth’s resistance and conformity, while at times frustrating, is nonetheless emotionally realistic given that she has lived her entire life under this repressive system.

It’s a bit disappointing when the story bends itself back into the rebellion template, rather than just following Speth as she does her best to survive in this Dickensian dystopia, where abject poverty is only one wrong move away. But with his excellent establishment of the world of All Rights Reserved, hopefully Katsoulis will give himself the freedom do so in the sequel.

The idea at the heart of Gregory Scott Katsoulis’ dystopia in All Rights Reserved is a horrifying one. All citizens age 15 and over must pay for every single word and gesture they use to communicate.

When Europeans left Africa, many predicted their replacement by tyrants as bad or worse. Several nations found themselves under the thumb of a "Big Man," capricious and cruel. In his novel Taduno's Song, Nigerian author Odafe Atogun imagines such a post-colonial dystopia. Atogun also imagines efforts to resist it.

Taduno is a musician in exile from his native Nigeria. Upon his return, he finds that no one remembers him. This is fantastical, even Kafkaesque. For Taduno had been so beloved that his protest songs had almost toppled the regime. He left behind a girlfriend, Lela, kidnapped by the "gofment" and languishing in prison. He endeavors to reclaim his identity and to free Lela.

But the president has other ideas. He makes the lovers' freedom conditional upon Taduno becoming a mouthpiece for the regime. Rather as in 1984, the president expects not just obeisance, but love. When Taduno resists, he is thrown into prison and almost driven mad. Yet the brutality of his treatment only shows how fearful are his tormentors.

Taduno is thus forced to choose between his love for Lela and his love of country. Taduno yearns (as Vaclav Havel put it) to "live in truth." But he's not immune to the president's many enticements. Atogun doesn't reveal Taduno's choice until the last page of this compact, fable-like novel. But the conclusion shocks all the same.

The above comparisons to Kafka or Orwell aren't idle. Taduno's predicament is desperate. But Atogun is not without Kafka's often humane and comic touches. Like Orwell, Atogun excels in plain language, in reducing situations to their bare essentials. Yet the author resists reducing his characters to mere political symbols. They are compelling as people in their own right.

As Africa's richest country, Nigeria has lately become a cultural powerhouse. Its output runs the gamut from Nollywood films to books by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. And as a democracy, albeit a fragile one, it may resist the allure of its own Big Men. Atogun's novel is likely to become a small classic of protest literature. It is both a warning and a sign of hope.

When Europeans left Africa, many predicted their replacement by tyrants as bad or worse. Several nations found themselves under the thumb of a "Big Man," capricious and cruel. In his novel Taduno's Song, Nigerian author Odafe Atogun imagines such a post-colonial dystopia. Atogun also imagines efforts to resist it.

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Justin Cronin achieved international praise after the release of The Passage in 2010. Cronin’s capacity for detailed world-building and meticulous story architecture, not to mention his predilection for exposing some of humanity’s rawest fears, sent the novel straight up the bestseller list, and the second installment, The Twelve, followed in 2012. Now, the conclusion to this epic tale has been delivered in The City of Mirrors

The novel opens with a studious look back on the time period immediately following The Twelve, through an artifact under study by a future populace (comprised of whom or what is unknown). Next, we enter the heart of the plot: After a significant reprieve from viral attacks, our surviving settlements assume that risk has been eliminated and over time begin branching out. Their assumption is proven gravely inaccurate via the intertwining narratives of our primary players: Peter, Michael, Alicia, Amy and, of course, Zero. 

Cronin has a remarkable ability to span a millennium yet still keep his readers’ interest in the ultimate outcome at its peak. He excels at writing characters (human or viral) in such a way that you empathize in their humanity but also their monstrosity. You can’t help but be concerned with their fates, and Cronin fans will be ecstatic to find that the final entry in his trilogy leaves no loose ends. Everyone receives a worthy conclusion to their personal journey in this concluding volume. 

The Passage Trilogy, as intimidating in length as it may be, is rewarding that investment with an incredible payoff. This final entry is a grandiose story deserving of an equally grand ending, and Cronin does not disappoint. Literary fiction fans, fantasy readers and horror aficionados alike will find something that speaks to them, whether it’s the beautiful language, the fascinating logistics behind post-apocalyptic survival or the mercilessness displayed by both humans and virals.

 

RELATED CONTENT: Read a Q&A with Justin Cronin.

Justin Cronin achieved international praise after the release of The Passage in 2010. Cronin’s capacity for detailed world-building and meticulous story architecture, not to mention his predilection for exposing some of humanity’s rawest fears, sent the novel straight up the bestseller list, and the second installment, The Twelve, followed in 2012. Now, the conclusion to this epic tale has been delivered in The City of Mirrors.

