The Barnes & Noble Review
Kim Stanley Robinson, author of award-winning novels like the Mars trilogy (Red Mars, Green Mars, and Blue Mars), Icehenge, and The Wild Shore, has written one of the most ambitious novels in decades in The Years of Rice and Salt, a book that is breathtaking in scope, chillingly timely, and profoundly powerful. Although it's billed as an alternate history of mankind's last 700 years, it is so much more than that. It's about religion, fate, and the human spirit. It's about the meaning of
life. Why are we here? Is there a god? Is the soul eternal? Does it all really matter?
The story begins in the 14th century, as the Black Death is spreading throughout Europe. But instead of killing approximately one-third of
the population, this time the plague destroys almost everyone: 99 percent. Civilization is wiped out, and Europe becomes a forgotten wasteland. There is no Renaissance, no Industrial Revolution, and no colonization of the New World by the British and French. Christianity and Judaism are all but forgotten. Buddhism
and Islam become the world's two major religions.
Bold Bardash is a Mongol horseman who has witnessed the plague firsthand. Utterly alone and barely able to find enough food to keep himself alive, Bold wanders aimlessly until he is captured by Turkish Muslims and eventually sold as a slave to Chinese traders. While sailing back to China in the largest ship Bold has ever seen, he meets a black slave boy named Kyu. During the trip, the boy is made a eunuch, and only Bold comforts the boy as he struggles
to survive the horrific ordeal. Once
in China, the two fatefully work together in a busy restaurant, where Bold learns more about local culture and Kyu plots revenge against the entire Chinese Empire.
After Bold and Kyu experience life to the fullest and eventually die, their souls go back to the bardo, where they await reincarnation. The deeds of their past lives help decide who
(or what) they return as. In each incarnation, the two try to improve themselves and the world around
them, with varying levels of success: Chinese revolutionaries, an elderly widow and a poor monk, a Native American Indian chief and a clan matriarch, a tiger and a pilgrim, a Chinese naval captain and a young island girl from the other side of
The Years of Rice and Salt (a term coined by Chinese women in wealthy households, signifying the busiest times of a women's life: raising children, taking care of elderly family members, managing servants, etc.) is a truly visionary work. Kim Stanley Robinson shows us what could have been, and what could still be. Will humankind ever get it right? Or are we destined to make the same mistakes over and over again? (Paul Goat Allen)
Having revolutionized the novel of planetary exploration with his Nebula- and Hugo-winning Mars trilogy (Red Mars, etc.), Robinson is attempting to do the same to another genre with this highly realistic and credible alternate history. It's the 14th century, and the Black Death has swept through Europe, killing not 30% or 40% of the population but 99%. With Europeans now no more than a historical curiosity, the empires of China and Islam spread rapidly across the world. India, caught between superpowers, struggles to maintain its independence until, fueled by a scientific renaissance, its forces besiege and conquer the great city that in our world would be called Constantinople. The New World is discovered by the Chinese, who rapidly settle the west coast, while an Islamic fleet lands at the mouth of the Mississippi. Eventually, the enlightened Indian nation of Travancore comes to the aid of the beleaguered native people of the New World. New technologies appear as the centuries go by and, as often as not, are applied to military ends. Adding a mystical balance and a human note to this counterfactual history is a small cast of recurring characters who live through each episode of the book as soldiers, slaves, philosophers and kings. Dying, they spend time in the afterlife, only to be reborn into the next era, generally with no knowledge of their past lives. Robinson, who has previously demonstrated his mastery of alternate history in the classic short story "The Lucky Strike" and his Three Californias sequence, has created a novel of ideas of the best sort, filled to overflowing with philosophy, theology and scientific theory. (Mar. 5) Forecast: The restrained jacket art, not at all typical of SF, suggests the publisher is aiming to attract intelligent mainstream readers as well. Certainly the depiction of how a moderate or even a liberal Islamic state might evolve couldn't be more timely. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
