Book Review: "Voyage to Alpha Centauri"

Cinder blocks.

Cinder blocks are analogous to the accidental properties of Michael O’Brien’s novels. Yet his latest, his 10th, “Voyage to Alpha Centauri,” is relatively small compared to his earlier works, clocking in at only 587 pages.

It’s a shame that these books look so daunting, as a majority of our twittering, texting masses will never read something that doesn’t grant them instant gratification. Yet for those who are patient, willing to take the time to embark on his latest adventure, will find themselves traveling through space at 0.5 times the speed of light. Man’s destination? The system of Alpha Centauri, our closest neighboring star.

Many have commented on this novel, some saying that the same story could have been told with 200 pages cut out of it. While this may be the case, I for one did not feel the novel drag. O’Brien is a master artist, not an author of popular fiction. Every word carries meaning. Indeed, if you allow yourself to be immersed, you will feel as though you are a passenger aboard the Kosmos (mankind’s massive city-like ship, over a kilometer in length that embarks on a nineteen year voyage into space).

Written as a journal, the reader enters into the mind of the two-time Nobel-prize recipient, Dr. Neil de Hoyos, whose work in physics have allowed the possibility of such a voyage to occur. He’s a skeptical fellow, allowing his intelligence to act as a wall against the inner longings of his very human heart. He lives with regrets, he’s angry, and he walks with a limp. Yet he and the 600 other passengers hope that in leaving their fallen, totalitarian home planet, they will be free from their dystopia, somehow, some way.

As the story progresses, the milieu becomes very dark, and the terrible truth of man’s inability to escape himself and the shortcomings of his people stare in the face of Dr. Hoyos. The central theme under all the action, discoveries, and conspiracies really got under my skin; try as they might to transcend humanity’s ugliness, the voyagers still carry the faults of their people - our people - within themselves. Evil lies in the hearts of men.

And yet the story ends with incredible hope and joy. When I finished the book, I had to take a day to unwind myself, to float back down to Earth. I was saddened that the journey was over, but I cannot wait to discuss it with my brother, who has just started the book on my recommendation.

You can buy the book here: http://amzn.to/1pUA31S

You can also check out O'Brien's other novels (and his wonderful articles and paintings) at his personal website: http://www.studiobrien.com

Fiction: "Cry to the World"

Jean Paul Lemieux, "Young Man"

I have a found a new pleasure of walking out of doors onto a balcony and peering into the treeline and the skies. 

There's a taste for it, to be sure – standing alone, leaning on a 2x4 rail painted white, identical to those above, right, below, left. But what I see is the world preparing just outside a wall, and in secret and by degrees it seethes in past all boundaries, nearly benign, but really with the sad love of inevitability.

Once I came out upon such a balcony in such a mood and leaned over the rail – my ribcage hooked over uncomfortably, my arms folded – and it happened that I heard the sound – at such an hour on a Saturday – of a door calmly opened and closed, the cheap blinds clacking upon the glass below.

A young man not a year older or younger did as I do, and, unnaturally as I, lit a cigarette held in fingers poised as he might imagine one well-practiced in the art might do. But I knew he was sincere. I know he was sincere at least in trying. He carried on the act in company with himself and at last sat down and sighed.

I thought at once we should sit inside by a lamp burning all night long and talk of things only we should talk of, a special blessing of particularity shared between us. He must have heard me shuffling because he was at his rail again, staring unforgivingly upward. And our eyes met, and because they fixed upon the real and demanding continuity between us, I saw in those eyes vitriol, and I knew he would never pardon me for breaking into a world I thought my own.

I have since awakened from that dream and hope no more for a friend.



Written by Ross J. McKnight
Edited by Christopher Hamilton