Imagine a world in which the economy has tanked, jobs have dried up, society has crumbled, and people are doing anything and everything they can just to scrape by. For most of us, such a cataclysmic state of affairs is all too easy to envision, which makes Margaret Atwood’s latest dystopian thriller, The Heart Goes Last, all the more unsettling and eerily prophetic. 

Stan and Charmaine are overworked and overextended. Ever since losing their jobs and their house, they have been living out of their car, squeaking by on tips from Charmaine’s lousy bartending job and doing their best to steer clear of the roving bands of vandals that now roam America. They can’t remember the last time they had a good night’s sleep or a proper shower, so when they see the commercial for a compound named Consilience that promises stable jobs and secure homes, they decide that this is their golden parachute. Sure, they have to be monitored 24/7, and every other month they swap their home for a stint in prison, but it’s better than the alternative. Or, at least it is for a little while, until the dark side of paradise begins to rear its ugly head, and the two find themselves grappling with the reality—and the dangers—of signing their lives away and all the unexpected things they’ve sacrificed in the process.

A reworking of a series of short stories originally published by Byliner, The Heart Goes Last is Atwood’s first standalone novel since 2000 and, in many ways, feels like quintessential Atwood. It examines many of the key issues that she has played with throughout her impressive career—the tug-of-war of power and control between citizens and the state, personal autonomy, and corporate and governmental corruption—with the take-no-prisoners ruthlessness that has become her signature. The Heart Goes Last is a heady blend of speculative fiction with noir undertones that is provocative, powerful and will prompt all readers to reassess which parts of their humanity are for sale.

 

This article was originally published in the October 2015 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

Imagine a world in which the economy has tanked, jobs have dried up, society has crumbled, and people are doing anything and everything they can just to scrape by. For most of us, such a cataclysmic state of affairs is all too easy to envision, which makes Margaret Atwood’s latest dystopian thriller, The Heart Goes Last, all the more unsettling and eerily prophetic.
Interview by

Justin Cronin leapt to the top of the crowded field of post-apocalyptic fiction in 2010 with the publication of The Passage, the first in a trilogy. An instant bestseller, the novel imagined a future where mankind has been decimated thanks to a vampire-creating virus. 

Six years and more than a thousand pages later, Cronin brings the Passage trilogy to a brilliantly plotted, thrilling conclusion with The City of Mirrors. We asked him a few questions about how it feels to take a series across the finish line.

First of all—congratulations on finishing such an epic trilogy! How did you reward yourself after finishing The City of Mirrors?
A glass of Scotch and a piece of pie. It’s a ritual I always observe. It usually happens at about 3:00 in the morning.

The world of the Passage trilogy has always been a large one, but it expands even more in this book. Was it satisfying to get more of that world out of your head and onto the page?
It was a lot of fun in this novel to go back to Fanning’s college life, which borrows a great deal from my own. I’d wanted to use Harvard as a setting for years, but the occasion hadn’t arisen until now.

You’ve been with most of these characters for a decade. How does it feel to let them go? Was there one in particular that you’ll miss most?
Though Amy stands at the center, the Passage trilogy is an ensemble piece, and I felt close to all the major players, although my affinities differed from character to character at various times. Into Amy I poured a lot of my feelings about being a father, and Wolgast’s love for her really touches me. Carter is the most long-suffering, patient soul I will ever meet, a man full of an incredible decency. Peter’s bravery has an automatic quality I admire intensely; he simply can’t stop himself. Alicia’s struggles both break and mend my heart. It’s odd and rather lonely to say goodbye to these people, like standing on the pier while I watch them sail away.

Has this project and its success changed the way you see yourself as a writer? 
As someone who writes sentences all day long, my goals and habits are the same, so to that extent, nothing has changed at all. I go to my office, I think really hard, the world sort of melts away and my fingers begin to move over the keyboard. I write how I write, and that’s always been true and always will be. But success means readers—a lot of them. I’m more aware of my audience now and want them to be happy with the work I do. It also means I don’t have to have a second job, which is a colossal luxury for any artist. Writing can get 100 percent of my attention during the workday.

What’s next for you?
More novels. But maybe first I’ll take a nap. 

RELATED CONTENT: Read our review of The City of Mirrors.

This article was originally published in the June 2016 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

Justin Cronin leapt to the top of the crowded field of post-apocalyptic fiction in 2010 with the publication of The Passage, the first in a trilogy. An instant bestseller, the novel imagined a future where mankind has been decimated thanks to a vampire-creating virus.
Interview by

A sense of necessity drew Omar El Akkad to war reporting, until another sense of necessity compelled him to write his stunning debut novel, American War.

