beautiful monsters

Books and movies and stuff...

You Don’t Know Me by David Klass

I thought this was a really interesting book – even startling. The voice is so attention grabbing, right from the first paragraph. That said, I got a bit sick of the voice. The sardonic tone started to grate, and after a few chapters I thought, if he says “you don’t know me” or “whatever that means” one more time, I am going to have to throw the book across the room (only it was a library book, so I couldn’t).

I didn’t quite believe in the female characters, especially Glory Hallelujah. And I didn’t really believe the ending either, it was a bit over the top, especially the teacher coming to the hospital with flowers.

The bullfrog tuba was excellent, absolutely the highlight of the book.

Silent to the Bone by E L Kongisburg

I really liked this book, I found it utterly believable. Connor was perhaps a little too insightful and sympathetic for a boy of his age, but I didn’t care. It was well written, and I was interested in the themes of abuse and also waiting for the baby to wake, because they are both situations I have lived through. There is a real sense of satisfaction as the pieces of the mystery start to fall into place and make sense. It’s a chilling story though. Perhaps it would have been even more chilling if the nanny hadn’t been quite so one-dimensional. The story raises some interesting ideas about silence and truth.

A Gathering Light by Jennifer Donnelly

I loved this book! I think the books I love most have a combination of interesting and believable characters, playful use of language, and themes I can identify with. In this case the themes were writing, childbirth, and feminist analysis of writing and American history. The characters are fantastic, even those with bit parts are well rounded and interesting.

I thought that truth and fiction were woven together beautifully. I was disappointed to find out that the teacher/poet Emily didn’t really seem to exist, but I enjoyed finding the place names in an atlas and learning more about the time. Jennifer must have done a huge amount of research for this novel, and I appreciated the integrity of the writing. I think this novel could be for adults, as well as young adults.

The language was beautiful and poetic; “They leave things behind sometimes, the guests. A bottle of scent. A crumpled handkerchief. A pearl button that fell off a dress and rolled under a bed. And sometimes they leave other sorts of things. Things you can't see. A sigh trapped in a corner. Memories tangled in the curtains. A sob fluttering against a windowpane like a bird that flew in and can't get back out. I can feel these things. They dart and crouch and whisper.” It was appropriate, given the narrators love of writing, for her to muse like this. And Mattie’s dictionary game meant that plenty of interesting words could be used, without making the character sound unrealistic.

I found parts of this novel unbearable, when I thought Mattie was going to marry Royal – I wanted to shake her and yell, what are you thinking? But such pressures are hard enough to ignore in our own times, let alone in Mattie’s world.

The story is set not so far from where I was born, and the descriptions, from the still lake to the maple sugar… it made me want to return there.

Right Where it Hurts by David Hill

I think it’s great that people are starting to write novels about self harm, especially people other than Steven Bloody Levenkron. (Psychotherapists should rarely be allowed to write non-fiction, let alone YA fiction. I would write a review of “The Best Little Girl in the World,” but I can’t bear to read it again. Poor messed up girl, no one understands her, until she meets the wonderful psychotherapist who knows her better than she knows her self, and he saves her. Puh-leeze! Talk about an ego trip. And here endeth the rant).

I can’t argue with the actual writing in Right Where it Hurts, because it’s well done… but it’s not as imaginative, original, clever or beautiful any of the novels I enjoy more.

The trouble with Right Where it Hurts is that it’s a bit too much of an issue story. I felt as though David had decided to write a book about self-harm, and then come up with a story to go with it.

The first time I read it I thought, “he doesn’t know anything, this is totally unrealistic.” The second time I read it, I thought, maybe it’s not unbelievable, it’s just hopeful. If a real life Mallory had a doctor like Prianthi, she would be very very lucky. If she had friends like Slade and his mum, Conor and Angie, it would be nothing short of a miracle. As someone who talks openly about self-harm, and who has spoken to dozens of people who do it, I can say that the experience of finding understanding and supportive people, even among mental health professional, let alone high school students, is frighteningly rare.

A book like this is good because there are so many thousands of people in Aotearoa, particularly women, who self harm, and if they come across books about it they will know they are not alone. Hopefully it will also help friends, family and medical professionals think about constructive ways of helping.

Cut by Patricia McCormick

I have issues with the shininess of cover designs for children and young adults this year. Harper Collins (and the Flamingo imprint) seem to be the worst offenders. I have particular issues with the cover of this book, because when held at a certain angle, the shiny bits reveal themselves as scalpel blades, razors, and other sharp objects. Recently, while trying to deal with sugar withdrawal, I learnt that even a picture of a piece of cake stimulates chemical reactions in the brain that make resisting the temptation extremely difficult. There are plenty of studies that show that sugar is addictive. Well, so is cutting. There are studies that back this up, and those who argue with this claim have never actually done it themselves, so how would they know what it’s like to try and stop? The sight of an array of blades, even shiny illusions on a cover, stirs up the bloodlust inside me. “Yeah,” I think, “that saw blade would feel good.”

I’m not sure what I’m trying to say… I’m all for talking openly about cutting, because breaking the silence is going to dismantle stereotypes. In Right Where It Hurts the story is told from the point of view of a boyfriend, so there’s a bit of distance from the actual cutting. That was good. It meant that I could have some perspective, see it as other people saw it. Cut actually tries to get inside the head of someone who self-harms. “Then I placed the blade next to the skin on my palm… a perfect, straight line of blood bloomed from the edge of the blade. The line grew into a long, fat bubble, a lush crimson bubble that got bigger and bigger.” That kind of detail, it’s telling a recovering drug addict how you get your highs. I’m not against that kind of detail… but I want a warning, because it could trigger me, and I want it followed by advice. What can I do if reading this makes me want to cut? Who can help? What techniques might help instead?

Other than that, I think I liked the book. The voice was interesting, addressing it to “you,” the counsellor. A bit like You Don’t Know Me. But the voice made me feel a bit distant – from the character but not from the action. I was watching her but not quite there with her.

And what’s with the last line? “Then, tomorrow, I’m going down to your office first thing in the morning. And tell you everything.” Does that even make sense?

Jackaroo by Cynthia Voigt

Cynthia Voigt is a fantastic writer, and I loved this book when I was a teenager. I can’t believe it’s not on our booklist! I read it over and over when I was younger. I adored Gwyn, I wanted to be her, brave and mysterious and able to pass as a man. I loved the magic of the tale, and the setting, the time and place. Lords and outlaws, gold coins and daggers, funeral pyres and spring fairs. Journeys through the snow, little huts in the woods, hot stew bubbling away…

Reading it again, I love it as just as much. I only meant to flick through it to find out something, but I ended up engrossed. I love all the characters… they remind me a bit of the cast of Pride and Prejudice. The fussy mother and sensibly father, the spoilt younger child, one kind, sweet and beautiful daughter, and one sharp-witted and stubborn but sensible daughter… the stand-offish and proud gentleman who turns out to have a kind heart and a wise head, and the wonderful romance that seems impossible until right at the end.

