Words of Delight

Sometimes it’s worthwhile to take time out from the news of the day and enjoy something culturally lovely. So today we’re doing a bit of a book review. No spoilers. This will be mostly a sampling of the language that delights but does not greatly affect the plot.

the premium illustrated edition of Tress of the Emerald Sea
by Brandon Sanderson, illustrated by Howard Lyon

The book is Brandon Sanderson’s Tress of the Emerald Sea. Sanderson is one of the most prolific writers I am familiar with. He’s known for finishing the Wheel of Time series, but also multiple series of his own, connected as part of what he refers to as the Cosmere, a universe with some similarities to our own, but also many apparent supernatural differences. The various powers are different in the different series, which may become related in some future book or series. Only he knows.

During the COVID-19 shutdown, Brandon Sanderson did what he does when not distracted by going out and meeting the public: he wrote. A lot. One secret book. Then another, and another, and another. Then he came out with a Kickstarter campaign to get them all printed. (Video of the announcement here.) If there is one thing valuable that came out of the pandemic shutdown, it was Sanderson’s good use of the time.

Tress of the Emerald Sea was the first of the Kickstarter novels, which he wrote as a secret novel for his wife, but which she said needed to be shared with the world (we thank her). It is a stand-alone novel, in the Cosmere, but not related to any other series. Except that it is told by Hoid, the storyteller, often called Wit, which was also his job title as a sort of court jester. Hoid is a character who shows up, often just briefly, in the other series—because he needs to be wherever the important action is taking place. This is the first time we’re getting a story from his point of view. Sanderson has hinted that there will be a future one, providing us more of Hoid’s back story, so this was a kind of practice for him.

Hoid is—not his normal self in this book. He has been cursed. It’s one of the most entertaining curses I’ve come across in literature. He explains it thus:

p. 79 Yes, I said I lost my sense of taste to the Sorceress’s curse. You thought…you thought I meant that sense of taste? Oh, you innocent fool.      

She took my other sense of taste. The important one.

               And with it went my sense of humor, my sense of decorum, my sense of purpose, and my sense of self. The last one stung the most, since it appears my sense of self is tied directly to my wit. I mean, it’s in the name.

               As a result, I present you with Hoid, the cabin boy.

Let’s just say sequined shorts worn with socks and sandals are a minor symptom.

The story itself is about a girl named Tress (the name related to her rather lovely but wild hair), who is on a quest to rescue the love of her life, Charlie, which will require confronting the sorceress. And that will mean Hoid, a minor character, except for being the narrator, will need to come along to confront the sorceress as well, to somehow overcome his curse.

The story is sweet and clean and lovely throughout—despite a lot of really difficult and dangerous challenges: facing a sea of deadly spores, facing an evil pirate captain, facing a dragon, facing the betrayal of a friend, and all this on top of leaving home and family for the first time in her life.

Much of the adventure takes place on a pirate ship, on a sea that is not water, but deadly spores that flow down from the various colored moons. Sanderson played with the idea of fluid that is not water—and explored the physics of it in a video collaboration with Mark Rober, showing how it can actually work, which adds to the fun.

Brandon Sanderson and Mark Rober test out waterless fluidity.
screenshot from here

That’s enough of the story, which is charming. What I really want to share are the bits of language that delight. Aside from Terry Pratchett, who provided a quip per paragraph pretty endlessly in his Disc World series and probably everything else he wrote, I don’t know when I’ve encountered so many words I wanted to save. This has been a book that used up a couple of packets of sticky tags so I could find these gems again.

I recommend using the premium illustrated edition, which is indeed beautifully illustrated. I started with a library copy, with only one illustration, which confused me when I heard from others about the gorgeous illustrations. Then my daughter sent me the illustrated version for my birthday. It is indeed a beautiful treasure.

It turns out the pagination is different between the editions, so, while I collected page numbers with the quotes, it’s probably better to ignore them and just enjoy the words.

I collected somewhere around 20 pages, once I typed them up, so really I can only share a sampling. (I expect I’ll do a draft here and then have to go back through and delete a third or so. And this piece will still be too long.) I’ve categorized the ones I’m sharing, but I’m sure there could be many other categories. I suggest just reading the book. But, for now, let’s just enjoy the some wonderful words.