A warrior with the army of Tamarlane turns his back on a plague-infested village in Eastern Europe, a Chinese widow rediscovers a new purpose in her life, and an alchemist risks his life and his reputation in the name of invention. These are just a few of the vignettes that propel this panoramic tale of soldiers, philosophers, emperors, and slaves caught up in a cycle of reincarnation and evolution. Beginning in an alternate 14th century in which the Black Death has wiped out European civilization and left the burden of human progress to the descendants of Islam and Buddhism, Robinson, author of the Mars trilogy, recycles characters and themes while exploring a world without the cornerstones of "Western" culture. Superb storytelling and imaginative historic speculation make this a standout novel and a priority choice for all sf and general fiction collections. Highly recommended. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
School Library Journal
Adult/High School-In this alternative version of the history of the modern world, the bubonic plague kills almost all of the Europeans, and the West never recovers. The major world powers are Islam and China, and the major religions are Islam (in various forms) and Buddhism. Many other peoples, including Hindus, Sikhs, Japanese, and Yingzhou (from the New World) also play significant parts. Robinson's story encompasses familiar parallels: the discovery of the Americas, religious strife and cultural breakthroughs, political tyranny and devastating world war, scientific renaissance, technological wonders, and the pursuit of happiness. Though this world is vast and complex, its history is experienced by readers on a human scale, learned through the colorful and vivid tales of individual people. Through the centuries, they live and die in startlingly different ways, yet there is an underlying structure, and the characters remain familiar because they are the same group of souls, reincarnated in different places and times. After death, they meet in the Bardo, where they are judged, and then they are off on other adventures-again struggling to make progress in their "years of rice and salt" on Earth. This is an addictive, surprising, and suspenseful novel about characters and a world whose fate comes to matter considerably to readers.-Christine C. Menefee, Fairfax County Public Library, VA Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Hugo winner Robinson (Antarctica, 1998, etc.) follows three characters over seven centuries on an alternate Earth in which Islam and Buddhism are the dominant religions. Her charming though ponderous study in comparative religions opens with wandering Mongol scout Bold Bardash stumbling through an abandoned Athens, where the Black Death has wiped out everyone. Christianity just about dies out, Judaism is a minority cult, and, after many barbarous and pointless struggles between petty warlords, the New World is discovered by the Chinese Navy, and the Renaissance is played out as a conflict between a Middle Eastern Islam and Chinese Buddhism. Robinson explores ten periods in this alternate history with earthy, pragmatic Bardash, impetuous, vengeful Kyu, and quietly intellectual I-Li undergoing many reincarnations: orphaned Indian girl, Sufi mystic, African eunuch, Sultan's wife, Chinese admiral, dourly brilliant alchemist, feminist poet, village midwife, glassblower, theologian, etc. Robinson avoids the battles and calamities that mar most alternate histories, leaving his characters to discuss at sometimes tedious length the esoteric ironies among evolving theological and political ideologies as China assumes unsteady mastery of the globe. Overlong, but blessed with moments of wry and gentle beauty as friends and antagonists rediscover each other under different guises in exotically dangerous locales.
From the Publisher
PRAISE FOR The Years of Rice and Salt
"Hugo winner Robinson follows three characters over seven centuries on an alternate Earth in which Islam and Buddhism are the dominant religions...Blessed with moments of wry and gentle beauty as friends and antagonists rediscover each other under different guises in exotically dangerous locales."
PRAISE FOR KIM STANLEY ROBINSON’S Red Mars WINNER OF THE NEBULA AWARD FOR BEST NOVEL
“A tremendous achievement.”
–The Washington Post Book World
“An absorbing novel...a scientifically informed imagination of rare ambition at work.”
–The New York Times Book Review
“Promises to become a classic...This is epic science fiction in the best sense of the term–thoughtful, provoking, and haunting.”
–St. Louis Post-Dispatch
Green Mars WINNER OF THE HUGO AWARD FOR BEST NOVEL
“Dense as a diamond and as sharp; it makes even most good novels seem pale and insignificant by comparison.”
–The Washington Post Book World
“Has the breathtaking scope, plausible science and intellectual daring that made Red Mars a hit.”
