The Moon and the Sun | ||||||||||||
Vonda N. McIntyre | ||||||||||||
Pocket Books, 464 pages | ||||||||||||
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A review by Catherine Asaro
At four that morning I was still reading.
I simply had to finish it. My first thought, when I was done,
was, "This book will redefine its genre." When I went to work on this
review, over a year later, I wasn't surprised to learn of the acclaim
the book has received. To name some of its achievements: the Nebula
Award given by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America for
the best science fiction or fantasy novel of the year, a
Publishers Weekly Best Book of 1997, a five heart review from
the Romance Reader web site, a 1997 Locus Recommended
Book, and a James Tiptree, Jr. Award Short-List choice.
Set in Versailles, France, in 1693, The Moon and the Sun
tells the story of a Marie-Josephe, a lady-in-waiting to the niece
of Louis XIV -- the Sun King. Marie-Josephe's brother, Father Yves
de la Croix, is a Jesuit and also the King's natural philosopher
and explorer. He has brought the King a living sea woman and a dead
male, both captured on an ocean voyage. So begins a rich tale of
conscience, politics, science, history, and love.
The Moon and the Sun combines two demanding genres, with
some remarkable twists unlike anything I've seen before. It is a
science fiction story of first contact with an alien race, but told
in a setting more often associated with fantasy. It is also
historical romance at its best, the type of meticulously researched
work that brings another era to life. McIntyre infuses it all with
her marvelously unique style.
The Song of the Ocean
As a scientist, I found the interplay of science and the historical
setting intriguing. Few hard science fiction novels take place in our
past, unless they involve time travel. What McIntyre has done is in
some ways harder: she accurately represents the state of science in our
past, without twists or insights from the future. This book shows the
growing pangs of real science. McIntyre's depiction of the investigations
carried out by Yves and Marie-Josephe are authentic in methodology and
technique. Marie-Josephe in particular exhibits a keen scientific
intellect in her ability to solve problems, her explorations of ways
to communicate with the sea woman, and her logical methods of deduction and induction.
The scenes where Marie-Josephe interacts with the sea woman are effective. Here
McIntyre evokes another classic science fiction theme -- how do we create
genuinely different alien life? Consider the sea woman's speech, which
sounds like singing. In the ocean, the signals are transmitted by the
water, similar to the speech of dolphins. Indeed, like a dolphin, she
can "look inside" hollow objects by making sounds and listening to the reverberations.
As the book progresses, she and Marie-Josephe learn how to communicate. Her
song evokes pictures for Marie-Josephe, in some cases so vivid that
Marie-Josephe almost sees them as shadowy images in the gardens of
Versailles. When the sea woman sings, Marie-Josephe draws pictures to
portray her narrative for the King, hoping to delay the sea woman's
slaughter. Intrigued by the stories, Louis lets the sea woman live, day by
day. So Marie-Josephe calls her Scherzad, after Scheherazade in the
Arabian Nights, invoking the tale of the clever bride who for a
thousand and one nights spun entrancing tales that made her husband,
the King, forget he intended to execute her at dawn.
The Moon and the Sun also portrays well how politics and the
church affected scientific endeavor in that era. It includes careful
detail, such as the repercussions Marie-Josephe risks by writing to a
scientist whose country has hostile relations with France, or how she
must stop her correspondence with Newton when she is sent to a convent.
She and her brother Yves must also deal with the King's desire for the
elusive immortality he believes he can attain by feasting on the sea
woman. McIntyre portrays with biting clarity their internal struggle
when the demands of conscience conflict with those of loyalty. As
scientists, they also realize that what Louis wants is unlikely to the
point of impossibility. But how can they tell him? They tread shifting sands of politics.
The Music of the Spheres
Science fiction is replete with the idea of the polymath -- a protagonist
talented in many diversified disciplines. This isn't coincidence; in real
life, artistic and linguistic gifts often pair with scientific or
mathematical talent. The math-physics-music constellation is perhaps the
best-known combination. Science fiction writer and Analog editor
Stanley Schmidt, for example, is also a Ph.D.
physicist, linguist, composer, and musician. The character of Marie-Joseph
fits right into this tradition. McIntyre gets her personality down well,
with sharp details, such as her fledgling attempts to quantify natural
phenomena with equations. In essence, Marie-Josephe is struggling to
derive chaos theory far ahead of its time. I found her a likable genius,
unaffected and humble, with charm, integrity, and humor.
The book also does a good job depicting the barriers women encountered in
those times to pursuing an interest in science or the arts. Marie-Josephe
is seen only her brother's assistant, though she is actually the better
scientist. She composes music that is played at court, but another composer
takes credit. When it becomes known she wrote the music, she is castigated
for inappropriate, even immoral, behavior. The piercing accuracy of
McIntyre's portrayals can be painful, given that remnants of those attitudes
still exist today. But Marie-Josephe is no 90s woman dressed in historical
clothes; she is an authentic character who has incorporated many beliefs of
her time even as she strains to break free of their strictures. Her
accomplishments are all the more impressive for the resistance she
encounters, not only from without, but within herself as well.
