The Stoneholding by James G. Anderson and Mark Sebanc. Baen Books. 2009.
During the renaissance, one of the debates which intellectuals argued over was whether or not writers and orators should only imitate the styles (and thoughts) found in the great writers of antiquity. Those who said that one should follow this policy further suggested that one should only imitate the best: Cicero. While recognizing the good found in other authors, they said that Cicero’s works presented the highlight of excellence, and so his work should be what others imitated. Critics suggested that this turned people away from true intellectual endeavors; they aped the past, limiting themselves and their gifts by doing so. Both sides, of course, acknowledged the value of learning from the past, but for those who decried pure imitation, they feared such imitation would lead to an intellectual dead end. One can and should learn from the great writers of the past, but one should not be bound by them, because one could never become them but rather, resemble them as much as a scarecrow does. Rather, they suggested one looks in upon oneself, and use the natural talent they find in themselves, talent given to them by God:
Since in our soul there is a certain idea and root, if you will, whose power inspires us to achieve any reward, leads us by the hand, and helps us to avoid certain other things, it is important to cultivate that root rather than sever it; to embrace it rather than cast it aside. For nothing that nature itself imparts for the sake of our happiness is foreign or injurious to us. Thus it subserves the idea of correct speech, as it does our other virtues, and produces a likeness of its beauty in the soul. By gazing on this likeness we may judge the works of others as well as our own. For certainly no one yet has perfectly grasped this idea, so one could even say that no one is entirely fortunate in this sense. [1]
Those who believed Cicero was the exemplar people should imitate did not deny one could improve upon him once one has mastered his brilliance. Rather, they thought one should have before oneself one model of excellence, and to learn from that model; too many models will create a confused text, bringing together elements which do not properly mix. One could, if they improved upon Cicero, become the next model, but before one could do that, they would have to become his equal. And this, of course, required one to learn to write like him, and then to avoid the excesses which made him “Asiatic.” This allowed for progress and invention, the kind their critics wanted; and indeed, it was recognized that everyone took from the past, that everyone took what they thought was good and used it, so why not start with the best? Thus, Celio Calcagnini wrote:
It is generally admitted that imitation has been highly necessary in every age. For since no art and no branch of learning is invented complete at the beginning, but each advances by its own steps, anyone intending to make swift progress must surely use the inventions and observations of others as his model. Unless he should do so, all arts would of necessity stop always at the threshold and make no further progress. For they will always advance only so far as the diligence and devotion of a single man reach, and what others have worked out and secured before will have to pass into oblivion. [2]
Eventually, educators came to understand that both positions had merit; when learning to write, such imitation was a good way to begin, and indeed, one who is educated, by necessity, naturally borrows from what they have learned and use it for their own ends. But it is also true, to be stuck merely with the past would also leave one incapable of dealing with the changes which have come over time, that, is, if all we can say or do is limited to the types presented to us in the works of old, we would not be able to deal with situations and circumstances which the ancients did not face.[3]
What does all of this history have to do with a book review, you might ask? It has much to do with it. People who write genre related books often borrow, consciously or unconsciously, from the past. They imitate the works they have read. Many plot elements, many types of characters, are the same from book to book. Diana Wynne Jones, in her genius, parodied how this was done in fantasy with her classic, Tough Guide to Fantasyland. When picking up a new genre-related book, there are many expectations one has with it; if one has read many such books, one can easily pick up the commonalities a given book has with others. To some, this is a problem. They think a new book should be dissimilar to what has been written before, that an author should create new ideas, new plots, ex nihilo. Others, however, enjoy this commonality, and it is what brings them back and reading new books in the same genre. They are going through familiar territory, with some new twists and turns in the way. In other words, the debate between imitation and invention continues. The best path, as the later renaissance educators understood, is one which combines the best of both; in literature, this means, one can and will encounter elements one recognizes as having been used before, but it also means, the skilled writer will use them and create something new. It is their overall idea, the idea behind their project, which should guide them, but an idea which will take from and borrow from the past, because, as Celio Calcagnini recognized, there is no way one can effectively write without doing that.
James Anderson and Mark Sebanc clearly have an overall idea, a unique one of their own, being used as the foundation for their Legacy of the Stone Harp series. There is a keen Celtic flavor and interest in their work. They do borrow from previous fantasy (and science fiction) works and yet slowly make a work of their own. One can see similarities between their series with others, such as The Lord of the Rings and even Battlestar Galactica. This means, one can sometimes predict aspects of the plot, and yet the authors show themselves as not being bound by these expectations. They have new twists and turns of their own; they have fashioned a new story, one which should be judged on its own merits and not merely by how it compares to others. But such comparisons will be had. Depending upon which side of the debate over imitation one gives most credit will, at times, determine your reaction to what you read when this similarity is most evident, but it should not determine your overall reaction to the story itself.
