tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66290675341044608462024-03-05T22:57:17.864-05:00And a Sweet Sound It MadeRebekah H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/18290069833908695272noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6629067534104460846.post-34927359134061515072011-07-20T15:16:00.000-04:002011-07-20T16:25:39.698-04:00The Giver Trilogy<p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-VAeuwb2AFgE/Ticp5whWDhI/AAAAAAAAA8k/60rNTRgdTdE/s1600-h/The%252520Giver%25255B2%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-right-width: 0px; margin: 0px 12px 6px 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; float: left; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="The Giver" border="0" alt="The Giver" align="left" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-9OubTVpIPhE/Ticp6Y4WRxI/AAAAAAAAA8o/T-gri6_2RIY/The%252520Giver_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" width="161" height="244"></a></p> <p>The way Lois Lowry’s <i>The Giver</i> is continually singled out as a stand-alone novel will never cease to amaze me. On page size alone, it certainly qualifies as a novel, but the funny thing is that the content simply isn’t enough. When you read a story, you expect an introduction, maybe a little interesting stuff on the side, a beginning rising action early on, a climax toward the middle-end-ish area, and a finish. <i>The Giver</i> moves at a leisurely pace and easily gives you the first two requirements; and it continues on that stroll until it tosses a climax at you from nowhere and ends so abruptly that you’re not even sure what just happened. It doesn’t feel like you finished a <i>book</i>; it feels like you just finished a few chapters. <p>However, if it’s treated as if it really <i>is</i> only a few chapters, then the problem disappears. The best way to look at it as a novel, and frankly, the only way to bestow upon <i>The Giver</i> the justice that it deserves, would be to combine it with its two sequels, <i>Gathering Blue</i> and <i>Messenger</i>. By doing that, you get the rest of the picture that is so jarringly cut off in <i>The Giver,</i> and the three together easily fit as one volume when put together. </p> <a name='more'></a> <p>On a whole, they all revolve around a somewhat undefined post-apocalyptic world, with each book describing a different major aspect of it. In <i>The Giver</i>,<i> </i>it’s a supposed, but heavily controlled, utopia; in <i>Gathering Blue</i>, it’s an obvious dystopia; and <i>Messenger</i>, the piece that connects those two stories, depicts the village built by the outcasts of the two societies. <p>Technically speaking, there is no overarching plot. Books one and two develop main characters, Jonas and Kira respectfully, and book three introduces them to each other, but who would consider that a continuing plotline? What makes <i>The Giver</i> trilogy curiously unique is that, not only <i>The Giver</i>, but all three books are extremely brief. That fact alone again emphasizes the need to see all the books as one, but even then the reader needs to understand that they’re three short episodes bound together by a common theme. <p>Of course, being brief isn’t something for a series to be ashamed of. Post-Apocalyptic/Dystopia novels are hugely popular right now, and it almost seems as if it’s a necessity that they be very drawn out and overly dramatic, like Susanne Collins’ <i>The Hunger Games</i> or James Dashner’s <i>The Maze Runner</i>. At the complete opposite end of the spectrum, <i>The Giver</i> trilogy focuses only on the small and the abstract, or for lack of a better word, the “momentary”. So, for instance, the first book, <i>The Giver</i>, is simply about the moment when Jonas finally accepts that his utopia is truly evil and that he has a choice not to participate in it. It is not about how he perhaps starts a secret organization to overthrow this evil government and saves the world. As far as <i>The Giver</i> is concerned, that is entirely beside the point. In the same way, all <i>Gathering Blue</i> is about is that moment when Kira realizes that she is not the helpless victim that she has always made herself out to be. <p>In the long run, it’s a style that sounds nice in theory, but in practice it has a few issues, or at least in this case it does. Employing the general idea of the abstract into a novel is all fine and good, in its proper place, but when it’s used in so many story details that you lose count, it becomes just plain irritating. If a story introduces something as weird as a forest that apparently has feelings and a mind of its own in a supposedly real world, not-fantasy, environment, it would follow reason that the story would explain it at some point; the trilogy, unfortunately, never does. Again, this goes for other strange things throughout the story as well, brought into the story without any kind of origin and seemingly no purpose in the end. <p>Despite its faults, though, there are parts that the trilogy pulls off brilliantly. Even though it has its annoyances, the writing is extremely addictive. The characters are a bit stilted in the first book, but that area gets