Bright Smoke, Cold Fire (Review)

It's Romeo and Juliet, but in a pagan world full of human sacrifice, clan rivalry, and hungry zombies. Despite Rosamund Hodge's undeniable flair with words, her third novel has generated quite a few negative reviews on Goodreads. No wonder: she takes significant risks with this story.

Risk one: This volume is only the first half of the tale and ends on an extremely dark note (all the good guys seem to be doomed). In a book so full of blood and suffering, the ending is not an easy pill to swallow.

Risk two: The nature of what it means to be pagan (i.e., to lack any concept whatsoever of cosmic mercy) is not sugar-coated. This allows the author to explore fundamental questions but also makes the story uncomfortable.

Risk three: The switching between two POV's makes the story feel choppier than the author's earlier works; and furthermore, Hodge boldly forsakes the usual patterns of romance novels and doesn't make the two romantic leads the POV characters.

Risk four: The author spends a great deal more time developing the characters' same-sex friendships/alliances than building the romance [a choice for which I commend her: modern fiction is awash in romance but weaker on friendship].

Because the book doesn't conform to the typical expectations of readers, it is, quite simply, harder to read. And of course without the ending, readers can't tell yet whether it is worth the effort. I've seen what Rosamund Hodge can do, and I'm willing to wager that even though the world of this book is a tough one to enter, the experience will ultimately be worthwhile. Besides, I really like both Paris and Romeo. I hope they make it.

I have some other thoughts on other aspects of the story, but I'll save those for another post.

A "Strong Female Lead" Who's Actually Strong Instead of Annoying

I just finished W. R. Gingell's Masque. (If you haven't read it yet, you should--it's incredibly fun. What sane person wouldn't love a retelling of Beauty and the Beast that's also a murder mystery set in a fantasy world full of fabulous fashion and dangerous magic? It's not just for girls, either. My husband had a hard time putting it down.)

I've been thinking about the heroine. In this day and age, most authors recognize the need for the obligatory Strong Female Lead and declare their heroine to be, you know, strong. Yet a lot of those SFLs are flops. Often they become an excuse for lazy storytelling because they are allowed to "get away" with choices and actions that would be called-out as immature in a male. Isabella, the protagonist in Masque, is not at all a flop. Why?

Most protagonists who fit under the SFL label do so either by virtue of martial prowess or through having a strong-willed, impulsive personality with a formidable temper.

Isabella is not martial. She does have a very strong personality and is essentially impossible to stop once she gets an idea in her head. Other characters sometimes call her enraging, stubborn, etc. Yet she is not driven by whims. She has, in fact, great self-control. The author makes the point several times that Isabella holds her temper on a very tight reign--she refuses to let herself remain angry or to speak in anger. In fact, if she believes she has overstepped and hurt someone's feelings or been unfair, she immediately--and disarmingly--apologizes. All of this makes her role as a professional diplomat much more believable.

Key point: Isabella's will is a true strength because she has it under control instead of being controlled by it.

Hand-in-hand with her self-discipline, her inner moral compass plays a significant role in defining her character. Although on the surface of the story she has a good deal of fun chasing the murderer, she is clearly driven by much more than a desire for a good time. When necessary, she makes sacrifices (even of her ability to pursue her investigation!) for the sake of people she cares about. Not only does this bolster the idea that she is a strong female lead, it also makes it more credible that the male hero would be attracted to someone he finds so frustrating.

Ultimately, Isabella is strong not because she insists on her own way but because she has self-control and tries to do what is right. That, I think, is why Masque is so satisfying even though it isn't intended to be taken very seriously.

And by the way, as I said at the beginning of this post, you should read Masque.

The Dangerous Lure of Reviewing Books I Didn't Like

Producing something tangible is satisfying. An article, a doll dress, a fancy dinner, a pretty Christmas ornament. Reading books doesn't in itself create that sense of accomplishment, unfortunately, especially when the books are on my Kindle and never make a physical appearance here, there, or anywhere.

Perhaps that is why it creates a sense of having done something, having produced, when I leave a review on Goodreads or a blog.

The problem arises when I read a book that disappoints. A book that makes me angry at the author for squandering the rich potential of her premise or her characters. It would be so satisfactory to review it! I can hear the dissection of errors in my head. It would be fun to write that dissection down. Besides, it would break the silence of my Goodreads account.

The problem is that I, too, am aiming for future publication; and I doubt it is a good idea to potentially alienate people I hope to think of as colleagues (or their literary agents). Of course I don't think these folks are particularly likely to be reading what I post on the internet right now, but it's possible someone may Google my name someday. I wouldn't want them to decide I am clearly a person of appalling taste for disliking something they created or helped to sell.