I love the idea that there is some truth in any story. Jackaroo rides, even in our own world.

The Other Side of Silence by Margaret Mahy

I really like Margaret’s “consensus reality” books, where nothing technically impossible happens. And I love the philosophical ideas that are explored in her stories, especially about the nature of truth and reality, and the power of Story. And I love that in lots of her books, one of the main characters is a writer!

I wasn’t sure about the way that it jumped into third person at the end – I would have liked it to be tied up in first person, leaving us guessing a little bit rather than rounding it off so nicely.

Otherwise, it was a fantastic story; thrilling, touching, and utterly believable.

Fire and Hemlock by Diana Wynne Jones

I’m going to nitpick, because that’s just what I do, ok?

This book is incredibly clever… perhaps too clever. I’m not sure she quite pulls it off. She seems to be trying to tie too many threads together at the end; some of them are left hanging loose, new ones are suddenly added, and others don’t quite match up. To give a very small example of a loose end that bothered me, what does Seb mean when he says “you worked the nowhere vases”? I don’t think the vases are ever properly explained.

I didn’t see quite how the quotes from the ballads fitted in with some of the chapters – and I don’t know why she chose to change some details. For example, if the number of years between funerals had been seven instead of nine I might have guessed the connection and that would have made the story more interesting.

Also, I wanted the significance of the title and the picture to be brought into the story. I wasn’t sure if the symbolism was intentional, I expect it was, but I wanted to know more. In the end I did my own research; in the ballad, Tam Lin deflowered the girl, “At her he askd nae leave.” When she gets home, an old knight notices that she’s pregnant, and her brother advises her to fetch a herb that will end her pregnancy. The herb is not described in the ballad, but it could well have been hemlock, since it has been used for herbal abortions.

Enough nit-picking! It’s actually a really good book. It’s just I’m a fussy reader. If the plot is going to be so complicated then I want it to be tight, and Fire and Hemlock just wasn’t tight enough.

Dare, Truth or Promise by Paula Boock

Six years after it was published this is still my favourite book. It’s the book I curl up with when I’m lonely or scared; the book I escape to when everything is going wrong. It’s been halfway around the world with me, and comforted me during foreign nights. Really, it’s a wonder the pages are still holding together!

So what is it that I love so much? Well, it’s the language, the way each sentence seems to perfectly balanced, each with a smooth rhythm and cadence… And it’s the characters, all their eccentricities and charms, their realness; even Judas the dog seems to leap off the page. But most of all, I love the story.

I was in High School when Dare, Truth or Promise came out. My mother read an interview with Paula somewhere, and told me about it, and I rushed out to buy a copy. It was before it won the award, so it hadn’t quite reached notoriety. I bought a copy for our school library just to be sure they wouldn’t overlook it! Back then, I didn’t know any Real Live Gay People. I had caught a few glimpses of queer people in books and on television, but none of them looked like me. The women were all much older, they wore leather and short hair, bared their breasts in parades, lived in Auckland or San Francisco. I didn’t want to be like them.

What I love most about Dare, Truth or Promise is the way that the relationship is dealt with so gently. It just happens. And Willa and Louie are just ordinary (spunky and wonderful) young woman. When I first read it, I thought “hey, maybe what I feel isn’t so weird after all.” (And I feel deeply in crush with both of them – I couldn’t decide who I wanted to be, and who I wanted to be with.)

When I was in Costa Rica, my best friend wasn’t very comfortable with queer stuff – she said she was ok with gays as long as they kept away from her. Before I came out I gave her Dare, Truth or Promise to read, and afterwards she said to me, “wow, I never thought about it like that… I mean, I’ve never liked a girl, but maybe I might, one day it could just happen… like it happened to Louie…”

That’s why I love this book. Because it challenges so many stereotypes – not by wrestling with them or trying to shout above them, but by quietly painting an alternative so believable in can’t be ignored.

weetzie bat by Francesca Lia Block

“An ingeniously lyrical narrative,” with a “desperately needed message” exploring “personal identity and the strength of love.” Apparently. But I didn’t get that at all – if it wasn’t firmly attached to the back cover I would have assumed it was talking about some other book. I didn’t care about any of the characters, I didn’t feel any emotions while reading this book; I didn’t even feel slight interest. It was all so superficial and glossy. And none of the “ingenious lyricism” did anything for me. “His eyes like charcoal stars…” ??!! Honestly! They’re just weird and wacky metaphors that mean nothing. The whole book is hollow. Easy to read though. I can sort of see why it’s popular, but I wouldn’t want to write something like that. Or read any of the other four.

Out Walked Mel by Paula Boock

I love the way Paula manages to address spirituality – Māori and Pākehā – with subtlety and dignity. In fact, she manages to address most things with subtlety and dignity!

Out Walked Mel is great, sort of a complex “chapter book” for teenagers. She manages to cram so much into only a few pages – family dynamics, expulsion from school, intense friendship, sexuality, death… and somehow she manages to pull it off.

I love Mel, I love her absolute fallibility, especially the way she blows all her money on boots and then hates herself for it.

The only (very minor) quibble I have is that I stumbled over some of the back-story; I like it to be differentiated from the text more clearly – italics or something.

The War of Jenkin’s Ear by Michael Morpurgo

Though this is another boys school story, I enjoyed it much more than The Chocolate War. I think it’s partly because there were a few women characters, and the adults, the teachers, were more human that those in The Chocolate War.

This was a really daring story to attempt. I think Morpurgo really wants to believe in Christopher, but I didn’t really accept him. As an earnest child, yes, but not as a Christ. But I thought the story worked whether you believed Christopher was Jesus or not. And the characters were really interesting.

Exodus by Julie Bertagna

OMG – Adjective Overload! There thirty or forty adjectives on some pages – seriously, I counted! The characters don’t just get hungry, the feel a gnawing hunger and a desperate thirst. The sea is sparkling, the drowned city is dark, and gloomy. The world isn’t just hurled into shadow, it’s hurled into sunless shadow. No, really? The shadow is sunless?

Also, the entire book is written in the present tense, and this didn’t really work for me. The pace was slowed too much by description and contemplation, I kept reading it in the past tense and then stumbling when I was thrown back into the present.

Don’t get me wrong, I really liked this book, and I liked most of the ideas it raised… But I have quite a few quibbles as well. Mostly consistency. If a book is set in a completely invented fantasy world, fine, the author can do pretty much what they want. But if it is set in a future based on the skeleton of our own world, then I want it to be consistent.