better as the trilogy progresses. All three contain some sort of romantic element in them; while it’s rather awkward and bizarre in the first book, and downright flat and implausible in the second, the third book hits just the right note. The relationship between the book’s protagonist, Matty, and Jean is sweet in its simplicity and moreover, there is actually a chemistry between them that makes sense, which is particularly unusual. When they want to, the books can show off a surprising amount of depth, with potent observations about suffering and beauty that a lot of authors wouldn’t even begin to dwell on. In the end, it’s those moments that, despite its failings and irritations, make the trilogy worthwhile in the long run. <p><em>This was originally written for the July issue of <a href="http://www.homeschoolingteen.com/view-current-issue/">Homeschooling Teen</a>.</em></p> Rebekah H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/18290069833908695272noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6629067534104460846.post-38063223308135945922011-06-30T20:22:00.001-04:002011-06-30T20:22:05.347-04:00The Good Thief<p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-Zpgp9CDV-CU/Tg0TKhCydFI/AAAAAAAAA7w/jIxK8RCAuBA/s1600-h/The%252520Good%252520Thief%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; margin: 0px 16px 0px 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; float: left; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="The Good Thief" border="0" alt="The Good Thief" align="left" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-h7PHT39Sdxo/Tg0TLC6hEJI/AAAAAAAAA70/TT03AnDUphI/The%252520Good%252520Thief_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="173" height="263"></a>Ever since Hannah Tinti’s <i>The Good Thief</i> was published three years ago, the reader reactions toward the book have been mixed, usually in opposite extremes: either it’s the best thing since Charles Dickens and Robert Louis Stevenson (isn’t everything?), or it is the most grotesque, pointless narrative that the reader has ever read. As always, the truth is somewhere in-between those two extremes. <p>There is actually something to be said for a Dickens/Stevenson comparison. Unlike ninety-five percent of the cases where this comparison is used, here it makes sense because <i>The Good Thief</i> very obviously mimics both authors. Stevenson was an action/adventure novelist, and his name is probably the first thing to pop into your head when you read the summary on the book’s back cover. The real story, though, isn’t so much an adventure novel like <i>Treasure Island</i> as it is a wandering drama, and in that respect it is much more a Dickensian novel. <a name='more'></a> <p>The storyline is also very Dickensian, working like a retelling of <i>Oliver Twist</i> in colonial America. The orphan in this case is a boy named Ren who lives in the monastery of St. Anthony’s in New England. Like Oliver, Ren begins his story by being taken under the wing of a criminal, a con-man extraordinaire and general jack-of-all-trades named Benjamin Nab, who arrives at the monastery one day claiming to be Ren’s long-lost brother. <p>As much as the book imitates Stevenson and Dickens, though, its storyline is a good deal darker than anything either author wrote. Both authors preferred to create heroes who begin innocent and good and pretty well remain so throughout most of the book, always being rescued before desperation or circumstance forced them to do anything truly evil. Ren, who begins life missing his left -hand and suffers from kleptomania, has no such luxury. Shortly after Benjamin adopts him, he makes it quite clear to Ren exactly what kind of man he is, and if Ren plans to be fed and sheltered, he had better learn to live with it. <p>So is the book, then, grotesque like the other reviews claimed? The short answer is yes, it is, but that’s not the <i>full</i> answer. Just because a book is grotesque does not necessarily mean it’s bad; like any other book, what mainly matters is the characters themselves. <p>There is a scene fairly early on in which the book differentiates between two types of grotesque. In the only good scene that the semi-villainous Father John actually gets, he tries to comfort Ren about his lack of a left-hand by telling him that it is spiritual deformity that one needs to look out for, not physical. While <i>The Good Thief</i> abounds with physically deformed characters, like giants, dwarves, harelips, etc., it is usually the physically fit and healthy who are the unrepentant and unredeemed villains. <p>In fact, it is also interesting to note that Father John is the only evil religious figure in the entire book. <i>The Good Thief</i> has a strange relationship with religion in general, its depictions of both Catholicism and Protestantism alike occasionally bordering on superstition, but its overall attitude is a positive one. His little knowledge of Catholicism is the one thing Ren clings to in the darkest and worst of it all. Yet, there are also scenes in which religion is treated as just an interesting sideshow, briefly thinking about it before tossing it aside for the next attraction. Such