You would think that not writing something would be easy. But sometimes it's hard! That urge to produce, I suppose. Perhaps it's egotistical of me even to think my reviews matter this much. I'm curious: for those of you who write, what are your rules for reviewing?

Greensleeves (review)

by Eloise Jarvis McGraw, 1968 (newly released 2015)

The pacing of the prologue-like first chapter aside, I slipped easily into the world of this book and would have liked to remain there longer. Our eighteen-year-old heroine is a girl who has been haphazardly raised by seven different parent-figures, including her divorced father and mother, while being dragged up and down across Europe. When in Europe, she is perceived to be an American; while in the States, she is seen as European. Life has not been gentle to her sense of self. Our story opens with her desperate attempt to hit the pause button and escape for a time from her own awkward identity before she is pushed into a college education she does not want. She will be a detective. In disguise.

The story is told with charm, wit, and perceptiveness. Our heroine may be filled with angst, but it is a self-aware, rather mature angst that does not exaggerate her own importance or sap her sense of humor. Many aspects of this late 1960’s world are delightful. The way trendy blue eye-shadow and a massive hair-do, well glued-up, are used by our heroine to create a mask is fun to read about. The way daily life is conducted with a complete lack of modern screens is striking. The characters’ moral universe are appealing. They assume that love leads to marriage and that playing with sexual contact in the form of kissing and making-out is to awaken a deep, heavy, potentially dangerous thing that robs people of the ability to properly evaluate their mutual compatibility.

Yet the overall message of the story left me feeling ambiguous. Essentially, it is a well-presented, charming manifestation of the idea that life’s purpose is to find and know oneself. This must be done as an individual, and involves escape from other people’s undue influence (in the imagery of the novel, one must “escape one’s own cage”--the personal fears and insecurities that hold one imprisoned--without the help of friends, parents, or true love, because no one can save us from ourselves). Marriage is something to consider only after both parties have first pursued their own dreams and discovered who they truly are. This message is all the more powerful because, rather than being assumed, it is discovered by the heroine in a slow and non-preachy way.

When Your Characters are Like Evil Robots: Thinking About Storytelling

(Ha! I'm back! I have grandiose plans of posting once a week again here, but I also sort of think that I'm going to write lots of articles for The Federalist, keep posting on Sister, Daughter, Mother, Wife, finish my novel, make a quiet book for my son--I've pinned all these ideas on Pinterest--and also decorate the house for Advent. While pruning a zillion bushes in the yard. So, yeah. I get these delusions of grandeur whenever the three-month-old falls asleep for ten minutes). 

I've been reading books on my Kindle and pondering the wherefores and how-is-it-done's of fiction. I really loved Amends (review here) and The Dean's Watch (review here). They are polar opposites as far as tone, setting, and style go; but at the same time both convey the sense that their authors are compassionate people. I, too, would like to write as if I understand the fundamental flaws and human ugliness in my characters, yet love them anyway.

I have also been reading a few books that aren't as expertly written. One (a retelling of St. George and the dragon, set in the twilight-years of the Roman Empire and involving persecuted Christians and a pagan priestess) is constructed upon a fun and engaging premise. I want to like it, and I will probably finish it just to see how the author brings his ideas to completion. My problem is that I read for style and literary value as much as story. Maybe more. Because of that, this book doesn't work for me.

I found myself complaining to my husband (poor man) about a number of little issues within the book, and eventually, I realized that they probably all stem from the same problem. So many things happen in the book--the antagonist launches into action, characters join forces to travel together, someone helps our protagonists, etc.--for no good reason. That is, as a reader, I feel as though they happen because the author wanted them to, rather than because they grew organically from the things that had already happened. If that makes sense.

It's not that the author fails to provide any ostensible motivations. We are, for instance, told that the antagonist "hates" the protagonist and see that they have a rivalry. Unfortunately, the level of dislike that the author shows us (during a boyish insult-fest in the street) isn't enough to explain why the antagonist would jump from saying, "Your father is a coward" to deciding, "Today I will kill your mother." And killing the poor lady. And that's just the start of his aggression.

My guess (unless the second half of the book reveals a backstory heretofore unhinted at) is that the author doesn't really know why the antagonist would do such a thing. Not in an in-depth way (the way that the author of The Dean's Watch would have known). He simply needs his antagonist to get the story started. It's an easy trap to fall into. My own novel is not exempt from this problem. Clearly, I need to spend a lot more time trying to know and understand all of my characters. Then I will need to spend a lot of time learning to succinctly show their feelings and motivations. Hmm. This book of mine is going to take a long time to write. Even then, who knows if it will be any good? But, of course, all I can do is try. And keep writing.