McIntyre's achievement goes deeper than simply telling a story. She gives
a well-rendered depiction of why the accomplishments of women throughout
history have often gone unacknowledged. Marie-Josephe manages to attain a
measure of success because she works day and night, often going without
sleep, so she can complete her duties as a lady-in-waiting while fulfilling
her obligations to her brother and the King. It is a bruising schedule no
one could keep up for long. However, it would have made no difference how
great her talent or dedication if she never had the chance to pursue her
work in the first place, or to receive the acknowledgment she earned. She
succeeds also because she has the support of the King of France -- an ally
few people can claim. The Moon and the Sun evokes a question as valid
today as in the court of Louis XIV: How much has been lost to our world,
throughout history, because women have been denied, either explicitly or
through social strictures, the chance to realize their potential?
Shimmering Lyricism McIntyre's prose is clean and polished, with a lyrical quality, spare
on words and rich with imagery. The description of the King's flagship
provides a glimpse of her style:
Free of the treacherous shoals, the galleon plunged ahead. Water rushed
against the ship's sides. The gilt figurehead stretched its arms into sunlight
and spray. Rainbows shimmered from its claws and from the flukes of its
double tail. The carven sea monster flung colored light before it, for the glory of the King.
With only a few words, she creates a scene full of life, sights, sounds,
action, and anticipation. This book comes alive in all the senses, evoking
its world so well that the images were still clear in my mind fourteen
months later, when I reread the book for this review. The historical
background gains richness in the detail, from the clothing worn in the Sun
King's court, to the gardens of Versailles, to one of the most realistic
descriptions I've read of what it is like to ride sidesaddle.
At times I would have liked to see the prose style varied more. The
sentences tended to have the same grammatical structure, which every now
and then created a choppy quality. In a work of this high caliber, such
effects become noticeable. However, this is a minor point. Overall, the story shimmers.
The Court of the Sun King The characters in The Moon and Sun are well-layered, with complex
personalities, neither paragons nor villains, but genuine people. It is no easy
feat to make such characters credible when they are so different from the folk
we encounter in our daily existence. But then, one aspect of science fiction
is the creation of beings unlike any we know -- which could just as well apply
to the members of the Sun King's court as to the denizens of another planet.
Beneath its glistening elegance, The Moon and the Sun quietly comments
on how appearance, politics, personal status, and wealth affect our world
view. Is the Sun King truly the towering figure everyone perceives? In
fact, Louis XIV was only 5'5", small even for his time, balding, and with
gout. He wore high-heeled shoes and a wig to compensate. Is Marie-Joseph
the stunning beauty everyone claims? Or is she a normally attractive
person whose stature as Yves's sister and a favorite of the King
"enhances" her appearance. Power, it seems, equates to beauty in women and height in men.
With her protagonist, McIntyre delicately dismantles stereotypes.
Marie-Josephe has no desire for her sexual power, but nevertheless it is
there. She is not so much ravishing as she is desirable for her position
of favor with Louis XIV, who treats her like a daughter. That status
translates into her having sexual appeal to other members of the court.
In our more traditional literature, women with sexualized "power" often
end up unhappy, disturbed, or dead. I found it refreshing that
Marie-Josephe is well-adjusted and pleasant. Not only is she still alive
at the end of the book, she can look forward to a fulfilling life.
I enjoyed the engaging romance between Marie-Josephe and Count Lucien. Like
much of the best romance fiction, it also provides social commentary. In
this case, it had an unusual twist I wasn't aware of until well into the
book. It finally dawned on me that Lucien was different from the usual
romantic hero. On my second read through, I realized the signs had all
been there, obvious once I knew. But on my first read through, it changed
my entire perception of Lucien -- and then forced me to ask myself why. He
remained the same character. With gentle grace, the book challenged me
to examine my own preconceptions.
Often when I read stories that include social commentary, the commentary
is so obvious that, although I may find it illuminating, it feels a bit
like a lecture. This isn't necessarily a drawback; exposition is a
literary device I enjoy for its own sake, as in a work such as Mona Clee's
notable science fiction novel Overshoot. But the beauty of
The Moon and the Sun is that I never saw it coming.
The point was suddenly, simply, made. This is a superb example of
what it means to show rather than tell a story.
One of the book's most powerful aspects, for me, is also one of its most
subtle. After Marie-Josephe is bled by a doctor, the wound becomes
infected. Lucien gives her a salve he hopes will help her heal. As an
aside, Scherzad takes Marie-Josephe's wrist and covers the wound with
her saliva. When the wrist heals, almost miraculously, Marie-Josephe
and Lucien attribute it to his salve. However, the implication left
for the reader is that the sea woman's saliva contained an antibiotic.