moments, like Ren contemplating God’s mercy, beg to be delved into more deeply than they are. <p>Unlike <i>Johnathan Strange and Mr. Norrell</i> , or other modern Dickensian novels, <i>The Good Thief</i> does not even try to imitate Dickens’ writing style, or any style from the period. Instead, Tinti employs a blunt and to-the-point style all her own, which combined with the “grotesque” element brings out a sort of gothic air to it. <p>The narrative runs smoothly, and the way Tinti incorporates the dialogue into it, particularly the characters’ thoughts, is clever. The only time she really trips up is when she tries to do too much with too little. Hers is one of the very few cases where writing a longer book would have served her better than the shorter one that she did write; as <i>The Good Thief</i> gets closer to the end, it begins to speed up, as if Tinti had planned the book to be a particular number of pages, leaving some characters to repent a little too early and unresolved subplots to just dangle. <p>Although it can be compared to Dickens, <i>The Good Thief</i> is still not Dickens’ itself. Not much is, so one could hardly expect it to be. The story has its faults, and whether they’re enough to dissuade you from the whole is up to the individual reader, but the book certainly doesn’t deserve to be called <i>bad</i>. The book only asks that the reader be patient and not try to make it what it’s not. <p><em>This was originally written for the June issue of <a href="http://www.homeschoolingteen.com/view-current-issue/">Homeschooling Teen</a>.</em></p> Rebekah H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/18290069833908695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6629067534104460846.post-9312452641621525412011-06-30T20:09:00.001-04:002011-07-20T16:26:43.789-04:00The Caves of Steel<p> <a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-xY9HfgiQv4w/Tg0QOd1DNwI/AAAAAAAAA7o/dYN5NbsPaLk/s1600-h/TheCavesofSteel%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="background-image: none; border-right-width: 0px; margin: 0px 9px 0px 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; float: left; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="TheCavesofSteel" border="0" alt="TheCavesofSteel" align="left" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-AXDrRpOS0WM/Tg0QO1bhPFI/AAAAAAAAA7s/iYF_7QDMjqw/TheCavesofSteel_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="169" height="267"></a></p> <p>I’ve been a fan of science fiction for a couple of years, and when and how that came about I couldn’t say; but the fantasy aspect combined with that bit of reality has always appealed to me. </p> <p>When it comes to science fiction, those two things are really the only way to pinpoint what <i>is</i> science fiction and what’s not. Most people would consider any story with a spaceship in it science fiction, but according to science fiction writers like Ray Bradbury, even that’s not enough. <p>Isaac Asimov is a name that anyone familiar with science fiction would probably know; the chances are slim that a science fiction story written now, be it book or movie, could cover an idea Asimov left unexplored in his literally hundreds of books.</p> <a name='more'></a> <p> <p>He once had an argument with one of his editors over what the nature of science fiction was, and the said editor insisted that it was a genre: that there was a particular type of story along with certain elements, just like any other genre such as romance or thrillers. Asimov disagreed, saying it was nothing more than a setting and could easily be mixed with any existing genre; so one could actually have a “romance science fiction”, or even a “thriller science fiction”, or any other genre combination they could think of. The editor replied that there could be no such thing as a “mystery science fiction”, since mystery by its nature depends on the reader already knowing particular facts about the world and science fiction itself is mostly world building. Asimov responded by writing <i>The Caves of Steel</i>, a simple murder mystery about a detective in New York. <p>The detective is named Elijah Bailey, and like any good citizen of Earth he harbors a hatred for highly capable, intelligent robots. In the story’s timeframe, it’s been centuries since intergalactic travel became a reality, and with that the development of new societies. Technological advances on Earth have to slowed down to a stop, while the “Spacers”, as the people who lived on these other planets were nicknamed, raced ahead and designed what the people of Earth could only dream of. When some of these Spacer technologies, like intelligent robots, found their way into Earth society, the result was perfectly good workers, such as Elijah’s father, losing their jobs to computers. <p>Yet, despite the potential ill-will, the Spacers are determined to keep up good relations with Earth and have a settlement right outside of New York City for that very reason. They even seem to be successful, until the day that one of their robotic engineers turns up murdered; and all evidence points to an Earthman as the murderer. <p>Elijah is lucky to get such a high-profile