The Myth of Arthur, the Problem of Articulate Villains, and Suzannah Rowtree’s Novel

I just finished my Advanced Reading copy (yes, it does make me feel delightfully important to be the recipient of an Advanced Reading copy) of Suzannah Rowntree’s novel, Pendragon’s Heir. The book is essentially a retelling of the story of Camelot, and therefore an exploration of the elusive, tragically costly, yet beautiful vision of building a city of light upon earth. Our young protagonist, Blanche, has been raised in Edwardian England. However, she discovers very early in the story that she is both the subject of prophecy and the daughter and heir of King Arthur. Or at least, she probably is--gossip about her mother’s chastity has sown doubt in some minds. Initially resistant to the idea of giving up her pleasant life in order to re-enter the medieval world of errant knights and rampaging villains, Blanche gradually matures into her role of heiress to a struggling kingdom. Meanwhile, her relationship with the impetuous, gallant (and admiring) Sir Percival also grows.

I soon found myself caring about the protagonists and enjoying all of the characters. Did I mention that there are several of the fey folk in this story? They are delightfully handled, and I am a sucker for well-portrayed fey folk. The relationships between characters are nuanced and often unexpected, and I was impressed by the action sequences and the author’s ability to write so many tense, believable, non-repetitive scenes of combat (although I admit that I know absolutely nothing about how to fight, and might not notice if the blows and techniques were unrealistic). In addition, the story explores significant themes. It is satisfying overall and demonstrates the degree to which the author has immersed herself in medieval and Arthurian imagery. I recommend that you read it.

In fact, the book is so good that I feel free to critique and analyze it as freely as if it came from the presses of a major publishing company. There is no need for me to be “kind” to the author by keeping any complaints, quibbles, or questions to myself. The pacing of the book is not perfect. Although both the beginning and end are taut and fast-paced, there was a section in the middle that felt a little too slow and episodic. I think this is because the main threads of the overall plot (and the relationships between the main characters) were allowed to sink out of sight while the characters gathered information and experienced minor adventures. The information and the adventures were needed for the overall story, but did not convey as much of a feeling of forward momentum. Some readers may disagree with this, and argue that I merely have a short attention span for knightly adventures.

I also find myself deeply struck by the problem of Simon Corbin, an articulate character who attempts to prevent Blanche from taking up her role as heir. In the language of a free-thinking Edwardian skeptic, he rejects belief in God as well as the idea that anyone owes a duty to a kingdom, a higher power, or a moral code. He argues for modern progress instead of feudal virtue. In a later scene, he challenges an idealistic knight with the argument that, just as even the “best” leaders sin, and just as good men use ignoble methods in war and conflict, it is delusional to believe that right can be defended without doing wrong. Ultimately, the conflict of the book could be said to be between these two positions: between those who wish to use only ethical means to create a kingdom patterned on visions of heaven (even though they know this struggle appears doomed), and those who wish to use any means necessary to create a kingdom according to their own ideas of what would be best.

On the one hand, I commend the author for creating Simon Corbin, because he is no straw man. It adds realism that our hero and heroine cannot best him in debate. However, I rather wonder if some readers (especially those who do not share the author’s beliefs) will not find Mr. Corbin’s arguments the more compelling (I once ran into this problem in a short story of my own: I tried to let both sides speak for themselves, and my liberal teacher thought that my story had made a much stronger case for liberal relativism than for conservative beliefs, because those were the arguments that resonated with her). Will such readers wonder if someone like Corbin might not have made a better ruler than a king who allows random knights to run around, walloping each other into an early grave, while the peasants do all the actual work? After all, Mr. Corbin is the only one who addresses “realistic” issues such as sanitation and the suffering of the poor.

The motivations of the good characters are harder to put forth in tidy, convincing arguments, and they rest more heavily on what might uncharitably be called mystical naivete. Here of course we see, in a nutshell, the challenge of a Christian author who speaks from her own perspective while trying to avoid heavy-handedly “proving” her own point, or pausing the narrative for a discussion of theology. If one speaks too often or too directly about God, one risks alienating non-Christian readers or of failing to remain in the role of novelist. If one approaches philosophical and religious themes more obliquely, one can have trouble providing a full, compelling picture of one’s beliefs.

I have been asking myself if Miss Rowtree should have handled her story any differently. It might have strengthened her tale if the good characters had defined Arthur’s kingdom more concretely, and, in particular, truly acknowledged the humanity and needs of the peasantry. I realize that this story is intended to fit into the tradition of the knightly tale, not that of a realistic novel, of course, but I wonder if Mr. Corbin should have been allowed to introduce the sufferings of the poor without having the protagonists also truly acknowledge this issue.  