Wing seems to be an imaginary island, but all the other places Mara names are real – they’re islands off Scotland. Most of them are clustered in and around the Shetlands. The city of New Mungo is built over the ruins of Glasgow – which is at about 68m above sea level today. In Exodus there are still small areas of Glasgow above sea level, so we can assume that the sea has risen about 60 to 80m. That means it’s probable that some of the Shetland Islands are still poking up above the water. But supposing that people did travel in a boat south (and we know that in Exodus they travelled south not North) to New Mungo, they would have had to navigate their way through narrow channels of water between vast areas of land. They would have had to get past the highlands, which would still be rising more than a thousand meters above sea level.

The other issues I have are more philosophical than technical. Exodus just seems too black and white. I can’t believe that after Candleriggs was cast out of New Mungo resistance died out completely. That makes the people in New Mungo seem non-human. And isn’t that part of the point of the book, that we’re all human and we shouldn’t imagine others as less than human? Even in Nazi Germany, when dissenters had to flee or were killed, networks of resistance were always alive. I can’t believe that only a generation after the Meta no one asks questions. That’s inhuman.

And it’s possible that Greenland could “pop up like a cork,” but I don’t think it would happen that quickly. The massive glaciers that once covered the Swedish archipelago are long gone, but the land is only rising a few millimetres each year. It’s popping up like a cork, but only in a massive geological timeframe.

Also, I can’t believe that if land still existed no one in the New World would take any notice. Surely, even if they’re evil and self-centred, they’d pounce on it to mine or farm, or use as prison camps or something!

And what was with the statues of Thenew? I don’t think there are actually statues of her all over Glasgow, are there? I wanted more clarity about the symbolism. If Candleriggs new that the name of Mungo’s mother was Thenew, why didn’t she know that the fish with the ring, the tree, the bird and the bell were the seal of Glasgow? Did she make up the Stonetelling to keep people hoping, or what? The whole face in the stone thing seemed a bit far-fetched.

Also there were lots of things in the book that seemed over-the-top and tokenistic. And moralistic. Like the feminist thread. I didn’t quite believe in some of Mara’s revealations. At the end, when she suddenly thinks “oh my god, I’m doing exactly the same thing as Caledon, I’m just as bad as him,” it seemed a bit forced. I didn’t want to be told that she’d changed, I wanted to be shown, somehow.

Blah blah blah… I’m nitpicking. I think it could do with a bit of editing. But I liked it, I really did.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon

I thought this book was quite brilliant - it really captured the world of a person with Asperger’s. It reminded me a little of Love That Dog because it manages to capture powerful emotions in a very subtle and understated way. It seems stripped bare of emotions, but in a way it’s stripped back to the very base of emotions. Christopher crumples to the ground, groans, expressing emotions in a physical, almost animal way, that most of us are incapable of.

I’m not really convinced that this is a YA novel though, I think that a lot of teenagers would find it boring. (Mark Haddon actually wrote it for adults, it was his agent who suggested the broader marketing). However, I think that young adults should read it. The Curious Incident would be a great read for anyone who has a sibling, friend, neighbour or classmate with Asperger’s.

I actually guessed the solutions to the mysteries right near the beginning, so I didn’t have the suspense to propel me through the book. Still, it’s a harrowing story and very effectively told. As Mark Haddon himself says: “Here is a narrator who seems to be hugely ill-equipped for writing a book — he can't understand metaphor, he can't understand other people's emotions, he misses the bigger picture — and yet it makes him incredibly well suited to narrating a book. He never explains too much. He never tries to persuade the reader to feel about things this way or that way; he just kind of paints this picture and says, "Make of it what you will." Which is a kind of writing that many writers are searching for all the time.”

lady: my life as a bitch by Melvin Burgess

Yikes. I can’t say I liked this book exactly, but it sure was original. I mean, sure, there are plenty of books where the characters are animals, but they’re personified animals. They don’t do wild animal things – hunt, kill, shit, mate… What a weird book. Weird because I found myself suspending disbelief even though it was so bizarre. But I found it all deeply disturbing. Most of all the ending, when she realises she “never was a human in the first place.” What is the writer saying? That there are girls who, even though they walk on two feet, only really care about hunting and fucking?

I’ve said it before, and I’ll continue to say it… I like books that are driven by prose, and by character, rather than bizarre plot. Neither Sandra, nor Lady ever became a strong character for me, and the prose wasn’t exactly breathtaking. But, I’ll admit, I read practically the whole book in one sitting.

The Tricksters by Margaret Mahy

How wonderful, to curl up with a Margaret Mahy book I haven’t read before. Her stories always leave me breathless with awe and adulation. They’re magic. How does she do it, time after time?

I don’t think The Tricksters is quite as good as some of her other books, but I still enjoyed it immensely. The characters are robust and endearing, the story is exciting, and the language is deliciously poetic.

I love the way, in Margaret’s books, the fantasy scenarios invade the ordinary everyday world. Her ghosts and magicians and witches are all very down to earth. At first I thought that the characters of the Tricksters weren’t as strong as some of her other characters, but then I realised that they aren’t supposed to be. Each of them is only one piece of a personality.

I thought perhaps the last couple of chapters could have been pared back a bit. It seemed to go on a bit long after the climax, tying up too many loose ends.

The story raises an interesting question; if someone with Dissociative Identity Disorder dies, how many ghosts (spirits, souls) do they leave behind?

Alex by Tessa Duder

I remember the first time I met Alex. I was ten years old, and my cousins were visiting from London. My great Aunt, who is a publisher, often gave us books to see what we thought of them. Mostly those she’d published herself, but sometimes New Zealand authors from other publishers. Becky, the eldest, was staring glumly at her latest present. The Alex Quartet had just been published, and Chris wanted to know what Becky thought of it. “It looks so boring,” groaned Becky. “It’s all about swimming. How dull.” I didn’t think it looked boring. I liked the photo on the cover, the young woman looked strong, interesting. “You can have it if you want,” said Becky graciously. “Just tell me what it’s like so I can tell grandma.” By the time I saw Becky again, the cover of Alex was hanging by a thread, and the pages were soft with turning.

I think I loved Alex most because she was a survivor. I could relate to her life because I also swam, acted, played music and did well at school. But I related most strongly to the emotions she was experiencing - especially the way she felt distanced from her peers, an outsider, a bit of a freak. Alex was a fighter, and she pulled through, she succeeded in the pool, in her exams, on the stage… she was a strong role model, but I lacked her determination. I tried to do everything but fell to pieces and ended up crying over the high ambitions that had slipped from my grasp. But I’m glad I had her companionship, because at least she helped me to feel proud of being different.