For 10 years El Akkad led a double life, working as an international war reporter for Canada’s The Globe and Mail and writing fiction between midnight and 5:00 a.m., squeezing in sleep here and there. The grueling schedule allowed him to write three draft novels that never left his hard drive, but his fourth, American War, is not only being published, but creating significant and well-deserved buzz.

El Akkad’s future dystopian tale begins in 2075 during the second American Civil War, in which Red and Blue states clash over the need for sustainable energy. Climate change has wreaked havoc, with water swallowing Washington, D.C., and Florida, while a new Middle Eastern and North African superpower has emerged: the Bouazizi Empire. To keep track of all of this devastation and conflict, the author peppered his upstairs office walls with invented maps, timelines and drawings.

“I didn’t get many visitors up there, but the ones who did visit certainly had a few questions about what the hell was going on in that room,” he remembers.

Occasionally, during moments of early morning fog, El Akkad himself momentarily confused fact and fiction. “I’d be groggy because I was up until 5:00 writing,” he says, “and I would mention something stupid and have to catch myself and say nope, South Carolina still exists. Not a real thing.”

Born in Egypt, raised in Qatar and Canada, El Akkad now writes fiction full time from the home he shares with his wife near Portland, Oregon. In a multitude of ways, he seems uniquely qualified to have written this remarkable novel.

American War chronicles the life of Sarat Chestnut, who metamorphoses from an inquisitive 6-year-old living with her family in a shipping container in Louisiana into a radicalized, head-shaven warrior on the prowl in the refugee camp where she and her family end up. El Akkad peppers his page-turning narrative with short excerpts from history books, eyewitness accounts and other imagined documents.

“[Their inclusion] started as a bit of a crutch,” El Akkad admits. “I didn’t think I had the talent to tell the kind of story that I wanted without making it horribly clunky. So I would write the main narrative and then dream up a document that I thought would be left as sort of an archival echo of what had happened. As I progressed, I found that [these documents] had added an element of texture that I didn’t anticipate.”

Although set in America, Sarat’s riveting story in many ways transcends politics, with details so impeccable and a plot so tightly woven that the events indeed feel factual. How, I wondered, did El Akkad pull off this feat?

“The short answer is outright thievery,” he says, laughing. “I stole much of it from my experiences growing up in the Middle East and also from my experiences as a journalist.”

After moving with his parents from Egypt to Qatar at age 5, and from Qatar to Canada at age 16, El Akkad finished high school in Montreal and studied computer science at Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario. “I can’t program my way out of a paper bag for reasons that still baffle me,” he admits, “but I earned a computer science degree.”

His real passion, however, was the college newspaper, where he spent most of his time. Later, at The Globe and Mail, he covered the war in Afghanistan, military trials at Guantánamo Bay, the Arab Spring protests in Egypt, the Black Lives Matter movement in Ferguson, Missouri, and the effects of climate change in places like Florida and Louisiana.

“A lot of the world of the book is based on the things I saw while on those assignments,” El Akkad says. “I like to say that a lot of what happened in this book happened; it just happened to people far away.”

He points out that Camp Patience, the refugee camp where Sarat’s family lives, is modeled on the NATO airfield in Kandahar, Afghanistan, and on Guantánamo Bay. “A lot of tents in wartime look exactly the same,” he notes.

The journalist was drawn to war reporting after reading Dispatches, Michael Herr’s classic account of frontline reporting on the Vietnam War. “It seemed to me that war zones combine the ability to write stories that otherwise wouldn’t be told with a sense of necessity—the idea that wars are among the most significant things we do as human beings and deserve the most coverage.”

On the front lines of Afghanistan in 2007, El Akkad discovered that the adrenaline rush he anticipated never materialized—even though he was in the line of fire during nightly RPG attacks.

“I never got that sort of strange Hemingway-like fascination with the kinetics of war,” he explains. “I was mostly interested in its effects on the losing side, the way that it moved the losing side backward in time.” In Afghanistan he saw people living in mud huts that “you wouldn’t be particularly surprised to see Jesus walk out of.”

The tragedies he witnessed as a reporter ultimately drew him back to his first love, fiction. He had no intention of writing a political future dystopian tale; that’s simply what unfolded.

“It’s called American War,” he says of the novel, “but I never intended to write a book about America or war; I intended to write a book about the universality of revenge. I wanted to explore the idea that when people are broken by war, broken by injustice, broken by mistreatment, they become broken in the same way.”

He continues: “The notion was to take all of these wars that I’d grown up seeing—the Israeli-­Palestinian conflict, the wars on terror, even cultural events like the Arab Spring—and recast them as something very direct and near to America. The idea being to explore this notion that if it had been you, you’d have done no different.”

 

This article was originally published in the April 2017 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.

Author photo by Michael Lionstar.

A sense of necessity drew Omar El Akkad to war reporting, until another sense of necessity compelled him to write his stunning debut novel, American War.

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