–Daily News of Los Angeles
Blue Mars WINNER OF THE HUGO AWARD FOR BEST NOVEL
“If I had to choose one writer whose work will set the standard for science fiction in the future, it would be KIM STANLEY ROBINSON. Blue Mars represents a breakthrough even from his own consistently high level of achievement....Beautifully written...a landmark in the history of the genre.”
–The New York Times Book Review
“A complex and deeply engaging dramatization of humanity’s future...exhilarating.”
–The Philadelphia Inquirer
Read an Excerpt
Another journey west, Bold and Psin find an empty land; Temur is displeased, and the chapter has a stormy end.
Monkey never dies. He keeps coming back to help us in times of trouble, just as he helped Tripitaka through the dangers of the first journey to the west, to bring Buddhism from India to China.
Now he had taken on the form of a small Mongol named Bold Bardash, horseman in the army of Temur the Lame. Son of a Tibetan salt trader and a Mongol innkeeper and spirit woman, and thus a traveler from before the day of his birth, up and down and back and forth, over mountains and rivers, across deserts and steppes, crisscrossing always the heartland of the world. At the time of our story he was already old: square face, bent nose, gray plaited hair, four chin whiskers for a beard. He knew this would be Temur's last campaign, and wondered if it would be his too.
One day scouting ahead of the army, a small group of them rode out of dark hills at dusk. Bold was getting skittish at the quiet. Of course it was not truly quiet, forests were always noisy compared to the steppe; there was a big river ahead, spilling its sounds through the wind in the trees; but something was missing. Birdsong perhaps, or some other sound Bold could not quite identify. The horses snickered as the men kneed them on. It did not help that the weather was changing, long mare's tails wisping orange in the highest part of the sky, wind gusting up, air damp--a storm rolling in from the west. Under the big sky of the steppe it would have been obvious. Here in the forested hills there was less sky to be seen, and the winds were fluky, but the signs were still there.
They ride by fields that lay rank with unharvested crops.
Barley fallen over itself,
Apple trees with apples dry in the branches,
Or black on the ground.
No cart tracks or hoofprints or footprints
In the dust of the road. Sun sets,
The gibbous moon misshapen overhead.
Owl dips over field. A sudden gust:
How big the world seems in a wind.
Horses are tense, Monkey too.
They came to an empty bridge and crossed it, hooves thwocking the planks. Now they came on some wooden buildings with thatched roofs. But no fires, no lantern light. They moved on. More buildings appeared through the trees, but still no people. The dark land was empty.
Psin urged them on, and more buildings stood on each side of the widening road. They followed a turn out of the hills onto a plain, and before them lay a black silent city. No lights, no voices; only the wind, rubbing branches together over sheeting surfaces of the big black flowing river. The city was empty.
Of course we are reborn many times. We fill our bodies like air in bubbles, and when the bubbles pop we puff away into the bardo, wandering until we are blown into some new life, somewhere back in the world. This knowledge had often been a comfort to Bold as he stumbled exhausted over battlefields in the aftermath, the ground littered with broken bodies like empty coats.
But it was different to come on a town where there had been no battle, and find everyone there already dead. Long dead; bodies dried; in the dusk and moonlight they could see the gleam of exposed bones, scattered by wolves and crows. Bold repeated the Heart Sutra to himself. "Form is emptiness, emptiness form. Gone, gone, gone beyond, gone altogether beyond. O, what an Awakening! All hail!"
The horses stalled on the outskirts of the town. Aside from the cluck and hiss of the river, all was still. The squinted eye of the moon gleamed on dressed stone, there in the middle of all the wooden buildings. A very big stone building, among smaller stone buildings.
Psin ordered them to put clothes over their faces, to avoid touching anything, to stay on their horses, and to keep the horses from touching anything but the ground with their hooves. Slowly they rode through narrow streets, walled by wooden buildings two or three stories high, leaning together as in Chinese cities. The horses were unhappy but did not refuse outright.
