Microreview: In the Lives of Puppets by TJ Klune

After robots have learned from humanity to love, can a lone human then learn it from robots?

With the word robot coming from the Czech for "servitude," it seems inevitable that stories about artificial intelligence will continue to deal with questions of control and freedom. The genre has oscillated between the moods of Frankenstein and Pinocchio: one day we dread that a being we can't control will want to control us, and the next day we cheer for a being that has cut its strings. In these periodic oscillations, retreads are inevitable. One day we meet the Terminator; the next we meet Astro Boy. And there's Megatron and there's Baymax. M3GAN and CHAPPIE. Lore and Data.

OK, but what happens when Pinocchio falls in love with the Terminator?

TJ Klune's new novel In the Lives of Puppets retells Pinocchio with the twist that its protagonist is a human boy with an artificial father. Victor, the human, lives in a forest paradise like those of fairy tales. The days go by in a placid bliss of fresh air, fresh food, gentle company and no worries. Giovanni, the robot, has taken care of Victor with selfless devotion since he was a baby. The shelter they've built among the trees is all they need to be happy. Until the killer robots come looking for trouble.

The journey that Victor then begins is a good illustration of the plot device that pairs world discovery with self-discovery. He didn't have a human to learn to be human from, and yet there's something in him that no killer robot can destroy. The love that he's received from his robotic father and his robotic friends is as real as the love that a tall, dark, handsome strangler sparks in him. As he investigates the true history of the world outside the forest, he also learns to assert where he fits in the posthuman order and who he wants to be.

It's a difficult needle that the author threads here. Learning to mature as a person is challenging enough; doing so when everyone you meet in your journey is a static thing incapable of growth raises the difficulty to epic. And yet, in his interactions with robotic culture, Victor manages to gain a clearer perspective of his identity, his hopes, his desires, and his limitations. It's a very indirect way to form a sense of humanity by contrasting it with everything it's not. The robots share with Victor their second-hand impressions of what humans are like, but it's up to Victor to try and guess how accurately those interpretations may reflect real humanity and how much of that information feels right for him.

It's not like Victor is fully disconnected from human culture: robots are, after all, a human product, inevitably shaped by all our biases and weaknesses. Robots also form personal bonds and ask themselves about their future. But without a human heart (and here's where the novel veers into science fantasy territory), none of the answers has meaning. The plot makes much of the importance of a human heart in the development of an authentic self, and your mileage may vary depending on how comfortable you are with the whole notion of genetic memory.

Questions of scientific rigor aside, In the Lives of Puppets does a stellar job of characterization. You watch Victor evolve and acquire a deeper, richer personality with each big moment of his quest. And his companions are a delight to read. Ratched is a cuttingly sarcastic robot nurse who may or may not actually have an empathy protocol, but who clearly does have an alarming predilection for drilling, while Rambo is an adorable refurbished Roomba who is too pure for this world.

And then there's Hap, the mysterious decommissioned robot that Victor finds, repairs, and teaches to love. This romance subplot suffers from monumentally gnarled power dynamics that are never acknowledged or addressed, which, on top of the novel's tendency to make too many lewd jokes at the expense of its asexual protagonist, makes the reading experience a lot less enjoyable than it had the potential to be. In the Lives of Puppets is a rough gem, full of hidden value obscured by uneven facets that needed more aggressive polishing.

Nerd Coefficient: 7/10.

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.

Reference: Klune, TJ. In the Lives of Puppets [Tor, 2023].

Microreview [Book]: Under the Whispering Door by T.J. Klune

Fans of The House in the Cerulean Sea are in for a treat that's both somewhat familiar in tone to what came before, but with more than enough deviations to feel fresh.

In Under the Whispering Door, the protagonist is dead almost from the novel's start. His body is buried, unable to scramble out of the ground. His life was not a life well lived. It was one of bitterness and heartless misdeeds. And now death has robbed his body of any opportunity for redemption. It's an image of hopelessness, of being tamped down by earthly forces out of your control without any recourse of getting out. But while his living body's journey is complete, he has a new one in ghostly form. That ghost, as it leaves his body, is a form of a second chance. Just because his life was a lost cause doesn't mean his death has to be, too.

Following Wallace's death, he is situated in a place where people with fantastical gifts, including Mei, a reaper, and Hugo, a ferryman, work to acclimate Wallace to his death with eventual plans of him transitioning to what lies beyond. His rehabilitation and preparation is done at a tea shop owned by Hugo. Warring with Wallace's protestations are feelings of affection beginning to form for those in the tea shop. Feelings that he never felt before, even when he was alive.

While the premise doesn't exactly break new ground in fantasy, the character interactions are where the novel is at its best. Whether its friendship between the protagonist and other the other ghosts he meets,  budding, believable romance that had its hooks in me until I was tensed and engaged, along with heartbreak and grief that is native to deathly situations--everything is handled with sincerity and emotional intelligence. The bits of wisdom might be parceled with a couple anodyne platitudes, but that adds to the cozy feeling that covers Under the Whispering Door like a warm blanket.

Don't go into the novel expecting rollicking, action-packed chapters. The roiling is more within the characters than pyrotechnic spectacles. The settings aren't varied, with most of the interactions confined to the tea shop--which sometimes have conversations extended to superfluity. But often it feels like a crucible for character growth with all the epiphanies, realizations, and disillusionments that comes with it. Just because the setting is relatively static doesn't mean that characters are taking steps of their own, even if they're metaphorical rather than literal.