Such questions aside, I enjoyed reading this novel, and I enjoyed thinking about the questions it raised in my mind. Many thanks to Suzannah for the opportunity to do so! I loved (and still love) her characters, and I look forward to seeing what she writes next. 

My Favorite Picture Books

Recently, while listening to the Read-Aloud Revival podcasts, I found myself wondering how I would answer the question, "If you were stranded on a desert island with your family, what three fictional books would you want to have with you?"

I asked my husband about this. We had trouble deciding. The problem is that the definition of "three books" is a little squishy. For instance, does the Globe Illustrated Complete Works of Shakespeare (a massive volume, to be sure, that would probably sprain your wrists if you tried to read it) count as just one book? The Chronicles of Narnia can also be purchased in a single volume. Does that count as only one? In which case, I'm sure that there are anthologies of British novels that would include multiple books.... Or perhaps I could get some of my favorite books bound into three large volumes. Maybe the problem is with us. Maybe we have the minds of people who cheat when they answer hypothetical literary questions.

A little later, someone asked me to come up with a list of three books that I would recommend for each of his two young daughters.

These mental exercises have resulted in my wanting to provide you all with a list of my favorite childhood picture books. These are the volumes that I would like to have to read to my children if we had no other picture books available, whether or not a desert island was our home. I did not manage to limit the list to a mere three, but it is still fairly short.

Here Lie No Dragons: Unspoken Rules of Socially Acceptable Storytelling

(Or, What I Learned from Ursula K. Le Guin and Jules Verne)

UPDATE: I expanded this blog post into an article for The Federalist, (read it here).

As I peruse Jules Verne’s dramatic 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, I am repeatedly struck not just with a case of I-am-not-buying-into-this-improbable-event-in-your-plot, but with actual discomfort. There are certain passages that conform to Nineteenth Century mores but clash with ours. Nowadays, when we talk about the astonishing creatures of the ocean, we are supposed to sound…. well, positive. Admiring. We aren’t supposed to judge them according to human standards of behavior or physical appearance, and to declare some of them (such as gigantic octopi) “monstrosities of nature,” or to decide that others (like sperm whales) are “mischievous creatures” who should be slaughtered in a “wholesome massacre” because of their supposed viciousness toward other, nicer whales. Our modern stories are supposed to focus on the danger that unrestrained humanity poses to the animals, not the danger that wild animals pose to humanity. To read about a scientist who says, “What a magnificent specimen of a rare creature! Quick, kill it!” feels downright awkward. I myself am no foe of hunting, but I am enough of a child of my era to experience unease when the fictional sea runs red with the blood of whales.

I am also reading the first story in Ursula K. Le Guin’s Tales from Earthsea (a collection of novellas that intersect with her Earthsea fantasy novels). What fascinates me is the contrast between this story and the author’s first Earthsea novel from 1968 (in the forward to Tales from Earthsea, Mrs. Le Guin herself acknowledges that the vast social changes in moral outlook have changed her own view and thus her stories).

The first Earthsea novel is called A Wizard of Earthsea. In it, a young man named Ged travels the difficult path to wizardry and self-knowledge. The story is unconventional in many ways that were, in their day, quite bold. For instance, although not all the book jacket illustrations reveal this, the hero and most of the characters are not white people. For another, instead of engaging in epic warfare (or any warfare at all) the hero endures a long quest that ultimately revolves around facing and accepting his mortality. It is a hero saga and a quest story with a counter-cultural, reflective atmosphere (and without any fair-haired maidens who require rescue).

Curiosity (Review)

Curiosity by Gary Blackwood

Recently, I finished reading Gary Blackwood's 2014 youth novel Curiosity. Set in 1835, the story follows a sheltered, semi-crippled boy with a unique gift for the game of chess. Due to the failing fortunes of his father, the lad finds himself working for a sinister showman as the secret operator of "The Turk," a chess-playing, mechanical automaton (the Turk is borrowed from history by Blackwood). Meanwhile, Edgar Allen Poe and his poor Annabelle make several appearances. I enjoyed the author's use of phrenology (a nineteenth-century "science" in which a person's character was analyzed through the protrusions of their skull). Blackwood weaves his character's belief in phrenology into the text in a believable way. Period characters who think like period characters, at least in one way or another, are always a plus. They remind us that even though we believe in our own period's scientific claims, our science too could be in error.

Blackwood's enjoyable tale is told with great competence, although most adult readers will find the foreshadowing a bit blatant. I notice that several Goodreads reviewers found the novel disappointing, mostly because it is heavier on character development and atmosphere than plot.

Speaking of chess, have you read Dorothy's Sayers' short stories? They provide an excellent way to practice your puzzle-solving, deductive reasoning skills. I stumbled across this free audio book of "Striding Folly," a mystery story that also involves the game of chess.