They came into a paved central square near the river, and stopped before the great stone building. It was huge. Many of the local people had come to it to die. Their lamasery, no doubt, but roofless, open to the sky--unfinished business. As if these people had only come to religion in their last days; but too late; the place was a boneyard. Gone, gone, gone beyond, gone altogether beyond. Nothing moved, and it occurred to Bold that the pass in the mountains they had ridden through had perhaps been the wrong one, the one to that other west which is the land of the dead. For an instant he remembered something, a brief glimpse of another life--a town much smaller than this one, a village wiped out by some great rush over their heads, sending them all to the bardo together. Hours in a room, waiting for death; this was why he so often felt he recognized the people he met. Their existences were a shared fate.
"Plague," Psin said. "Let's get out of here."
His eyes glinted as he looked at Bold, his face was hard; he looked like one of the stone officers in the imperial tombs.
Bold shuddered. "I wonder why they didn't leave," he said.
"Maybe there was nowhere to go."
Plague had struck in India a few years before. Mongols rarely caught it, only a baby now and then. Turks and Indians were more susceptible, and of course Temur had all kinds in his army, Persians, Turks, Mongols, Tibetans, Indians, Tajiks, Arabs, Georgians. Plague could kill them, any of them, or all of them. If that was truly what had felled these people. There was no way to be sure.
"Let's get back and tell them," Psin said.
The others nodded, pleased that it was Psin's decision. Temur had told them to scout the Magyar plain and what lay beyond, west for four days' ride. He didn't like it when scouting detachments returned without fulfilling orders, even if they were composed of his oldest qa'uchin. But Psin could face him.
Back through moonlight they rode, camping briefly when the horses got tired. On again at dawn, back through the broad gap in the mountains the earlier scouts had called the Moravian Gate. No smoke from any village or hut they passed. They kicked the horses to their fastest long trot, rode hard all that day.
As they came down the long eastern slope of the range back onto the steppe, an enormous wall of cloud reared up in the western half of the sky.
Like Kali's black blanket pulling over them,
The Goddess of Death chasing them out of her land.
Solid black underside fluted and rippled,
Black pigs' tails and fishhooks swirling into the air below.
A portent so bleak the horses bow their heads,
The men can no longer look at each other.
They approached Temur's great encampment, and the black stormcloud covered the rest of the day, causing a darkness like night. Hair rose on the back of Bold's neck. A few huge raindrops splashed down, and thunder rolled out of the west like giant iron cartwheels overhead. They hunkered down in their saddles and kicked the horses on, reluctant to return in such a storm, with such news. Temur would take it as a portent, just as they did. Temur often said that he owed all his success to an asura that visited him and gave him guidance. Bold had witnessed one of these visitations, had seen Temur engage in conversation with an invisible being, and afterward tell people what they were thinking and what would happen to them. A cloud this black could only be a sign. Evil in the west. Something bad had happened back there, something worse even than plague, maybe, and Temur's plan to conquer the Magyars and the Franks would have to be abandoned; he had been beaten to it by the goddess of skulls herself. It was hard to imagine him accepting any such preemption, but there they were, under a storm like none of them had ever seen, and all the Magyars were dead.
Smoke rose from the vast camp's cooking fires, looking like a great sacrifice, the smell familiar and yet distant, as if from a home they had already left forever. Psin looked at the men around him. "Camp here," he ordered. He thought things over. "Bold."
Bold felt the fear shoot through him.
Bold swallowed and nodded. He was not courageous, but he had the stoic manner of the qa'uchin, Temur's oldest warriors. Psin also would know that Bold was aware they had entered a different realm, that everything that happened from this point onward was freakish, something preordained and being lived through inexorably, a karma they could not escape.
Psin also was no doubt remembering a certain incident from their youth, when the two of them had been captured by a tribe of taiga hunters north of the Kama River. Together they had staged a very successful escape, knifing the hunters' headman and running through a bonfire into the night.
The two men rode by the outer sentries and through the camp to the khan's tent. To the west and north lightning bolts crazed the black air. Neither man had seen such a storm in all their lives. The few little hairs on Bold's forearms stood up like pig bristles, and he felt the air crackling with hungry ghosts, pretas crowding in to witness Temur emerge from his tent. He had killed so many.