Tress, still on her home island called The Rock

 

Family Life

One thing I adore about this book is that Tress’s family is not a disaster and hardship. They have hardships. But they are basically decent people and good parents. They figure only in the very beginning, since the adventure takes Tress away from home and family. I could maybe mention that Tress, at home, helps support the family as a window cleaner at the palace and other places. And she manages to cook scrumptious meals out of whatever ingredients she can find available on their budget. This talent become important later in the story.

p. 33  First though, Tress went to talk to her parents. (Something more people in stories such as this should do.)

 

p. 33  Once she’d finished, Lem [Tress’s father] asked for seconds. It was a two-pie type of predicament. Ulba [her mother] only finished half of her meal, sitting back and leaving the rest untouched. It was also a half-pie type of predicament.

 

p. 34  “With all that in mind,” Tress’s father said, “it must be the right decision for her to leave. She will have considered all other options. Leaving the island to rescue the man she loves might sound like lunacy, but if every other option has been discarded as impossible, then insanity might—in this case—be practical.”

 

p. 35  “Everything is extraordinary about you, Tress,” her mother said. “That’s why nothing in particular stands out.”

               Well, parents have to say things like that. They’re required to see the best in their children, otherwise living with the little sociopaths would drive a person mad.

 

p. 37  After she went upstairs, Lem retrieved his cane, put on his coat, and went out to do some advanced fathering.

 

p. 38  Now, you might say to me, “Hoid, this entire story has shown me the opposite. Lem’s family is always scrimping to survive.” And I would reply, “Please stop interrupting.”

               Lem was not poor, he simply didn’t have a lot of money.

 

p. 40  Word got around that night. Lem needed something, specifically from Gremmy, Sor, and Brick. Lem—the man with no debt—needed this favor so badly, he almost asked for it. In the language of men like these, that’s the equivalent of begging.

 

 

Descriptions of People

Apparently it is more fun describing bad and/or disgusting people. But the descriptions of good people, like Fort, are also memorable.

 

p. 36  This woman was always watching, swinging the rod she carried, searching for any excuse to deliver a punishment. She seemed too stern to be fully human. As if instead of being born, she’d been spawned—and instead of growing up, she’d metastasized.

 

p. 44  He had terrible breath, a crispy tan complexion, and stringy, matted hair. Imagine him as the answer to the question: “What if that gunk from your shower drain were to come to life?”

 

p. 64  Crow [captain of the pirate ship Crow’s Song] was…well, I’ve known a few people like her. She seemed too harsh. Too full of anger. She was like the first draft of a human being, before softening effects like humor and mercy had been added.

 

p. 104  She was, it might be noted, a perfect example of why the word jerk needs so many off-color synonyms. One could exhaust all available options, invent a few apt new ones, and still not be able to completely describe her. Truly an inspiration to the vulgar poet.

 

p. 117  Crow passed up opportunities to cause physical pain about as often as banks provide free samples.

Tress, learning to steer the ship

 

p. 67  It might seem that the person who can feel for others is doomed in life. Isn’t one person’s pain enough? Why must a person like Tress feel for two, or more? Yet I’ve found that the people who are the happiest are the ones who learn best how to feel. It takes practice, you know. Effort. And those who (late in life) have been feeling for two, three, or a thousand different people…well, turns out they’ve had a leg up on everyone else all along.

 

p. 68  He had wiry muscles, and that long neck and bald head hinted he might have a buzzard somewhere in his family tree.

 

p. 71  You’d be surprised how common the name is across worlds. Oh, some spell it “Dug” or Duhg,” but it’s always around. Regardless of local linguistics, parents eventually start naming their kids Doug. I once spent ten years on a planet where the only sapient life was a group of pancake-like beings that expressed themselves through flatulence. And I kid you not—one was named Doug. Though admittedly it had a very distinctive smell attached when the word was “spoken.”

 

p. 72-73  Fort wasn’t large like, “Hey, eat a salad” or even large like, “Hey, do you play sports?” He was large like, “Hey, how did you get through the door?” It wasn’t that he was fat, though he did carry a few extra pounds. More, he looked like a person built using a different scale from the rest of humanity. One could imagine that the Shards, after creating him, had said, “Maybe we went a little far in places,” and decided to cut ten percent off all other humans to conserve resources.

 

p. 176  Fort sat on his stool behind the counter, shoulders wide enough that they nearly touched both walls at once. He wore suspenders, as the last seven belts he’d tried to wear had given up on the spot—and I have it on good authority he’s been ordered by judicial mandate to stay at least thirty feet from any others as a judgment for past brutality.

 

p. 374  His [the dragon’s] voice was deep not in a musical sense, more in the way that the ground might vibrate with a profound resonance during a quake.