Need Every Child (Protagonist) Save the Day? Is that Even Healthy?

 Here are a few synopses of imaginary stories for children. They sound convincingly typical, right?

“Maggie’s friends all have special talents. George is a singer. Lily can make friends with any animal. Gertrude dances in a junior ballet troupe that is slated to amuse the troops on Endor. However, as the mean girls at school like to point out, Maggie doesn’t seem good at anything at all. Will Maggie find her true talent and build her self-esteem?” 

“Little Leggie is the only ant in the colony who likes to look at the stars at night and who decorates his bedroom with vintage astronomy posters. When an asteroid heads toward earth, Little Leggie thinks that he just might know the solution to saving all living species from extinction.” 

“Bobbie’s parents have started to whisper together when they think he is not looking, and he can tell that they are talking about something scary. Will Bobbie be able to discover the danger to his family in time? Will he believe in himself enough to ignore all of his parents’ house rules, and thus to save the world? Will they weep and apologize for not trusting him with news of their imminent foreclosure?”

Contemporary stories are filled with youthful characters who struggle with their identity and their place in the world. Almost inevitably, they discover that they are special, and that believing in their specialness is the way to achieve their dreams (even if their “dreams” might be better characterized as whims or wishful thinking). Sometimes they even save the world along the way. Any deviation from this pattern sticks out like a sore thumb. 

Are such tales are a good influence or a bad one? On the one hand, they are silly. They feed right into the ridiculous parenting culture that Mollie Hemingway describes here. Worse, they nurture the human tendency toward narcissism by teaching children to focus on themselves and their right to the limelight. Yet on the other hand, tales of triumphant underdogs and third sons come from a long and enduring tradition. It could even be said that Christian writers like Lewis and Tolkien were influential in creating a desire for stories about ordinary characters who find themselves in epic plots. Indeed, the idea that even the lowliest individual is valuable, special, and beloved by God comes straight from Christianity, and is probably an example of lingering (even if distorted) Christian influence on our culture.

The Game of Kings (review)

by Dorothy Dunnett, 1961 

Lymond Chronicles, #1

Scotland, technically under the rule of a pre-school-aged Queen Mary, is ravaged by constant warfare. The regent of England hopes to carry off the Scottish Queen and eventually marry her to England’s own boy king, Edward VI. Nobles on both sides shift allegiance with the tide of battle (many Scotsman are even forced to request permission from their own side to offer insincere fealty to the English, and must then juggle their duel-status in hopes of preserving some shreds of their estates). Throughout these tides of warfare, an outlawed, dashing figure runs amok. His name is Culter of Lymond. Believed to be a traitor to Scotland, he is pursued with hatred by both sides, and appears to serve only himself while making fools of everyone else. He is an anti-hero with a vocabulary to rival any character in literature, and a gift of oratory that might silence Lord Peter Wimsey himself. In fact, he is in some ways what Lord Peter might have been, had his lordship been born in the age of the sword instead of that of the machine gun.

Mary eventually wed the 
prince of France,
not the king of England.

Word-lovers will revel in the language of this tale. It is definitely a swashbuckler: constant adventure, topsy-turvy shifts of fate, disguises, repartee, and intrigue, all staged among a wide cast of vivid individuals. I myself appreciate the author’s deft handling of her characters. Many of them could easily have been stereotypical, single-dimensional, and annoying; and yet they all manage to come across as eminently human and almost universally sympathetic. This is fortunate, since otherwise, the constant adventure might have been too much for me. As Edith Nesbit’s Oswald Bastable would say, this book is a ripping good yarn. 

Linking-up to What We're Reading Wednesday.

Rags-to-Riches, Political Correctness, and Andrew Carnegie’s Autobiography

I am currently reading THIS free edition of Andrew Carnegie’s autobiography. It offers a thought-provoking window into a particular time and place.* Carnegie was the son of poor but respectable parents (his beloved father was a weaver who, in his son’s words, “failed to anticipate” and adapt to new methods of mechanization, and therefore was slowly driven out of business). In hopes of raising their fortunes, the family emigrated from Scotland to Pittsburgh, and thirteen-year-old Carnegie immediately joined the workforce. His third job, that of a telegram delivery boy, put him into contact with the railroad industry that was to make his fortune. Carnegie worked for the Pennsylvania railroad for some time before becoming a rail manufacturer and businessman on his own. His rise to wealth is of course legendary, as is his delight in “giving back” by funding libraries and cultural institutions across the nation and abroad. I have to laugh at the American insularity that resulted in complaints about his generosity to "foreign places" like his native Scotland.