case, and there are plenty of benefits to be earned if he handles this case well; but there’s a catch. Because it was a Spacer that was killed, the other Spacers insist that Elijah has to take one of their robots as a partner. Even as Elijah reluctantly agrees, one of his worst nightmares seem to come true when he’s introduced to his new “partner”, R. (Robot) Daneel Olivaw; the robot looks just like a human. <p>The interactions between detective and “partner” throughout the story end up as an ingenious springboard for introducing the story’s theme: if it was possible for us to make a robot as intelligent as R. Daneel, what would the difference be between it and a human being? Asimov is a “show” rather than a “tell” author when it comes to ideas, and so instead of a scene where Elijah and Daneel sit down to have a point by point debate, we simply watch the issue unfold as Elijah’s hatred and fear of robots blossoms into personal insecurities as he works with Daneel. Elijah prides himself on his agility after doing a physically demanding stunt; only watch Daneel do it with ten times the grace and ease. He rakes his mind to try and remember a single name, while Daneel casually picks out one face from millions. <p>When humans are placed in comparison to robots, it’s basic common sense that humans are inevitably going to lose. Our biological bodies are unreliable; they can be weak, they can, and will, grow old, they require food and water, and they can even become permanently paralyzed. Our minds are no better, clouded by emotion and reflecting whatever state the rest of our body is in. <p><i>The Caves of Steel</i> was written close to sixty years ago, and there’s something a little frightening about how much the story continues to become more relevant. When Asimov wrote it, the world had just watched the Nazis dispose of human beings as if they were just by-products only a decade before. Today, our own culture treats humans as nothing more than the sum of their parts; if a child has Down Syndrome, we abort them, or if the elderly can no longer care for themselves, we euthanize them. <p>In fact, it’s interesting to wonder if Elijah would have come to any conclusion about the value of human life if <i>The Caves of Steel</i> had been written in the 2010’s instead of the 50’s. Though Asimov was an atheist, he still understood what makes us significant. Human beings are the only creatures in the world who have free will, the ability to change. We can be the arbiters of justice, and at the same time somehow understand what it is to be merciful. We can be victims, and still be forgiving and compassionate. Above all, though, humans are the only creatures capable of knowingly choosing evil, and having the chance to be redeemed. <p><em>This was originally written for the March issue of <a href="http://www.homeschoolingteen.com/view-current-issue/">Homeschooling Teen</a>. </em></p> Rebekah H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/18290069833908695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6629067534104460846.post-58375958960942847922011-04-10T15:41:00.002-04:002011-04-10T15:48:48.717-04:00When You Reach Me<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_7_m19iVSHn8/TaIIA0N9ftI/AAAAAAAAA6M/WcFW612d5PA/s1600-h/When%20You%20Reach%20Me%5B4%5D.jpg"><img align="left" alt="When You Reach Me" border="0" height="244" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_7_m19iVSHn8/TaIIBfalpjI/AAAAAAAAA6Q/bYxMrho3Kfc/When%20You%20Reach%20Me_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; display: inline; float: left; margin: 0px 25px 0px 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="When You Reach Me" width="163" /></a>Here's the review I wrote for the April issue of <a href="http://homeschoolingteen.wordpress.com/view-current-issue/">Homeschooling Teen</a>:<br />
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Genres can be misleading. Their sole purpose in life is to categorize stories into particular little slots, so that their labels can glisten from a utilitarian shelf. Of course, that’s not to say that they are useless, but most people tend to take them far more seriously than they should, especially writers. More often than not, recent books read like they were written simply to be organized. Every once in a while, though, you can still find the story that is such a hodgepodge of genres that you remember just how pointless the labeling exercise can sometimes be. <br />
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Rebecca Stead’s <i>When You Reach Me</i> could be considered a story like that. Most of its plotline is very similar to the typical children’s novel genre as it follows twelve Miranda in her day-to-day life. It is so similar, in fact, that it could be easily compared to other books of that genre, like Katherine Paterson’s <i>Bridge to Terabithia</i>, which is even set in the same time period as <i>When You Reach Me</i>, the mid 1970’s. <br />
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What sets <i>When You Reach Me</i> apart, though, is that as Miranda tells the story in her own words, she’s unsure if there’s anything to actually <i>tell</i>. Writing this book was not her idea in the least. Rather, she was ordered to write it by a mysterious correspondent. <br />