I think the way the book is written is very clever. The way that the final race is present through the book is also very effective. I used to swim competitively (I was always second to a girl named Kathryn) and I know how long a minute can seem, how far a second can stretch, how many thoughts and memories can flow through a mind in an instant. I especially the way that the book opens in the present tense, on the day of the big race. Then it slips back to Alex’s childhood, and the rest of the book is told in the past tense, until halfway through the last chapter. We catch up to the day of the race, and Alex slips back into the present tense. It’s as though, sitting in her room preparing for the race, Alex has relived the whole year and shared it with us.

The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier

Though as a kid I used to read the occasional Willard Price, generally I find it hard to get into boy stories. Especially stories set in boy’s high schools. I liked The Chocolate War, but probably not enough to hang onto for a second reading. I disliked most of the characters, which made it less pleasant to read. I couldn’t relate to them at all, even the “nice” guys.

This novel is well written, with a gritty, sweaty kind of realism and some powerful textural descriptions. There is plenty of drama and suspense, and the tension isn’t quite relieved with the end of the book. (I hardly ever say this about books, but in my opinion this one would actually make a good movie – I nominate Mike Leigh as director).

I think most of my reservations about The Chocolate War are due to the fact that I don’t want to believe the story. I don’t want to believe that people can be so nasty – even though I know that they are. I don’t want to believe that children en masse are capable of so much cruelty, though I know (even from personal experience) that they are.

As a teenager I often read for escapism, and most of the books I loved were beautiful, slightly wistful, often melancholy. The Chocolate War is a stark contrast, a brutal assault rather than a pleasant read.

The Restaurant at the End of the Universe by Douglas Adams

I’m so jealous of anyone who can write funny books. Terry Pratchett, Adrian Plass, and now Douglas Adams. I don’t do funny. Is there a school you can go to and learn to be funny? Perhaps I’m not old and cynical enough yet.

The Magdalene Sisters

I went to see this movie because of a song I love. The Magdalene Laundries is sung by Joni Mitchell on the Chieftains album Tears of Stone. It’s one of my all time favourite CDs, and that song in particular always sticks in my mind.

It’s not a movie you want to go to if you’re depressed. I suppose there’s a faint glimmer of hope at the end, but most of the time it’s brutal. Set in Ireland, it follows the stories of four women sent to work in the Magdalene Laundries. They are treated as slaves, locked up, beaten and emotionally abused. This is their punishment for being loose women, for having children out of marriage, being raped, looking too pretty. To atone for their sins they labour in the steaming laundries, but the hardest stains to remove are those marring their own reputations.

Although it is a powerful story, I didn’t find the film as moving as I thought it might be. I felt as though the audience was distanced from the horror. In the same way that survivors of abuse create distance by dissociating and blocking out, I felt as though the filmmaker was creating distance. We saw a lot of the beatings and the bruises, but less of the surrounding emotions. Perhaps the women had to bury their emotions to survive. Perhaps my response is just due to the nature of the violence – systematic and institutionalised. And I felt as though the emotions I was supposed to be feeling were forced down my throat, rather than emerging of their own accord.

I think that the most interesting stories were left out of the film – those of the nuns, the parents and the community. Why were they letting this cruelty happen? How did an institution that is founded on love become so warped? Instead of exploring the motives and dilemmas of these characters, the director (Mullan) stripped them of their humanity. The parents were cold and uncaring, the nuns were brutal and cruel. It was harder to feel compassion for the young women when their oppressors were so two-dimensional.

The story of the Magdalene laundries needs to be told, but I’m not sure that Mullan was the one to do tell it. I couldn’t help noticing the irony when I realised that he cast himself as the father of one of the girls. He appeared only briefly in the movie, dragging back his daughter who had tried to escape. He calls her a whore, and beats her with his belt in front of the other women, before storming away again. Some moments of the film seemed overly exploitative, almost as though he wanted to include pain for it’s own sake. “What have we done to deserve this?” asked one of the women, and I couldn’t help agreeing with her.

I could be wrong on this point, but I’m pretty sure that I remember that Joni Mitchell had a child taken away from her. This could be the reason she can tell the story of the Magdalene sisters with so much empathy. I still find her song much more powerful than the movie.

The Magdalene Laundries
by Joni Mitchell

I was an unmarried girl
I'd just turned twenty-seven
When they sent me to the sisters
For the way men looked at me.
Branded as a jezebel,
I knew I was not bound for Heaven
I'd be cast in shame
Into the Magdalene laundries.

Most girls come here pregnant
Some by their own fathers.
Bridget got that belly
By her parish priest.
We're trying to get things white as snow,
All of us woe-begotten daughters,
In the steaming stains
Of the Magdalene laundries.

Prostitutes and destitutes
And temptresses like me
Fallen women
Sentenced into dreamless drudgery
Why do they call this heartless place
Our Lady of Charity?
Huh, charity!

These bloodless brides of Jesus,
If they had just once glimpsed their groom,
Then they'd know, and they'd drop the stones
Concealed behind their rosaries.
They wilt the grass they walk upon,
They leech the light out of a room,
They'd like to drive us down the drain
At the Magdalene laundries.

Peg O'Connell died today.
She was a cheeky girl,
A flirt
They just stuffed her in a hole
Surely to God you'd think at least
some bells should ring
One day I'm going to die here too.
And they'll plant me in the dirt
Like some lame bulb
That never blooms come any spring,
Come any spring,
No, not any spring...

Daylight by Elizabeth Knox

For weeks I looked forward to reading Daylight. It sat beside my desk, 356 pages to reward me when I survived all the end of term deadlines. And it started off well. There seemed to be a few interesting characters wandering around in beautiful places, and I’d been assured by Bill Manhire that the vampires in Daylight were as believable as the angel in The Vintner’s Luck.

In the first chapter there were even a few passages that made me smile. When Bad’s girlfriend gave him a motivational book, he “gave the book a decisive little shake. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘This can be my – what do they call it? – my vade mecum.’ (They had visited a library of illuminated manuscripts in Florence and had admired the incunabula.) ‘This can go with me,’ Bad said. Then, ‘But perhaps you shouldn’t.’”

Unfortunately, a few pages later the book started to go downhill and never fully recovered.

It wasn’t that there was anything terribly wrong with it. I mean, Elizabeth Knox is a fine writer, and she hasn’t done anything inexcusable. It’s just… there were so many little things that grated that by the time I reached the last chapter I was sick of the book. I kept reading because there was one particular piece of information I wanted to find out, but unfortunately it was never revolved.

The vampires in Daylight aren’t quite like the ones in Buffy (where I have acquired most of my vampire related knowledge). For a start they don’t seem to be evil, at least not all the time. Also they don’t have fangs, as such. They have spines on the roofs of their mouths, and a nasty habit of biting people’s tongues.