The events of Carnegie's life are illustrative of the business changes that were then remolding the face of America. The book is not overly self-congratulatory (so far-- I'm not finished yet), and freely acknowledges various mistakes that Carnegie made in his career as well as his debt to many partners and employees along the way. Yet it is the sort that P.G. Wodehouse sometimes makes fun of (see “The Man, the Maid, and the Miasma” in The Man Upstairs and Other Stories, available for free from project Gutenberg). Carnegie’s story is part of the narrative that was so popular in the late Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries—the idea that any truly bright, truly deserving boy, from any class, can (and perhaps will) become a millionaire. He need only guard and develop his moral character, cultivate knowledge by studying in his free time, and always go above and beyond in his job. Eventually, his employers will notice and promote him. Thus his chance will come.

When a Historian's Opinions Don't Come With Citations

Reviewed: Creators: From Chaucer and Dürer to Picasso and Disney by Paul Johnson, 2007

Paul Johnson profiles a diverse range of individuals by assessing their creative work and, in some cases, providing “the dirt” on their personal lives. He certainly piqued my interest and left me with a desire to read Chaucer, but I was also frustrated by the difficulty of interpreting how much of his material was opinion and how much fact. I am all for historians allowing themselves to possess and display lively opinions. However, I also appreciate knowing their evidence and their reasoning. Because he speaks so authoritatively, Johnson’s work becomes less convincing as soon as one realizes that some of his unequivocal statements are debatable. For instance, he discusses the tragedy of Jane Austen’s death from Addison’s disease, and shares his frustration over the fact that, had she lived today, she could easily have been cured. However, according to Wikipedia, Austen’s diagnosis with Addison’s disease is only one tentative modern theory among several. Johnson also delivers announcements such as his claim the elderly Louis Comfort Tiffany was sexually active until the end. Yet I cannot help wondering whether Johnson has a witness to this, or merely theorizes it from the presence in Tiffany’s house of his mistress. In addition, Johnson tends to credit his “creators” with all subsequent similarities to their work, but I must counterclaim that, for example, Americans would still have delivered “one-liners” had Mark Twain never written.

As I read the book, I found myself increasingly inclined to discount or accept Johnson’s interpretations somewhat at random, based solely on my own preconceptions, which is not exactly a desirable way to learn history. I am ready enough to swallow his account of Pablo Picasso’s despicable and loathsome personal life because I myself do not care for the man’s art, but I question whether the portrait of Victor Hugo as an idiotic, egotistical hypocrite and turncoat is entirely fair, because I do admire Les Miserables (and surely the man that Johnson describes could not have written such an exploration of law versus mercy?).

However, I was fascinated by the author's interpretation of Picasso's role in art history. Johnson sees Picasso as transforming art from a representation of nature into something purely introspective, based entirely on fashion and therefore on continual change (he says that because Picasso is so easy to copy, even the artist himself did not always know which works were his own, and that the value of his pieces depends entirely on proper authentication: they have no intrinsic beauty or value). The idea that art, like couture, is now based on fashion is illuminating and provides a way to understand the modern art movement. The flow of fashion can be mystifying ("Why are intelligent girls wearing tights as pants?"), and so can the flow of modern art ("Why is that particular canvas/string cheese/bottle on a pedestal considered art by intelligent people?"). 

Creators is interesting. Johnson makes it so. Some would argue that my desire for further research proves the book to be a success. However, for me, at least, he did not make it entirely satisfying. He reminds me of various people I have known who were good storytellers. Their accounts of personal experiences were always fascinating and entertaining, but the details tended to change with each telling. They were not the sort of people who would lie, but they were also not the sort of people who always restricted themselves to facts of which they were fully certain.

Is this fair? Or am I maligning Johnson?


Read more reviews at the Housewifespice linkup!

Could You Write a Book Review Without the Letter “Z?”

A...B...C...D...E...F...G...

No doubt you could. Probably you could write quite a good review while avoiding any other particular letter of the alphabet, or even, if you were attentive, several letters. Yet what would be the effect on your composition? You might focus on each word in a new way, noticing and enjoying its sounds, and vocabularizing creatively, but the effort of constantly redirecting around forbidden words would surely also sap your will to write. Especially if the penalty for “slipping” was prohibitively severe.