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Miranda is what is commonly known as a “latch-key kid”; one morning she forgot the key to her apartment and was locked out until her mother came home from work. As a result, her mother came up with a back-up plan by having a third key made and hiding it in the apartment building’s old, broken fire hose. Shortly after, Miranda came home to find the key gone and the apartment unlocked, everything inside untouched except for a note left for her. The writer of the note refused to identify his/herself, but requested that Miranda write a letter; this letter must contain a story, and the story must be about what happened to her from the fall of 1978 to the late spring of 1979. Stranger still, she must also make sure to mention where she keeps the spare key. <br />
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What <i>When you Reach Me</i> turns out to be is a playful draft of a letter addressed to the mystery correspondent that Miranda never intends to send. It’s in this draft that Miranda slowly goes over the months that she’s been asked to remember and tries to figure out what it is that the unknown writer needs to know, why they need to know it, who this writer really is, and if she should even be giving them this information.<br />
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Here is where the fun for the reader comes in, because as Miranda sorts things out in her own mind, she is also giving the reader all the details they need to figure out the answer on their own. To the readers determined to solve the book-long riddle before Miranda, I wish them luck, because despite all the circumstantial evidence that Miranda gives, the story offers only one substantial clue: The first note for Miranda ends with the line, “<i>I will not be myself when I reach you</i>.” <br />
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Usually, I’m not a big fan of present tense writing; it is my personal opinion that it takes away from the reading experience and, in a way, sterilizes an author’s overall writing style. Here, however, Stead uses present tense to her advantage by using it sparingly and with a purpose; the only time Miranda uses it is to let you, the reader, know that you are no longer reading her memories. Otherwise, the rest of the book is told in regular past tense, resulting in a sort of literary version of hop-scotch as the story jumps between the two tenses. <br />
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Most of the idiosyncrasies of the story lie in the fact that it is all told by Miranda, and yet, ironically, that’s probably the book’s biggest downfall. Writing supposedly done by a twelve year old can only have so much quality before it becomes unbelievable, and Stead certainly works hard here to make sure you believe that Miranda wrote it, with dubious results. <br />
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At this point I would like to bring back the comparison I made earlier to <i>Bridge to Terabithia</i>, because there is one part of <i>When You Reach Me</i> that struck me as odd, or at least interesting. In <i>Bridge to Terabithia</i>, there is one situation where an adult behaves with questionable adult morality and, although the adult leaves the story without another mention, a child who was also in the situation is left with a lingering feeling that something was wrong. Unfortunately, when a tragedy results from this adult’s choice, the child ends up blaming himself for it and suffering from a severe guilt complex up until the very last pages of the book. While I’ll be the first to admit that that is definitely <i>not</i> the most appropriate method to address an issue like that in a children’s novel, it at least makes an attempt to point out that the action and situation was wrong. <br />
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Stead does no such thing with <i>When You Reach Me</i>, which, as I mentioned before, is actually set in the same time period as <i>Terabithia</i>. In this case, the issue is cohabitation, and instead of one scene, it’s part of the backbone of the story. There are some who wouldn’t consider cohabitation to be “questionable adult morality” in the least now, but during the 1970’s it would have been without a doubt immoral; and yet, <i>When You Reach Me</i> not only glazes over it, but even up holds it as a happy ending. <br />
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What<i> When You Reach Me</i> really comes down to is quite a mixed bag, but a good one if you’re willing to forgive the writing for its faults. As a story, it has its particularly frustrating moments, but as puzzle-novel it’s worth the frustration for a light brainteaser have fun with.Rebekah H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/18290069833908695272noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6629067534104460846.post-5840818012316167992011-01-28T19:19:00.003-05:002011-01-30T14:45:02.657-05:00The Queen’s Thief series<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_7_m19iVSHn8/TUNc_BCbTPI/AAAAAAAAA5s/IDcqf7MIzhQ/s1600-h/the-thief%5B2%5D.jpg"><img align="left" alt="the-thief" border="0" height="244" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_7_m19iVSHn8/TUNc_Z1AxLI/AAAAAAAAA5w/ZSLMNpA86C4/the-thief_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px; display: inline; float: left; margin: 0px 15px 0px 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="the-thief" width="165" /></a><br />