Now if I was a kiwi bloke travelling through France and I suddenly came across these pale skinned characters with glowing white hair lurking around in cave systems biting people’s tongues, I’d freak, to put it mildly. My mind would be racing with questions. Aren’t vampires a myth? What’s with the hair? Aren’t they supposed to go for necks, not tongues? Where the hell is the nearest escape route?!” But none of the humans in Daylight go through this sort of dilemma. They wander around oblivious for several chapters, and then one day they calmly think to themselves “these guys are vampires,” and then rush to join the tongue-biting action.

Oh well, I didn’t really care about any of the characters to start with. It was too much of a struggle keeping up with their stories and I felt too distant from them. There was a lot of indirect speech, and long passages of dense prose. The same narrative style that seemed refined and elegant in The Vintner’s Luck became splattered with gory blood sucking details in Daylight. After a while it got kind of relentless. I’m inclined to agree with Charlotte Grimshaw from the Listener when she says “the problem here, more than anything, is one of empathy. How are we to feel as this threesome gnaws away? Is it sex, or dinner, or a nature scene from National Geographic?”

Other minor details annoyed me throughout the book. At one point a vampire is worried about running out of oxygen, which didn’t sit well with earlier accounts of vampires being shot or falling from great heights then patching themselves together and going on being un-dead. An near the end of the story it is suddenly revealed that one of the central characters is Indian, but this doesn’t seem to make any difference to the story, so I kept wondering why it was suddenly brought up a few pages from the end.

The story touches on some interesting philosophical issues, but none of them are explored in any depth. Unsurprisingly one of the central questions raised is, are vampires evil? Any more so than humans? Occasionally the vampires in Daylight are overcome by violent and bloodthirsty lusts, but we never really find out how they feel, why they kill some people and yet become emotionally attached to others, or why some of the vampires seem to be all evil and others seem to be mostly human. And their lovemaking is thick with cliches and empty abstractions - more tedious than erotic.

One of the highlights of the novel was when one of the vampires realised that the vampire cells were like a virus, gradually replacing the human cells and taking control of her body. She wonders "whether it was possible that a soul could go to God piecemeal... she hoped her own soul was going to God like a slow vapor, like the mist lifting as daylight comes." However nothing interesting comes from the theory, or the vampire.

The most interesting character in the book is Daniel’s mother, and she only appears for a few pages. At an event last year Elizabeth Knox read the passage about Daniel’s childhood home, filled with deliciously disgusting details. “The rats were supposed to run outside and die, driven by their thirst. But the house was sodden and there was always laundry left soaking for days in a soup of fermented soap, so the rats stayed indoors. They plunged in agony through the walls. One managed to run into the circuit behind an outlet, and died there, died and cooked. Daniel and his mother went about for weeks with powdered herbs pressed to their noses. The lights went out, one by one, their Bakelite collars cracked and unable to hold the bulbs anymore. Daniel made his way about in the dark, his hand running across the fibrous, fraying walls of piled newspaper.”

I actually started to care about Daniel’s mother – she came alive for a few pages… unlike the other characters who spent most of the book bleeding, sucking, fucking, or all of the above simultaneously. In retrospect, I should have just appreciated the passage Elizabeth read as a wonderful short story, and not bothered with the novel.

But that’s just my opinion - don’t let me stop you from reading the book. Emma Donoghue says it is “quietly enthralling, unnerving, erotic… a dazzler.” You may well be dazzled. I wasn’t.

CREW 255 Reading Journal; Picture Books

The Red Tree by Sean Tan

A friend showed me this book, and I have been taking refuge in it all week. Shaun has managed to capture the despair and frustration, darkness and confusion, so effectively, both with the text and the illustrations.

When I opened to the first page, with the girl speaking into a megaphone trickling a jumble of letters… I felt as though someone had taken a photo of me. Not my physical body, but my emotional reality. It’s just like that, when you want to shout, you know you need to be heard… but you’re so tired and nothing seems to work. The poor girl looks so utterly dejected, she looks how I feel when I’ve been trying to get the help I know that I need but the doctors have already made up their minds and they won’t listen to me – and in the end I just give up. I get so tired, my words dry up into a pathetic trickle, and I stand there, waiting for whatever will happen.

Although The Red Tree is a picture book, I have found it very useful for communicating to older children, adults and even mental health professionals! I’m not sure how many younger children would appreciate it, but it might be useful for children who have a parent struggling with depression, or for children are dealing with similar emotions themselves. Often childhood depression manifests in different ways to adult depression, but I’m sure younger children would be able to relate to some of the images in the book. And there are children who go struggle with the same symptoms of depression that adults face – sometimes children as young as five.

Even though it is a serious subject it is also humourous – the pictures are fantastical and exaggerated, almost absurd… and yet they manage to capture the exact feeling so beautifully. Each image is completely different but each manages to capture an aspect of depression. All the pictures together express the total experience of depression.

Sean uses very simple sentences and a minimum of text, but, like poetry, every word is carefully chosen, and he manages to capture the essence of the experiences.

The Red Tree is beautifully produced. The font, the size and alignment of letters, every aspect of the design is used effectively and complements the pictures. Visually, the text is integral to the message on each page, and at times the text interacts with the images. There is no white space in the book. The colours and textures used in the negative spaces around words and images are appropriate to the different aspects of depression.

The hopeful image at the end of the story doesn’t really make sense. It doesn’t help or make any of the awful images go away… but it is often like that when I am in the depths of depression, there is a glimmer of hope, not necessarily logical or useful, but it reminds me that even in the darkness there is beauty and hope and life.

There is a red leaf on every page, but sometimes it is hard to find… just as, in times of darkness there is always hope, we just have to keep looking until we find it.

Prosper’s Mountain by Henrietta Branford, illustrated by Chris Baker

This is a beautiful story, about a gardener who was sad because he dreamed of having a house filled with children… then, one day, a boy hatched out of an egg, and is raised by the gardener and his hen. He’s a sweet and cheerful child. “Felix and Dorcas named him Prosper, and there was no trouble until his wings began to grow.”

Although there is no use of metaphors or similes, there are beautiful descriptions in this book. Felix the gardener is “brown from the sun, bent at the knees,” and he drinks mint tea. Specific details such as this add a lot to the story.

The story is quite moralistic, but not annoyingly so. Obviously the theme (lonely old folk magically blessed with a child) is very powerful, as it appears over and over again in different times and cultures. I wonder if that is because it is a story that rings true for children, or for adults? I guess children might like the idea of being special, magical, longed for.

“He flew up until the mountain blazed and dazzled under him. The storm clouds gathered, fat with snow. Even as Prosper watched they boiled and curdled round the mountain peaks.”

It’s a lovely book. The last page is almost hauntingly beautiful.