In Ella Minnow Pea, a progressively lipogrammatic epistolary fable (or, in paperback, Ella Minnow Pea: A Novel without Letters), Mark Dunn’s 2001 story, the nature of language and censorship are explored. This YA, epistolary novel is set in the fictional island nation of Nollop. The inhabitants of said island eschew technology and revel in language. They revere Nevin Nollop, creator of the pangram, “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog” and have in fact erected a statue to that celebrity with a tile for each letter of his famous sentence. When, one day, a letter tile falls down, the council of Nollop reaches a strange decision. They announce that Nollop is speaking from beyond the grave, and that he wants the islanders to ban the letter that has fallen. Anyone caught writing the letter or speaking a word in which it is found will be subject to severe penalties. Of course, the rest of the tiles do not stay put, and the council’s decrees become more and more paralyzing to the culture and daily life on their island.  

Kirsten Dunst, Gender, and Too Many Victorian Novels on My Kindle

***

Apparently I am stingy, because I feel that intangible ebooks should be cheaper than tangible, second-hand paperbacks. This means that much of my Kindle reading involves free or cheap files filled with long-forgotten fiction of the Nineteenth and early Twentieth Centuries. Most of it was forgotten for a reason.

Oh, my gosh. So… much… melodrama. The “Greatest Mystery Collection, Volume 2” contain gems like this: Imagine a mystery novel in which it turns out that the victim, a philanthropic and lovely older woman, actually stabbed herself in the heart. This was because she saw her adult son burst into her house (he didn’t know that she was his mother—all of her previous babies had died under what she felt was a curse, so she gave him to another woman to adopt in order to save his life, and herself took that other woman’s dead infant in exchange so that the other woman’s husband would think the babe was his). She is convinced, from the wild eyes of her unfortunately somewhat disreputable but handsome son, that he intends to rob her of the large sum of money which is concealed in her cupboard. In order to save him from committing such a vile deed and thereby descending along the path of wickedness, she stabs herself. Motherlove! When all is revealed and he is finally acquitted of having murdered her (apparently she forgot to think about the legal issues surrounding her noble deed), he honors her forever and goes every year to weep upon her grave. The text even tells us that she is the only woman whose memory is more dear to him than his love for his lovely young wife, and the wife is apparently totally OK with this. I could go on, but this gives you an idea of the style of Agatha Webb by Anna Katherine Green.

Even in the less sentimental, more humorous stories of the early Twentieth Century, such as Seven Keys To Baldpate by Earl Derr Biggers, one finds beautiful blond girls who do things like tell random young men (I paraphrase), “You must trust me, and steal the money for me with no explanation. I will sit about helplessly and berate you as a traitor every time you fail. In the end, you can propose to me. I will point out that we just met, and you will say that doesn’t matter. I will finally surrender and go limp in your arms. The end.” I must mention that in his last and final proposal, the young man’s endearing argument against the girl’s hesitation over the fact that he doesn’t even know her last name is to tell her, “That’s women’s logic.” I rather like old-fashioned values, but this is too much for me.

Such books appear at first glance to be the antithesis of modern feelings about gender roles, romance, and correct behavior. It is easy to read this stuff and be glad that modernism brought us out of the age of swooning and sentimentality. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that we are not as different from the Victorians and their Edwardian children as we think we are.  

Yes, There Is a Right Way to Portray Fairies (and Why It Matters)

By “fairies,” I refer to the creatures who inhabit the unsettling tales of old legend, not those winged lawn ornaments of Victorian and modern art. I really mean “the fey folk,” “the people under the hill,” “the fair ones.” We need them, and I shall explain why.

The fey folk are dangerous. Disobey their instructions not to look over your shoulder, and your head might get stuck that way. Annoy them, and your cows may never give milk again. Go to one of their parties, and you might just dance until the flesh falls off your bones. They are not like humans: they do not feel love or pity. They are unearthly and amoral.

Yet they are also fascinating. Their powers are mysterious, their race appears immortal, and often they are more beautiful than any sight yet seen by human eyes.

The only reliable thing about the fey folk is that they are unpredictable. Sometimes they plague a farm with tricks and mischief, sometimes they exchange a human child for one of their own, sometimes they steal a man away to be husband to a fey, sometimes they give a woman rich rewards for having helped them. Cautious people avoid them. Sane people are always terribly polite to them. Unfortunate people are driven mad by them.   

The folk play an important role in the stories that shape our imaginations. It is important to remember the lessons of the fey:

1. Always treat strangers with courtesy and caution, because you do not know who (or what) they might be.
2. There are mysteries in the world that make life deeper, more frightening, more beautiful, and more exciting than it would otherwise be.
3. There are realms into which humans ought not to delve, and desires which humans ought not to satisfy, lest we destroy ourselves.

The last point is something very much needed today. We live in a world where the concept of Eve’s apple and Pandora’s box is hard to truly understand, because it is fashionable now to think that any taboo can be thrown off and any barrier broken. We are accustomed to choice and freedom and scientific discovery. We are bold enough to think that we will be able to understand everything about the human brain, or outer space, or love, or engineering humans in petri dishes. We truly believe that everything in the world is ours for our taking (and we probably even believe that we can custom-order it while we take it).