Scherzad did have a measure of what the King sought, not
immortality, but the ability to heal. That very ability was lost to
almost everyone because they were too busy trying to take from Scherzad
to comprehend that she might have had something she was willing to give
if they treated her with the dignity due all men and women, whether human or of the sea.
In fact, the theme of opportunities squandered, because of arrogance,
weaves throughout the book. The King's nephew, the Duke de Chartres, is
a talented chemist and longs to pursue his interest in science. His
position forbids him from such work, but he persists despite his lack of
supporters. Marie-Josephe is one of the few people who recognizes his
talent. Chartres squanders her respect because he can only relate to her
in sexually aggressive terms, even though he knows she may be able to
help him. The portrayal of how Louis's court reacts to those who represent
the "other," whether it is the sea people, Marie-Josephe, or Count Lucien,
offers much to think about in our own world.
The relationship between the King's brother, Monsieur Philippe, and the
Chevalier de Lorraine is also well done. Monsieur could have been an
unsympathetic character given that he spends most of his time making
himself look beautiful. However, McIntyre makes him appealing. I'm not
sure how she manages it; Monsieur doesn't do much, he is censured by many
of the court members, and he probably survives only because he is the
King's brother. Yet I liked him a great deal. In one passage, Monsieur's
wife tells Marie-Josephe she wishes Monsieur would love someone worthy of
him. Marie-Josephe believes the Duchess refers to herself, but the reader
knows she means Lorraine. It illuminates Monsieur's character, that a woman
as strong as his wife, the Duchess of d'Orleans and Princess Palatine,
sees him in such a manner.
McIntyre does a crackling good job with Lorraine, who is the closest any
character comes to being a villain. He exhibits just the right balance of
sensuality, lack of conscience, charm, and cruelty to make him a
devilishly effective antagonist, willing to "love" whoever will advance
his status, whether it is Marie-Josephe or Monsieur.
The effect McIntyre achieves here is much harder than she makes it
look. The story is told through the view of the naïve, convent-raised
Marie-Josephe, who has no clue about the relationship between Monsieur
and Lorraine. Yet the reader knows right away. The clever unfolding of
the triangle involving Marie-Josephe, Lorraine, and Monsieur is blunted
a bit because the cast of characters at the start of the book gives
away Lorraine's relationship to Monsieur. However, McIntyre writes so
well that it doesn't matter.
I should give a spoiler warning here myself: I'm about to reveal the end
of the book. Readers who would prefer not to know should skip to the last paragraph of the review.
In her portrayal of the Sun King, McIntyre achieves an complex balance of
traits: arrogance, intelligence, conceit, and compassion. At one point he
expresses his disappointment that Yves couldn't find him an appropriately
beautiful sea monster to look upon, as if nature itself should bend to
make his life pleasant. In the end of the book, Yves, Lucien, and
Marie-Josephe betray his trust so they can save the life of the sea woman
and free her. Yet Louis, in punishing these three people he has loved,
also gives each of them something he or she greatly desires. It is a
brilliant conclusion, a clever mixing of bitter and sweet that satisfies.
The Moon and the Sun has been called alternate history. Such a
history postulates a change in some aspect of our past and then explores
its ramifications. Here, it is the existence of the sea people.
However, at the end of the book, the Pope orders Yves to search out and
destroy all traces in the human record that the sea people exist -- which
means the story could be part of our own history. It is a powerful
conclusion that leaves the reader questioning what secrets might exist in our real past.
If Louis XIV is the Sun, then Yves is the Moon that reflects his
glory. The moon exists whether or not the sun illuminates it, but if
it cannot be seen, does it cease to exist in the minds of the people
who observe and record history? McIntyre evokes this theme again and
again throughout the book, from Yves's position at court to Marie-Josephe's
accomplishments. Yet in the end, for all that the Sun King glows even
without his moons -- Yves, Marie-Josephe, and Lucien -- it is he who has lost the most.
This book has everything: prose rich in imagery and lyricism, powerful
characterization, a plot that sings, enchanting romance, and a depth of
insight into human nature. The Moon and the Sun is destined to become a classic.
Catherine Asaro's next Skolian Empire novel, The Quantum Rose, will be serialized in Analog, starting with the May 1999 issue. The Quantum Rose plus its sequel will come out as one book from Tor, probably in late 2000. The Veiled Web, a near-future suspense novel unconnected to the Skolia books, will come out from Bantam in December 1999. Ascendant Sun, the sequel to The Last Hawk is due out from Tor in March 2000. Her debut novel Primary Inversion is in its second printing, and Catch the Lightning won the1997 Sapphire Award and the UTC Reader's Choice Award for best science fiction novel of 1997. The Radiant Seas just came out in hardcover from Tor, and continues the story of Primary Inversion. The Skolia books are stand alone novels, but take place in the same universe. Catherine is a physicist at Molecudyne Research. She earned her Phd in chemical physics from Harvard and a BS from UCLA. Her husband is John Cannizzo, the proverbial NASA rocket scientist. They have one daughter. |
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