The Stoneholding is the first book of the series. It has to set up the characters, the landscape, and the plot. There is much to do here, with a great number of characters being established, so much so that the book feels as if it is mere prologue. Since there will be at least four volumes in the series, this is not a problem, save for the reader who wants action and adventure to instantly await them at the onset of the text. Actually, the first book does have its own prologue which engages such action, but once one gets past the prologue, the story slows down, and situates the reader into the world of Ahn Norvys.
It is difficult to review a book without giving some plot elements away. The book, I think, is best served to give a brief overview of that plot, but not giving too much out by going through its manifold details, details which come out with the introduction of its many characters and the kinds of relationships they have with each other. Thus, I am going to be as broad as possible, leaving things for the reader to discover on their own.
The old king was killed, his son is missing. A new tyrannical party desires to take over the land, circumventing the ways of the past. They want to put themselves into power, not only by taking over the kingship, but also the position of Hordanu, the High Bard (think Pope), putting in false claimants to both. Gawmage, who wants to be king, has established a false Hordanu; the Hordanu is the one who has the authority to declare someone High King. However, to further his claim, he has to take out the real Hordanu, and the sacred Stone Harp, the powerful instrument of the Hordanu which demonstrates his authority as High Bard. The land in which the Hordanu lives is destroyed; the remnants of the land flee and try to find safety. The real Hordanu, Wilum, has been training the young Kalaquinn Wright, known as Kal, for years. His hope has been that he will be able to establish Kal as the next Hordanu next (a fact which Kal himself did not know). In their flight, Wilum secretly makes Kal co-Hordanu. Normally, a Hordanu does not choose their successor this way, but they have the right to do so in emergencies. In doing so, Wilum has put the hope of the world and its restoration into his untried hands of his apprentice. Yet, Wilum recognizes that there is something special about Kal; there are no unnecessary accidents to history, and Kal’s place is a special one, predicted by prophecy to be one who helped restore order to the world when the Time of Harmony had come to and end. This plot, of course, allows elements of the authors’ Catholic sensibility come through, a sensibility which is good to find, especially in a kind of literature which of late has anything but that sensibility in it (this itself can be a good reason for many Catholics, who like the genre, to take an interest in this series, to see that the genre does not have to be as antithetical to their faith as many recent authors have made it become).
The Stoneholding has much to do as it introduces Kal and the world he lives in. We meet his family members and friends, and learn about who they are and what makes them special. We see the destruction of his homeland and the flight to safety Kal and his people have to make. We learn of the world of Ahn Norvys, especially its political and religious characteristics. To create the world, the authors have to provide details, details which sometime slow down the first book, and yet details which hopefully will be rewarding as the rest of the series is read. The first book sometimes suffers because of this; at times, there is a sense of character overload. At other times, by the way the first story is told, sometimes one feels one is reading about the same events too many times, because the characters often feel as if they have to tell each other the events we just read about, a problem which, at the beginning, can cause readers to stop reading before they should (before the story picks up and takes its interesting turns). The book thus suffers the problems first books in a series often suffers; even the writing, at times, is rough, not because the authors have no sense of style (they have that well enough established), but because the authors are trying that style out and learning how they want to use it for the rest of the series. Indeed, this is a difficult thing to do when a book has two-authors, but James Anderson and Mark Sebanc do this better, in their first outing, than Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson do with their Dune novels. But it still makes for difficult reading, because we have to go through such repetitions. Despite that problem, the book is worth reading, and serves as a good introduction to a series which should at least be interesting, and offer some neat new twists as it progresses further. And perhaps, the series will also reinforce to the reader the sense hope that the authors want their characters to have, a hope which can be difficult to keep when the world around seems to be falling apart.
[1] Giafranceso Pico, “On Imitation, To Pietro Bembo” in Ciceronian Controversies. trans. Brian Duvick. ed. Joann Dellaneva (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007), 23.
[2] Celio Calcagnini, “On Imitation, To Giambattista Giraldi Cinzio,” in Ciceronian Controversies. trans. Brian Duvick. ed. Joann Dellaneva (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007), 145.
[3] See Picos second letter to Bembo in Duvick’s Ciceronian Controversies.
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