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Living Next Door to the God of Love
by Justina Robson
(Macmillan, £17.99, 400 pages, haredback, 21 October 2005.)
Review by Jakob Schmidt
 It's
been thirty years since humankind encountered Unity -- a powerful alien
life form that, in the constraints of the four-dimensional-universe,
appears as a self-transforming substance called Stuff. It is materialised
consciousness, pretty much all-powerful, and it has the ability to translate
all other living beings into a part of itself. The ambassadors of Unity
claim that nothing is lost in this process -- but since no human being
who has been translated ever came back, the process looks suspiciously
like dying.
In spite of the risk of accidental translation, humanity has established
a relation of mutual benefit with Unity: the latter provides pocket
universes, modelled on human imagination, which provide the opportunity
to explore the human condition in a totally new way -- even though most
people only see tourist attractions or hideouts from government authority
in them. The dangerous, mythical Universe of Sankhara is one such place.
Francine, a teenager genetically engineered for beauty and brilliance,
arrives at Sankhara on the run from a dull and meaningless life. Her
cynical lookout is fundamentally changed when she meets and falls in
love with Jalaeka. But Jaleaka is on the run as well -- from the most
powerful being in all the known Universes. He's a splinter of Unity,
and Unity wants him back -- and it's not prepared to take "no"
for an answer...
Living Next Door to the God of Love begins where most other
SF-novels dealing with questions of transcendence end (in fact it also
begins where Robsons previous novel, Natural History, ended).
Therefore it's only fitting that it starts with the apocalyptic disappearance/translation
of an entire universe. The first chapter of this novel significantly
raises the stakes on her previous work, and not only by its flashy action
and grand scenery. Transcendence, so we learn, has become a very real
option -- now lets see how humanity comes to terms with the fact. Or
better: let's see if humanity comes to terms with it. As it turns
out, this is in fact a very similar question to how we come to terms
with the end of linear, four-dimensional existence today, structured
by the central paradox that we can envision neither death nor eternal
life. Consequently, the novel itself is build up around paradoxes: for
one thing, while it employs multiple tropes of the fantastic, including
elves, vampires, ancient gods and modern super heroes, it operates firmly
within the mindset of critical inquiry that also informs Robsons previous
novels. While magic and religious symbolism permeate the book, they
quite explicitly are only expressions of or gloss-over for the fundamental
problems of existence. Robson approaches this dilemma -- the paradox
of conscious life itself -- through various venues, explored through
a multiplicity of point-of-view characters. Translation into Unity is
not the only model of life after death -- there's also electronic storage
(ridden by a slow fadeout from existence), firm religious belief and
finally the idea of romantic love and its moments that last forever.
Of course, all of this somehow misses the mark and is only a substitute
for an impossible longing.
Which brings us to the second major paradox of the novel, constructed
around desire. Enter Jaleaka, the splinter of Unity, which Unity has
lost and therefore lacks -- the ultimate token of desire, not only for
Unity, but for everyone he encounters, always longing and longed for,
defined by what others see in him and desperately trying to find a way
to define himself. Even though Jaleaka is a kind of god, he's probably
on the most fundamentally human quest, which situates him in the very
gap of desire. Probably the most impressive feat Robson pulls of in
this novel is narrating from the perspective of a nearly all-powerful
being and managing to integrate him believably into a very human, fundamentally
social situation. Even a transcendental being like Jaleaka turns out
to be subjected to the human condition as soon as he becomes a linear
self. And in a way, even Unity is, as soon as it enters the game of
longing by inhabiting a human self.
After all those philosophical ramblings, you probably want to know
if you'll enjoy reading Living Next Door to the God of Love.
To start with the good news: Robson's idiosyncratic, vivid descriptions,
her spot-on characterisation, her witty humour are all in place, along
with the occasional well-informed genre- and pop-culture references.
There are even a few laugh-out-loud moments, like a certain graffiti
in Sindarin. But, on the other hand, there's some pretty heavy stuff,
including several rape scenes that might turn a weak stomach. It's not
too graphic, but on an emotional level much of it is quite brutal. That's
probably one of the reasons why I didn't read this novel with the same
delight as I read, for example, Silver Screen. Frankly, Living
Next Door to the God of Love is emotionally exhausting, and I had
to take several breaks while reading it. It's also talky in some spots
(most of the talking is in fact quite arresting, but it doesn't always
move the plot forward), and it seems to get slightly distracted around
the middle. In the end, I didn't get all the reward I felt I deserved,
but that's obviously due to the subject matter of the book. This is
about questions you probably had since you have realised that people
die, and there's no novel that will make them go away or give a satisfactory
answer.
In the end, despite it's cosmic scale, this is once again a novel that
closely focuses on the human individuals populating it, searching for
love and a glimpse of truth. There are about a dozen point-of-view characters,
and it speaks of Robsons quality in character writing that there's no
danger of mixing them up while reading. There's characters you'll probably
be at home with immediately, like Greg the slightly frustrated Unity-researcher,
and some who demand some unlocking, like the runaway Francine or the
forged Valkyrie, and there's even glimpses into the thought-processes
of Unity as projected into four-dimensional Avatars. Robson does a great
job at describing the same characters from the inside and through the
eyes of other characters, always sticking close to the chosen perspective.
If there's one thing to query, it's probably the fact that all these
people seem to share a similar laconic sense of humour -- but why complain
about the permeating presence of this especially delightful feature
of Robson's writing?
If I had to compare Living Next Door to the God of Love to classic
science fiction novels (and a classic it may very well become itself),
I'd choose Geoff Ryman's The Child Garden and Samuel R. Delany's
Dhalgren. There are some stylistic similarities to Ryman, especially
in the characterisation, but the true point of reference to me is how
all these novels manage to convey a sense of the intolerable beauty
of death and desire, while simultaneously refusing to fall for the easy
answers of romanticism.
Elsewhere in infinity plus:
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