After the War

Judging from the title, I thought this was going to be a sad story, but actually, it’s not a story about the war at all. It’s about how, afterwards, life goes on. It’s a beautiful illustration of time passing. Over the seasons and years we notice changes, in the tree, in the kitchen, the family, the town and the landscape.

I really like this book, and I think the illustrations were very clever and thoughtful, and unmistakably kiwi. The changes over the years are very subtle. At first the calendar in the kitchen is from the General Store, then it’s from a 4-Square, then a supermarket. The kitchen décor changes, and the tin of Edmonds baking powder is replaced by the Griffins Selection and a bottle of olive oil. Down in the town new buildings appear. The roads are busier. The Coop Dairy Co disappears and in its place is the Import Warehouse. Trees are cut down, and then pine seedlings are planted.

The words seem chosen carefully. The story flows well, and it has a nice circular feeling, beginning and ending with the planting of a tree. At the end of the book, a kowhai is planted, a reminder of the bush that once covered the hill. I am left feeling that the story will continue after the last page.

The Whales Song by Dyan Sheldon and Gary Blythe

This is a beautiful, magical story. I like the realist illustrations, which were obviously created with a great deal of time and dedication. I like illustrations that don’t look as though they were thrown together in a hurry! I like the way this story is somewhere between myth and reality. It’s magical, but it might almost be possible.

Why do dogs sniff bottoms? by Dawn McMillan and Bert Signal

Oh puleeeze. When was the last time you saw a dog with a bottom that didn’t match the rest of it?

The Christmas Caravan by Jennifer Beck and Robyn Belton

This is a very sweet story. I like the distinctive kiwi setting, Christmas in summer. I like the way, even though it’s such a short story, we get a sense of the two main characters. They’re very independent and resourceful. It’s nice to read a story that starts with a competition, but in the end, everyone wins. I like the recycling theme, and the “money can’t by everything” moral, which is present, but not annoying. Lovely illustrations too. Makes me wish we hadn’t given away our caravan!

Hello Red Fox by Eric Carie

This book is a great illustration of complementary colours. For kids who like science, it could even be used as a starting point for discussing how the eye works. Younger kids would enjoy the repetition, they could chant along towards the end. I love the beautiful textures of Carie’s distinctive illustrations.

The Pumpkin Man and the Crafty Creeper by Margaret Mahy

I love this book. Perhaps it appeals because I have spent so many hours ripping out Covolvulus and Old Man’s Beard, Morning Glory and Japanese Honeysuckle. I know how treacherous those crafty creepers can be. I love the idea of a plant that demands an orchestra and poetry. I play music to my plants, and they seem to like it, but they never whine if I don’t have the time. My favourite line is when Lily Rose Willowherb bursts in. “The moment I heard that orchestra I guessed just where you were.” The book is overflowing with delicious lines, and I was chuckling the whole way through. Dial an orchestra! With musicians who sustain themselves with strawberries and champagne! I can really imagine them existing somewhere in the world. Margaret Mahy is my absolute hero!

The Whale Bird by David Elliot

This is a really fun story, I really like the idea of a flying whale. My inventions always go horribly wrong too. It’s got a very satisfying ending too, I like stories that finish “and they did.”

Bright Penny by Geraldine McCaughrean

This is a really sweet story, with a nice twist at the end. The illustrations kind of irritate me, I feel they are too over-the-top-jolly and cartoonish and they don’t seem quite right for the story.

Olivia by Ian Falconer

What a fantastic book! It’s got some really funny little details. I love this bit… “In the morning, after she gets up, and moves the cat, and brushes her teeth, and combs her ears, and moves the cat, Olivia gets dressed. She has to try on Everything.” It’s such a familiar situation, the kid gets up, cleans and brushes, and gets dressed. But that crazy little extra, moving the cat, makes it hilarious.

The text and illustrations work well together, for example the understated text “She got pretty good,” alongside the picture of a huge skyscraper sandcastle. I loved the Jackson Pollock painting in the gallery (I don’t get his stuff either) and I especially love it when Olivia bargains and eventually gets three bedtime stories. Reminds me of my own childood.

I love Olivia, she’s my new hero!

What planet are you from Clarice Bean? by Lauren Child

I thought this was a really fun book, though I found it hard to read the text which went in all directions. There are some fabulous lines in this book. “Sometimes I think gravity is a pity,” and “Kurt says he’s going to be an ecowarrior. He’s got a tent and everything. Dad says, how are you going to pitch a tent up a tree?” (I must point out that this is slightly out of date, these days if you want to be cool you have to cool yourself an ecoterrorist). I like the way the annoying kid actually turns out to be useful in the end. And I have a crush on Kurt – he’s so cute!

The Big Pets by Lane Smith

This book has plenty of the Damien factor (disorientation) and it has some great images, like the scratching forest. I like the way it has a circular feel, returning to the original image “the girl was small, the cat was big.”

Moonbeam on a Cat’s Ear by Marie Louise Gay

I challenge anyone to come up with a cooler title! It’s such a lovely image, “a new moon shining on a cat’s ear.” There are lively rhymes that don’t feel forced, and the lines are delicious to read; “It’s Toby Toby with the bright red hair.” The pictures match the story well.

My Cat Likes to Hide in Boxes by Eve Sutton and Lynley Dodd

I used to live with a two year old, and if you started him off and he had the pictures for prompts he could recite this whole book off by heart. He loved it. And I never got sick of it either, it’s rather yummy. I guess the repetition and rhyme appeal to young children, and make it easier to memorise. The pictures are simple but effective. It’s very satisfying to read.

Give a Dog a Name by Barrie Wade

I loved this book, I thought it was brilliant. Grandad has a new dog, and everyone tries to get the dog to come. They try every name they can think of, Spot, Rover, Bonzo, Rex, Anthony, Kermet, Sparky… but the dog just lies in the basket and doesn’t move. So they tell Grandad there’s something wrong with his dog, “he just lies in his basket.” Of course, Grandad has no problem getting the dog to come, he just calls “Rosie, here Rosie,” and the rest of the family stand there with their mouths open. So simple, but so clever.

On a bit of a tangent, it reminds me of this “riddle.” A man is driving along in a car with his son beside him. Suddenly someone pulls out in front of him, and there’s a terrible accident. The man dies instantly, and the boy is rushed to hospital. The surgeon walks into the operating theatre and says “I can’t operate, this boy is my son.” How can this be? (You’d be amazed the answers people come up with, involving adoption, second marriages, sperm donors, ghosts, genetic engineering…)

Moving By Michael Rosen and Sophy Williams

I thought it was really cool to have a story from a cat’s eye view, but not a silly personified cat. This book has some marvellous lines; “I vanished myself… I warmed a new nowhere, and I waited.” Complemented by beautiful illustrations.