The two men dismounted and stood there. Guards came out of the tent, drawing aside the flaps of the doorway and standing at attention, ready with drawn bows. Bold's throat was too dry to swallow, and it seemed to him a blue light glowed from within the great yurt of the khan.
Temur appeared high in the air, seated on the litter his carriers had already hefted on their shoulders. He was pale-faced and sweating, the whites of his eyes visible all the way around. He stared down at Psin.
"Why are you back?"
"Khan, a plague has struck the Magyars. They're all dead."
Temur regarded his unloved general. "Why are you back?"
"To tell you, Khan."
Psin's voice was steady, and he met Temur's fierce gaze without fear. But Temur was not pleased. Bold swallowed; nothing here was the same as that time he and Psin had escaped the hunters, there wasn't a single feature of that effort that could be repeated. Only the idea that they could do it remained.
Something inside Temur snapped, Bold saw it--his asura was speaking through him now, and it looked like it was wreaking great harm in him as it did. Not an asura, perhaps, but his nafs, the spirit animal that lived inside him. He rasped, "They cannot get away as easily as that! They will suffer for this, no matter how they try to escape." He waved an arm weakly. "Go back to your detachment."
Then to his guards he said in a calmer voice, "Take these two back and kill them and their men, and their horses. Make a bonfire and burn everything. Then move our camp two days' ride east."
He raised up his hand.
The world burst asunder.
A bolt of lightning had exploded among them. Bold sat deaf on the ground. Looking around stunned, he saw that all the others there had been flattened as well, that the khan's tent was burning, Temur's litter tipped over, his carriers scrambling, the khan himself on one knee, clutching his chest. Some of his men rushed to him. Again lightning blasted down among them.
Blindly Bold picked himself up and fled. He looked over his shoulder through pulsing green afterimages, and saw Temur's black nafs fly out of his mouth into the night. Temur-i-Lang, Iron the Lame, abandoned by asura and nafs both. The emptied body collapsed to the ground, and rain bucketed onto it. Bold ran into the dark to the west. We do not know which way Psin went, or what happened to him; but as for Bold, you can find out in the next chapter.
Through the realm of hungry ghosts
A monkey wanders, lonely as a cloud.
Bold ran or walked west all that night, scrambling through the growing forest in the pouring rain, climbing into the steepest hills he could find, to evade any horsemen who might follow. No one would be too zealous in pursuit of a potential plague carrier, but he could be shot down from a good distance away, and he wanted to disappear from their world as if he had never existed. If it had not been for the uncanny storm he would certainly be dead, already embarked on another existence: now he was anyway. Gone, gone, gone beyond, gone altogether beyond . . .
He walked the next day and all the second night. Dawn of the second day found him hurrying back through the Moravian Gate, feeling that no one would dare follow him there. Once onto the Magyar plain he headed south, into trees. In the morning's wet light he found a fallen tree and slipped deep under its exposed roots, to sleep for the rest of the day in hidden dryness.
That night the rain stopped, and on the third morning he emerged ravenous. In short order he found, pulled, and ate meadow onions, then hunted for more substantial food. It was possible that dried meat still hung in the empty villages' storehouses, or grain in their granaries. He might also be able to find a bow and some arrows. He didn't want to go near the dead settlements, but it seemed the best way to find food, and that took precedence over everything else.
That night he slept poorly, his stomach full and gassy with onions. At dawn he made his way south, following the big river. All the villages and settlements were empty. Any people he saw were dead on the ground. It was disturbing, but there was nothing to be done. He too was in some kind of posthumous existence, a very hungry ghost indeed. Living on from one found bite to the next, with no name or fellows, he began to close in on himself, as during the hardest campaigns on the steppes, becoming more and more an animal, his mind shrinking in like the horns of a touched snail. For many watches at a time he thought little but the Heart Sutra. Form is emptiness, emptiness form. Not for nothing had he been named Sun Wu-kong, Awake to Emptiness, in an earlier incarnation. Monkey in the void.
From the Hardcover edition.