 

 

General Wisdom and Turns of Phrase

p. 42  But she was free. She’d escaped without a hitch. She wondered if maybe her other tasks would be accomplished with similar ease. She could wonder this because—lacking formal training in the arts—Tress had no concept of dramatic irony.

 

p. 68  Empathy is an emotional loss leader. It pays for itself eventually.

 

p. 82  If you wish to become a storyteller, here is a hint: sell your labor, but not your mind. Give me ten hours a day scrubbing a deck, and oh the stories I could imagine. Give me ten hours adding sums, and all you’ll have me imagining at the end is a warm bed and a thought-free evening.

 

p. 102  She hadn’t grown up knowing danger, but they were quickly becoming acquainted.

 

p. 105  There was a strength in being the one who steers. It was a freedom she had never before known, and had never before realized she needed. One of the great tragedies of life is knowing how many people in the world are made to soar, paint, sing, or steer—except they never get the chance to find out.

 

p. 145  The moment stretched, pulled taut with anxiety, trembling and holding its breath.

 

p. 194  Worry has weight, and is an infinitely renewable resource. One might say worries are the only things you can make heavier simply by thinking about them.

 

p. 286  She grabbed the firing rod from its bucket. Then—grinning like an undertaker in a war zone—she fired.

 

p. 301  It should be noted that Tress would have made an excellent philosopher. In fact, she had already determined that philosophy wasn’t as valuable as she’d assumed—something that takes most great philosophers at least three decades to realize.

 

p. 305  Could the entire world have misjudged something so common? Though it seemed unlikely to Tress, it was true—and not that surprising. People consistently misjudge common things in their lives. (Other people come to mind.)

 

p. 315  We need purpose; it’s the spiritual conjunction that glues together human existence and human volition. Purpose is so integral to us that we see it everywhere.

 

p. 317 The Crow’s Song shook like the ice in a good cocktail, then tipped to the side like the person who’s enjoyed too many.

 

p. 333 A very strange, very desperate idea occurred to her. Probably nothing. Probably a useless whim.

               Notably, strange desperation is exactly the state that often leads to genius.

 

p. 338  Fun tip: Being told “I kept you in the dark to protect you” is not only frustrating, but condescending as well. It’s a truly economical way to demean someone; if you’re looking to fit more denigration into an already busy schedule, give it a try.

 

p. 357  She shook her head. “Please believe me.”

               They didn’t, of course. A boring truth will always have difficulty competing with an exciting lie.

 

p. 368 Could a day contain too many moments? Yes, the hours and minutes had been the same today as every day, but each of the moments inside had been fat, like a wineskin filled to bursting.

 

p. 381  When emotions start leaking, it’s best to give the body a good squeeze and force them right on out. Like lancing a boil.

 

p. 385  People want to imagine that time is consistent, steady, stable. They define the day, create tools to measure it, chop it up into hours, minutes, seconds. They pretend each one is equal to the others—when in fact some are clearly prime cuts, and others are full of gristle.

 

p. 386  This was perhaps what made the days pass with such elasticity—if the first part of her voyage had been the bow being drawn, now the arrow had been released.

 

Brandon Sanderson announces his Kickstarter,
after writing many books during the shutdown year.
Screenshot from here

 

The Longish Quotes

I didn’t manage to shorten this nearly enough. So I’ve placed the longer quotes here. I think they’re worth it, but for those who don’t read to the bottom, at least they get the quick, easy ones.

 

p. 129-130  Tress looked toward Crow. And then, Tress took the singular step that separated her from people in most stories. The act, it might be said, that defined her as a hero. She did something so incredible, I can barely express its majesty.

               I should consider this more, Tress thought to herself, and not jump to conclusions…

Perhaps you are confused at why I, your humble storyteller, would make such a fuss about this. Tress stopped, wondered if she’d jumped to a conclusion, and decided to reconsider? Nothing special, right?

               Wrong. So very, soul-crushingly wrong.

               Worldbringers like myself spend decades combing through folk tales, legends, myths, histories, and drunken bar songs looking for the most unique stories. We hunt for bravery, cleverness, heroism. And we find no shortage of such virtues. Legends are silly with them.

               But the person who is willing to reconsider their assumptions? The hero who can sit down and reevaluate their life? Well, now that is a gemstone that truly glitters, friend.

               Perhaps you would prefer a story about someone facing a dragon. Well, this isn’t that kind of story (Which makes it even more remarkable that Tress still does that eventually. But kindly stop getting ahead of me.) I can understand why you would want tales of people like Linji, who tried to sail around the world with no Aviar.