Let the Celebrations Begin! by Margaret Wild and Julie Vivas

I liked the way that this story used such a small, personal story to convey the story of the holocaust. The small details tell so much. The pictures are really interesting, Julie has such a distinctive style. My friend has this book and about four other books illustrated by Julie Vivas. (Did you know that Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge changes his names when he is published in different countires? He is called Wilfrid Alexander Graham Johnson in Swedish, Guillermo Jorge Manuel Jose in Spanish, Guilherme Augusto Araújo Fernandes in Portuguese…)

Something From Nothing by Phoebe Gilman

I enjoyed this story, the repetitive pattern is very satisfying. I thought the best part was the parallel story going on in the illustrations.

Where Does Thursday Go? by Janeen Brown and Stephen Michael King

What a neat idea for a story! And the lines are so poetic; “As it flapped past, its wings whispered in the cool night air.” I like lines that feel so good to read.

The Frances books by Russell Hoban and Garth Williams

I got this out of the library after hearing Damien talk about it. I’m really not sure about the whole personified animals thing. I think it works in My Cat Likes to Hide in Boxes, and Olivia, but I don’t know quite why. I’m not entirely convinced that it works for Frances. Perhaps it’s partially the combination of personification and blatant gender stereotypes. The only character wearing clothes is mother, and she’s wearing an apron.

Nitpicking aside however, I enjoyed Frances and her silly songs and all her questions. I like the way she works out what to do in the end. I like her father’s dry sense of humour. I think it’s just her mother who annoys me… And the illustrations. Call me a snob, but all my favourite picture books had beautiful illustrations…

Letting Swift River Go by Jane Yolen and Barbara Cooney

I thought this story was incredibly poignant. The text is very poetic and there are lovely details; “catching brown trout out of the pools with a pin hook and a bit of thread.” There’s a really strong sense of time and place. Lovely illustrations too.

Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak

I have a confession to make.

I never read Where the Wild Things Are when I was a child. I’ve never admitted this to anyone. Of course, I knew about the wild things. I’ve seen the toys, and the posters in friend’s houses, and the references in cute dyke movies… but I read the book for the first time this evening. And then I phoned my parents and demanded to know why I’d been so cruelly deprived. They could provide no excuses. It was blatant neglect. If I fail as a children’s writer, it’s all their fault!

The text is brief, but so carefully crafted; “and an ocean tumbled by…” and I love the way if flows from page to page. A few great rhymes thrown in, but not too blatant. And fabulous pictures. Huge dose of the Damien (disorientation) factor, and an extremely satisfying ending. Yum.

Mog the Forgetful Cat by Judith Kerr

I hadn’t come across Mog either, until I heard Kate review Goodbye Mog on National Radio. It sounded good, so I made a mental note to keep an eye out. I thought that Mog was a relatively recent character, but then one of the kids I was babysitting for pulled out a 1975 copy of Mog for a bedtime story.

Mog is great! I laughed out loud several times during this book, and at one point I had to stop reading for a couple of minutes while I regained my composure. I think it was the picture of Mog with her tongue out, one leg sticking into the air, and a bewildered look on her face. She looked just like my friends cat, Maggie, who is just as forgetful.

Judith manages to give such a strong sense of Mog’s personality with just a few words. And (as you may have gathered) I like books when cats are cats, and do cat things, not people things. Also, it’s great the way the pictures add a little bit more to what is going on in the story. I especially like the way the burglar ends up joining them for a cup of tea at the end!

CREW 255 Reading Journal; Novels for children

Gulf by Robert Westall

This book is really well written, but it’s soooo sad! I felt really shaken when I got to the end.

I found the story incredibly believable and moving. I do believe that there is more to life than we can scientifically understand. And, after some of my experiences in psychiatric hospitals, I know that sometimes people are diagnosed with illnesses when in fact they are incredibly sensitive, and often incredibly intelligent. If a boy did start picking up the experiences of a boy in Iraq, yeah, he probably would be sent to a hospital. But he’d be very lucky to encounter someone like Dr Rashid.

I learnt quite a lot about the narrator from the way he describes the world. When his mum describes his dad as legless, Tom worries “that one day he might have no legs, and seem very small, and not be able to throw me up to the ceiling any more.” And when he watches baby Figgis sleeping, “it was awful, that we couldn’t talk to each other yet.”

Through Tom, a lot is revealed about his father, and I came to feel that maybe his father wasn’t so tough after all.

This story is a very clever way of showing different sides of the story. I thought it was excellent, because it didn’t demonise or stereotype anyone. All the reactions seemed very real, and I could empathise with all of the characters, from Latif to Tom’s parents. I though bits like the descriptions of Saddam as someone “…human. Like a used-car dealer you wouldn’t trust an inch, and yet you might have a drink with him in a pub, and listen to his stories,” were very well done.

It’s amazing, because although there are no direct descriptions of Iraq, we are given a very vivid picture of the place and the people through the actions of Figgis holed up in a corner of the hospital. I think perhaps it’s more effective than a story simply told through the eyes of a kid in Iraq.

The ending is incredibly sad. When Andy turned into your average bratty kid wanting bigger and better toys, I almost wished he had died instead. And then, when Tom says "And suddenly I'm scared; because nobody seems to give a damn about anything outside our house any more…” I burst into tears.

What an incredible book! I couldn’t put it down.

The Haunting by Margaret Mahy

I love this book. I loved it the first time I read it, as a child, and I still love it after reading it for the ten millionth time. Margaret Mahy should be sainted (I associate her with dozens of miracles)!

I love the people in this book. I feel as though the characters are so familiar I know exactly what I’d give Claire for her birthday, and if I saw Tabitha walking down the street I would recognise her straight away and invite her in to compare notebooks over mugs of hot chocolate. I love the way Margaret tells us about the characters in subtle ways, for example how they interact with each other. “Barney looked after her in surprise, thinking how different family kisses were from one another. Tabitha had hugged and kissed him as if she had run out of words and had been practising with some new way of talking to him.”

I love the way none of the characters are demonised. Great-Granny Scholar seems quite fierce, but it is revealed that she has very real motivations for acting the way she does. Great-Uncle Cole seems as though he might be a scary bad guy, but in fact he turns out to be rather endearing, if somewhat misguided.

It’s beautifully written. It’s scary at times, but has loads of Margaret’s wonderful quirky humour. And it has my favourite opening paragraph in a book, ever. “…he had thought that being haunted was a babyish thing that you grew out of, like crying when you fell over, or not having a bike.”

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant!

Unseen by Paul Jennings

I was trying to work out what had appealed to me reading Paul Jennings as a young child, as he didn’t seem so appealing now. I think his books have just the right blend of grossness, scary moments, absurdity and humour that children love. When I was a child gross humour and toilet humour didn’t appeal to me at all, but I have observed that a lot of children find theses things very funny.