The Distant Hours

by Kate Morton, 2010

After reading the first few chapters, I found myself hoping that I would love this novel. The leading protagonist is a bookish young Englishwoman who tends to get lost while driving (like me) and who comments that it is so much easier to write well than to speak well (I can identify). During the story, she finds herself trying to unravel the past in order to understand her own mother’s youth. This past history is interwoven with the lives of the mysterious, spinster daughters of a famous author who inspired the protagonist’s love of reading. Did I mention that the events in question are centered around an eerie, ancient, English castle where the heroine’s mother was evacuated from London during World War II? In addition, the prose of the book itself is written in a leisurely, promising style. The text alternates between our bookish Englishwoman’s research efforts and a series of events from the past, as told from the perspectives of the different spinster sisters. In the end, we also find out about the young soldier who went missing during the War and how he came to do so.

Review: Marisa Meyer's Cinder

New York: Feiwel and Friends, 2012

Young Adult

In futuristic Asia, the situation is bleak. A dreadful plague without a cure ravages the population, and the evil and powerful Lunar queen threatens the freedom of the countries on earth. Meanwhile, the royal prince is preparing for the annual ball and desperately hoping to uncover the true heir to the Lunar throne. This is one of those books that isn’t actually very good, yet somehow contains an intangible spark that makes a reader care about the protagonist.  The story’s weaknesses are all upfront: It is a young adult fantasy romance (not a promising genre). There are logical gaps that require suspension of disbelief. Its futuristic setting shows very little worldbuilding. In fact, even though a royal prince and international intrigue are involved, they are portrayed as they might be imagined by a historically ignorant ninth-grader.    

Yet something about the heroine—a orphaned, teenage cyborg who supports her unkind stepmother and her stepsisters by working as a mechanic in New Beijing—kept me turning pages. She is interesting. She makes me want to see her survive and succeed.

As a retelling of Cinderella, the tale is creative and imaginative. I enjoyed seeing how the source material was used and reinvented. After all, how often do you see Cinderella-as-cyborg? Cinder does end up going to the ball, of course, but her story is only begun in this novel. If I want to find out whether or not she marries the prince (and, more important to this retelling, whether the evil Lunar queen is defeated) I will have to read the other three books in the series. 

Read other reviews at What We're Reading Wednesday!

Five Novels in the Form of Documents

I’ve always been fascinated by the literary technique of telling a story through fictional letters, diaries, and other documents. In fact, when I was in college, I created a box of “historical artifacts” (a diary, carte-de-visite photographs, and letters), supposedly from the Civil War, as a Christmas present for one of my little sisters. Together they told the fictional story of a girl named Sylvia. Composing her diary in a period style was quite fun, and I copied (half of it-- ran out of time) with a nib pen. To make the photographs, I found images of period carte-de-visites online and printed them out in appropriate sizes. I then yellowed my prints with tea and glued them to thin cardstock. They were all reasonably authentic looking!

I like novels told in this format as well. Here are five very good ones.

Code Name Verity by Elizabeth Wein (2012)

(Young Adult Historical Fiction)

This is not a fluffy or overly happy book (torture by the Gestapo is involved), yet it is such a good one. The format is unusual: it is the written confession of a young, female British agent who has been captured in France by the Nazis during World War II. She writes about England, about her friend Maddie, and about why she was sent to France. There is a resiliency to the spirit of this tale that is reminiscent of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. The humanity of the various characters is conveyed with more nuance than is typical in YA fiction. Wartime is not nice, and the characters deal with difficult moral issues that would provide excellent discussion in a book club or classroom. It is difficult to say much more without providing spoilers, so I’ll just close by saying that I am grateful I found this book (due to THIS review). 

Five Excellent Blogs (That Are Better Than Mine)

“….and to all this [the accomplished woman] must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.” Mr. Darcy in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice

In case you feel the need for some mental improvement, I would like to recommend five blogs. They are a diverse set, but all are worth your investigation.

Like Mother, Like Daughter is run by a woman and her grown daughters. It is a great place to find sensible, encouraging advice on mothering and educating a large family of children. I’ve spent quite a few hours perusing the archives. A great article to start with is:

“Standards and solidarity: Ten ways to give your child the gift of purity.”

Catholic All Year is written in a warm, humorous style and is where you can hear how one mom handles everything from whiny babies to teaching Latin (also, why she loves Zombies and doesn’t like Flannery O’Conner). I loved these two posts and plan to put them into operation with my own son:  

“Always Mean What You Say”

“Cryin’ Babies Go to Bed”