Wallace might have been stuck in a rut in life, but in death the novel showcases him finding a pathway of ascending. In the year I'm writing this (2021), in which I am confined, often static, and sometimes pathless, Under the Whispering Door has come at a perfect time to offer a roadmap forward in literary form. Its pages might not be literal steps, but as the characters evolve internally, the novel's words made my heart warm and molded it into something sweeter, something that I think is more capable of approaching the world's clinical processes and rampant rage with more grace.

The Math

Baseline Score: 7/10

Bonuses: + 1 For having so much heart that even the grinchiest people will be moved. +1 For expertly vibrant banter.

Penalties: - 1 For a middle-third that is a little too slow and long.

Nerd Coefficient: 8/10

Reference: Klune, T.J. Under the Whispering Door (Tor, 2021)

POSTED BY: Sean Dowie - Screenwriter, editor, lover of all books that make him nod his head and say, "Neat!”

Microreview [Book]: The House in the Cerulean Sea by TJ Klune

A gnome, the son of Satan, and the glimmers of sweet humanity collide in this heartwarming treat of a novel.

The House in the Cerulean Sea, a zippy, amorous novel, full of twists and witty one-liners, is a lot like the root system of the quaking aspen trees. Not exactly an obvious parallel, but out of all the metaphors that TJ Klune throws the reader’s way, none is more apt than the description of a root system of trees that are genetically the same, but have their own personality. Every which way you look at the novel can be traced back to the description of that root system.

Let me explain. It’s a novel about tolerance—how physical differences and personality quirks dictates each of our uniqueness, but nevertheless underscores how we all have emotions and innate goodness that is universal. It’s a novel about how even though everyone is born with innate goodness, the lessons we are taught by those in power have the potential to discolor our perception of those perceived as different, sullying our kindness in the process as we practice prejudice. It’s a novel about how being in the doldrums of mundane life can trap us in a bubble of minute satisfaction, where we’re so separated from any shred of excitement, that we don’t know there’s something better, to get us out of our shell and truly live. Like the root system of quaking aspens, the themes of The House in the Cerulean Sea speak to our universal desire to be accepted and find satisfaction, but the novel will elicit different emotional responses for each person, because like the trees, we all have our own distinct personalities.

The House in the Cerulean Sea follows Linus, a forty-year-old man, who inspects and oversees orphanages for magical children. In this world, people with magical abilities are seen as pariahs, so the extent of the orphanages’ upkeep is limited. Linus lives the epitome of a mundane life: no romantic aspirations, married to his work, no social life. Things change when the upper management of his workplace task him with inspecting an orphanage with children of particularly special skills, run by a warm-hearted, compassionate man named Arthur. Some of the children include a wyvern, a gnome, and the son of Satan. As Linus spends more time at the orphanage, his perception of his work and his own life expand in an increasingly heartwarming and instructive story. Romance blooms, friendships are made, and prejudices are questioned.

It’s a novel that’s filled with humor and a positive, romantic outlook of society. While not shying away from people’s prejudices, it instead showcases the injustices committed on people with magical abilities, but bears overflowing hope that everyone’s capable of overcoming those prejudicial shortcomings. And it delivers that message through highly readable prose, and a good sense of humor. However, while always in good taste, the humor doesn’t always land, due to instances of corny and/or wooden dialogue.

That corniness extends to the conveyance of the themes at the book’s conclusion, too. For most of the novel, Klune skillfully balances the optimistic and upbeat tone without being saccharine and didactic. But at the conclusion, it goes off the deep end. All the character development and themes - which, while never subtle, never beat me over the head - take a wrong turn, when all the information and sweetness that was already conveyed quite clearly, is then blasted with stilted, inauthentic speechifying that feels a little like an after-school special.

This wrong turn does not invalidate the rest of the novel, however, which has outstanding characterizations. And the budding romance slowly wrapped itself around me, until it made my cold heart melt. TJ Klune’s strength is definitely his understanding of people. Even though the novel is generally sweet throughout, he’s not afraid to probe into the characters’ flaws, which makes them engaging with an emotional complexity that’s oftentimes unmatched.

Cute and saccharine, funny and cringy, complex and blunt--The House in the Cerulean Sea is all those things. Most parts are terrific, some parts are noxious. The novel, like the root system of quaking aspens, branches out in all directions, and birth things made up of an intricate whole. The novel is a celebration of innate goodness, of people with generally good intentions with many distinct flaws. And when I finished the book, my mind glommed on to the heart put into the story, and less so its missteps. The quaking aspens aren’t just a metaphor for the novel’s themes. It’s a symbol of the book’s quality, showing that flaws can be generally overshadowed if it’s attached to intention and verve as good as this one.

The Math

Baseline Score: 8/10

Bonuses: +1 For having one of my favorite supporting cast of characters in some time
+1  While not packed with sweeping battles, the novel never loses momentum, and never lost my interest

Penalties: -1 Some parts were a little too cartoonish, not in a clever way, but in a way that simplified the story and robbed it of additional depth
-1 While there are some surprising reveals, the bones of the plot is quite predictable

Nerd Coefficient: 8/10

POSTED BY: Sean Dowie - Screenwriter, stand-up comedian, lover of all books that make him nod his head and say, "Neat!"

Reference: Klune, TJ. The House in the Cerulean Sea [Tor Books 2020]