Lurulu [Paperback]

Intentionally or not, "Ports of Call" and "Lurulu" are Vance's "Candide" in form as well as in spirit, and the very discernible morale of his story is surprisingly Voltairian: neither idealistic self-abnegation nor accidental wealth bring peace and fulfillment to human mind. A man is best off doing something pertaining to his inborn nature, cultivating his chosen garden and spending his free time taking a dram or two of "ardent liquor" while conversing with his good old friends.

"Lurulu" is a wise and somewhat tired ending to the less tired "Ports of Call." It brings the scant plot threads of "Ports" to their disparate conclusions -- sort of. One of the main ideas of both "Ports" and "Lurulu," however, is not the plot in itself, it is a farewell kaleidoscope of Jack's favorite planet-vistas, which become noticeably bleaker and sketchier to the end. The other major idea of these two half-books is a search for the nature of human happiness, fulfillment and destiny, which is shown to be quite futile. The best thing in life is, Vance concludes, a relative isolation of a small group of the detached observers of life, preferably well-heeled, in the constant state of mental, emotional, and physical escape. Dismal thoughts it evokes, indeed. Life is not unlike an onion of delusions: the more you peel them, the more you cry, and in the end there's nothing.

Many Vance's readers would feel that these last two books are anticlimactic, overly schematic, too founderous, even unconvincing time to time, and -- let us not mince the words -- lacking in novelty, in engrossing situations and in well-shaped, likable characters. All true. Even Vance's fortissimo, his descriptions of alien landscapes and weird customs, are devoid of their former vividness and conviction.

Reconsider, however. Maybe "Lurulu" is not such an anticlimax after all. Jack Vance always had a penchant for the cold, somewhat frustrating touch of reality in the last paragraphs of his books. Perhaps, "Lurulu" serves well as one large, cold, somewhat frustrating conclusion to all of his life's work.

Jack makes several strong statements: not surprisingly, against the ugliness and immorality of religion, against the ugliness and immorality of modernist ("avant-garde") art. To the end he remains a humanist, a preacher of doubt and moderation, of reasonable kindness without mandatory compassion, of self-restraint without self-punishment, of minimizing the inevitable sufferings we all cause each other in order to survive. Taking into account Jack's age, his blindness, and the substandard milieu he must lean upon and endure, Jack Vance remains a miracle giant of mind and spirit, an enviable example of graceful, endlessly forgiving genius who illuminated the dusk of the Western civilization with his (last?) Voltairian smile of reason.

This book does all the things that Vance typically does better than anyone else. His style still has the dry humor, distance, and color that is so distinctive and instantly recognizable. The plot consists of the typical picaresque interplanetary romance that Vance has so often written, creating culture after culture to display human foolishness in a hundred different and amusing manifestations. If you've enjoyed everything else Vance has written, as I have, you'll enjoy this book too.

The inescapable fact is, however, that the book is far from Vance's prime, and Vance is clearly tired. The last half of the book ties up every loose plot thread as quickly as it decently can just to get it over with. Ports of Call was definitely a stronger beginning, and it seems as if he intended a bigger work but just ran out of energy. Although Lurulu is enjoyable on its own terms, the biggest disappointment is the realization that given Vance's situation, there aren't going to be any more Demon Princes, Tschai, Cugel, Lyonesse, or the countless other books that have given so much pleasure for so many years.

As noted by others, Lurulu is the last part of one novel begun in Ports of Call. Reading Lurulu on its own without having read Ports of Call will be unsatisfying.

Lurulu picks up loosely where Ports of Call had ended rather abruptly, following the adventures of typical young Vance hero Myron Tany and his shipmates aboard the Glicca (the taciturn captain, Maloof Adair, the impressionable Wingo, and the gaudy Fay Schwatzendale).

Most of the loose plot threads from PoC are resolved in Lurulu, though some are disposed of very abruptly. But Lurulu is not to be read for its plot structure. The characterization is fairly well done, though Myron takes a backseat to Maloof, and Schwatzendale is surprisingly neglected. As is often the case with Vance, the scenery and sociology dominate the narrative. The various planets visited by the Glicca are given somewhat short shrift compared to the usual meticulous Vance treatment. And as he approaches 90, Vance has begun to repeat his earlier works at times. PoC was very reminiscent in spots of Vance's Space Opera.

Also at times, Vance's usual air of sardonic detachment deserts him, and a merely querulous attitude is apparent.

But all in all, Lurulu and PoC comprise a very representative Vance novel. But it is not a book likely to make the unappreciated author any new fans. You almost have to already be familiar with Vance to appreciate Lurulu. I second the recommendation of the Tschai novels as a good introduction to Vance.

Lurulu's ending, however, is almost perfect if unsurprising. The ex-sailor Vance is one of the last romanticizers of the spaceways, and all of his readers should be affected by the way in which Myron's story is resolved.

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