               I, however, would trade a dozen Linjis for one person who is willing to sit down for a single blasted minute and think about what they’re doing. Do you know how many wars could have been prevented if just one person in charge had stopped to think, “You know, maybe we should double-check; perhaps blinking twice isn’t an insult in their culture?”

 

 

p. 305  While a healthy measure of foolhardiness drove our ancestors toward discovery, fear kept them alive. If bravery is the wind that makes us soar like kites, fear is the string that keeps us from going too far. We need it, but the thing is, our heritage taught us to fear some of the wrong things.

               For example, to our ancient ancestors, strange and new people often meant new diseases and the occasional spear tossed at our softer bits. Today, the only things new people are likely to toss our way are some interesting curse words we can use to impress our friends….

               And when one abandons certain fears and assumptions, an entire world opens up.

 

 

p. 307-308  I love memories. They are our ballads, our personal foundation myths. But I must acknowledge that memory can be cruel if left unchallenged.

               Memory is often our only connection to who we used to be. Memories are fossils, the bones left by dead versions of ourselves. More potently, our minds are a hungry audience, craving only the peaks and valleys of experience. The bland erodes, leaving behind the distinctive bits to be remembered again and again.

               Painful or passionate, surreal or subline, we cherish those little rocks of peak experience, polishing them with the every-smoothing touch of recycled proxy living. In so doing—like pagans praying to a sculpted mud figure—we make of our memories the gods which judge our current lives.

               I love this. Memory may not be the heart of what makes us human, but it’s at least a vital organ. Nevertheless, we much take care not to let the bliss of the present fade when compared to supposedly better days. We’re happy, sure, but were we more happy then? If we let it, memory can make shadows of the now, as nothing can match the buttressed legends of our past.

               I think about this a great deal, for it is my job to sell legends. Package them, commodify them. For a small price, I’ll let you share my memories—which I solemnly promise are real, or will be as long as you agree not to cut them too deeply.

               Do not let memory chase you. Take the advice of one who has dissected the beast, then rebuilt it with a more fearsome face—which I then used to charm a few extra coins out of an inebriated audience. Enjoy memories, yes, but don’t be a slave to who you wish you once had been.

               Those memories aren’t alive. You are.

 

 

p. 348-349  Heroism is a remarkable thing, oft misunderstood. We all think we understand it because we want to see its seed inside ourselves. That is part of the secret, really.

               If you gather together stories of heroes—those who have risked their lives for others, those who have stood against overwhelming odds, those who have barreled heedlessly into danger with the aplomb of a champion diver leaping from the highest platform—you find patterns. Two of them, in fact.

               The first is that heroes can be trained. Not by a government or a military, but by the people themselves. Heroes are the ones who have thought about what they’re going to do, and who have trained to do it. Heroism is often the seemingly spontaneous result of a lifetime of preparation.

               But if you ask these heroes why they risked their ives, don’t do it on a stand in front of a crowd while you give them their medal. Because the truth is, they likely didn’t do it for their country. Or even for their ideals. Consistently, across cultures, eras, and ideologies, war heroes report the same simple motivation. They did it for their friends.

               In the frenzied anarchy of destruction, loyalty to causes and kingdoms alike tends to fall to the chaos. But the bond between people, well, that’s stronger than steel. If you want to create heroes, don’t give them something to fight for. Give them someone to fight for.

 

 

p. 388  We want to imagine that people are consistent, steady, stable. We define who they are, create descriptions to lock them on a page, divide them up by their likes, talents, beliefs. Then we pretend some—perhaps most—are better than we are, because they stick to their definitions, while we never quite fit ours.

               Truth is, people are as fluid as time is. We adapt to our situation like water in a strangely shaped jug, though it might take us a little while to ooze into all the little nooks. Because we adapt, we sometimes don’t recognize how twisted, uncomfortable, or downright wrong the container is that we’ve been told to inhabit.

               We can keep going that way for a while. We can pretend we fit that jug, awkward nooks and all. But the longer we do, the worse it gets. The more it wears on us. The more exhausted we become. Even if we’re doing nothing at all, because simply holding the shape can take all the effort in the world. More, if we want to make it look natural.

               There was a lot about being a pirate that did suit Tress. She’d learned and grown a great deal—but it had still been a relatively short time since she’d left the Rock. She was tired in a way that a good night’s sleep—or ten of them—couldn’t cure. Her mind didn’t have any more to give. She needed to allow herself a chance to catch up to the person she’d become.