Some of the Jennings stories are just silly. I didn’t find ‘Squawk Talk’ amusing at all - in fact it was tedious and irritating. However, other stories are quite clever. I enjoyed the twist at the end of ‘Ticker,’ and ‘Shadows’ is an interesting play on the common phrase ‘he isn’t himself today.’

The stories contain very little character development and the writing is not very textured. There is almost no use of metaphorical language, instead there are phrases like ‘the large gloomy tent’ and ‘a beautiful lady,’ which don’t actually give the reader much information or emotional experience. The stories are driven by action. There is no sense of place, it is hard to relate to the people, there is no sense of the experiences.

I think Paul Jennings is the Children’s Literary equivalent to junk food. Okay for occasional enjoyment, as long as it’s not the main source of nourishment.

The Kite Rider by Geraldine McCaughrean

This is a beautifully and skilfully crafted piece of writing. The descriptions are exquisite, almost poetic; “Haoyou let the fragments of his father’s rice-straw jacket rest on his face and shoulders like a blessing.”

When metaphors are used they are entirely appropriate to the time and place; “It takes a light footfall, and salt on your finger-ends, to pluck a big fat ragworm from its burrow.”

The storyline is exciting and fast paced…

But…

I didn’t like it.

There, I’ve said it. I hope I don’t fail the course for such a sacrilegious statement.

I think the characters are two dimensional, and I didn’t warm to them at all. They were like bad actors from a tacky soap opera, and they irritated me.

Di Chou is obviously supposed to be the ultimate villain. In some places he has some resemblance to Richard III; “Your pretty mother needs telling, boy.” But as a character Di Chou is nowhere near as successful as Richard. We get inside Richard’s head and discover his feelings and motivations, and we find someone capable of ghastly actions. We get inside Di Chou’s head, and we discover a tedious caricature. “A woman with brats needs to think about how she is going to feed and clothe them.” Brats? He’s trying too hard, and it’s not believable.

Uncle Bo is a stereotype of the greedy man, and he is equally two-dimensional. We don’t find out what it is like for him, his motivations are simplistic. I’ve never met anyone who is so greedy and has no other aspect to his personality.

Even Haoyou seems to be a stereotype of naivety or obedience.

I found some reviews by college students, and quite a few of them were negative. Before The Kite Rider won the Carnegie medal, the lower school boys at Dulwich College said they didn’t think it would win, and wrote reviews describing the book as average, but not a winner. One of the boys said, “This book is really nothing special - its plot and characterisation are mediocre to say the least, it is somewhat flat and lifeless. On the other hand it is quite readable and keeps going nicely. The story is set in Ancient China - an interesting setting, but not nearly enough use is made of it. There were much better books that could have been shortlisted: Slaves of the Mastery is exquisite, Tribes is exciting, You Don't Know Me is enjoyable. This book is none of these.”

Take this passage. “Haoyou recoiled in shock. His right hand, folding across his body, grasped his hurt shoulder. There was no point in arguing. Mipeng had seen through him. Was his cowardice written so plainly on his forehead? Or did she, after all, have magic powers to read the thoughts in his head?” It’s too over-the-top. I can’t imagine a real boy thinking like that. Compare it to this passage in The Haunting. “…for the first time it occurred to her that being haunted might not be simply exciting and interesting, but actually terrifying. She felt a new respect for Barney, who was trying to keep fear locked inside his own head. It was a very brave thing to do, thought Tabitha, and immediately became impatient with him too, because he was doing nothing about it.”

There is one possible redeeming explanation. It could be that Geraldine was trying to write in the style of old Chinese stories. In this case, the characters would have to be two-dimensional, trapped within their roles. If this was Geraldine’s intention then she has succeeded, but I still didn’t enjoy reading the book.

I’m sorry if I’ve been rather negative, but you already know all the good stuff about this book, so I don’t need to tell you that. But I seem to have an allergic reaction to stereotypes, especially the evil kind. Of course there are lots of stereotypes in fairy stories, but this isn’t a fairy story. There’s no magic, no witches or fairies. It’s not once upon a time, it’s in a particular time and place. The setting is believable… but the characters are not.

A Little Lower than the Angels by Geraldine McCaughrean

Sorry. I’m really really sorry. Geraldine just blew her one possible redeeming explanation. I had all the same problems with A Little Lower that I had with the Kite Rider. I have worked with a lot of children, many of them with intellectual disabilities, and yet I have never met a kid as irritating and stupid as Gabrielle.

Beautiful writing is not enough. In order to enjoy a book, I actually need to care about the characters. I didn’t give a damn about Gabriel, Lucie and Izzie. I didn’t think the threats (The Mason, Garvey) were believable. I had to resist the urge to throw bricks at them all (and it takes a lot to get this sort of reaction out of me – usually only Keanu Reeves annoys me this much).

Is this the part when I get kicked out of the course?

Tulku by Peter Dickinson

Aha! Now this is a book that is beautifully written, exquisite metaphors, plenty of action, set in historical China, follows a plot that resembles the Kite Rider to some extent, but this book has engaging characters. I really enjoyed it.

I think part of the difference is that the characters actually evolve during the book, rather than being static within their roles. They learn and grow, they make mistakes. They are very real, very human.

Also, the characters are described through beautiful details and actions. Compare these two passages;
“Once again she flared up at him. “Then you don’t know much, do you? It’s just as well you don’t have to earn your living as a Clairvoyant! But he got the impression that she was more scared than angry…” The Kite Rider

“He saw this with sudden sharpness on the second day of their journey, when during the midday halt he found Lung brooding beside a bleak upland lake, whose slaty waters and treeless shores seemed a world away from the brilliance and richness of the valley.
“Changed, changed, all changed,” muttered Lung.
“Are you going to write a poem about it?”
“No poems. Not any more.”
“I’m sorry.”
Lung turned away with a noise that began as a laugh and ended as something like the cry of a fox…” Tulku

The first passage tells us the emotions, but doesn’t really enrich the characters. The second passage is so specific, the detail about the poems, and the fox like cry, that the characters become incredibly lifelike.

Even the minor characters who only appear briefly in Tulku were more real to me than the main characters in The Kite Rider.

Eva by Peter Dickinson

I think this is quite a remarkable book, exploring some interesting ideas.

It is well written. At first I found the broken sentences at the beginning of each chapter a little weird, but as the plot unfolded I realised they could be written from a chip perspective. “A new life beginning… Sun on a naked pelt… Chimp odours, chimp voices…”

I read some reviews by people who didn’t like this book because the basic idea was “impossible.” I think it seems plausible – not now, but at some p

Posted by Fionnaigh at January 1, 2003 12:17 AM