This is my next review for <a href="http://homeschoolingteen.wordpress.com/view-current-issue/">Homeschooling Teen</a>: <br />
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Gen can steal <i>anything</i>, or so he says. Of all the claims made by self-confident fools, in this case a common thief off the streets of Sounis, this one seems the most empty-handed; until the day Gen decides to prove it. He was quite serious when said <i>anything</i>, and he aims for nothing less than the king’s seal, which he steals right out from under the nose of the king’s right-hand man, the Magus. <br />
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Naturally, the first thing Gen does is gloat about his achievement in every wine-shop in the city, and it’s only a matter of hours before the Royal Guard apprehends him and locks him away in the dungeons. Luck is still on Gen’s side, though. Months after Gen’s capture, the Magus finds the survival of his career hanging on whether or not he can “steal” a stone known as Hamiathes’s Gift from a temple of the gods. The Magus is a scholar, he does not <i>steal</i> things; but, fortunately, he knows someone in prison who does. <br />
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While the Magus finally believes that he has everything under control, though, the arrangement makes his young apprentice, Sophos, uneasy; because Sophos insists upon asking the one question the Magus thinks is ridiculous. If Gen was really clever enough to steal the king’s seal unseen and unaided, then wouldn’t he at <i>least</i> have the common sense to keep quiet afterword? <br />
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Megan Whalen Turner’s <i>The Thief</i> was first published in 1996, and since then she’s written three more books, plus an expected fourth, and all five together make up <i>The Queen’s Thief</i> series. Despite its age, the series has never quite received the attention it deserves. There could several reasons for this, not least of them being the very small amount of advertising the author does for her books; but probably one of the biggest was the fact that there never was much of a market for books based off of Greek mythology. That is, there wasn’t until the recent success of the <i>Percy Jackson</i> books; but whereas <i>Percy Jackson</i> does little more than caricaturize the myths, <i>The Queen’s Thief </i>series works more toward capturing the spirit of them. <i></i> <br />
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There are many ways to describe just how the series does this, but the easiest would simply be to say that it all comes down to Gen. Gen is the perfect combination of every Greek hero whose name was ever mentioned in a story. He has in his character Achilles’ temper and pride, Hercules’ confident audacity, and, most importantly, Odysseus’ “resourcefulness”. The reason that last is so important is because the Greeks loved ingenuity. More often than not, the heroic stories of the ancient Greeks depended <i>not</i> on whether the hero had the goodness and strength to overcome evil, but whether he had the cunning to outwit his opponent. One need only watch Gen at his best to see just how well Turner understood that idea. <br />
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Unlike a lot of heroes, though, Gen is thoroughly mortal. There are gods in Gen’s world, and they are powerful beings not to be fooled with. However, they’re not malevolent, but still their very existence puts Gen on edge. He’s not sure whether he can trust them, even though they’ve never given him a reason to <i>dis</i>trust them; they’re outside of the world he can so easily manipulate and navigate. What’s worse, Gen was actually named after a god, Eugenides, the god of thieves himself. <br />
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It’s here that Turner begins to stray from the original mythology, and for the better; it’s certainly common knowledge that the Greek gods committed evil acts toward humans, and frequently did so. The gods never play into any of the plotlines, but their existence follows Gen from book to book, and reveals one of the most interesting facets of his character as he changes. <br />
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Yet, what’s even more fascinating is how the series depicts Gen’s relationship with his namesake, which is tinged with Christian theology. Once again, it’s not much, because of the small role that the gods play, but it’s still there as Gen tries to cope with the idea of Eugenides as his patron. Can he really trust Eugenides to look out for his well-being? What if Eugenides grew bored of him and during Gen’s more risky antics, like jumping from rooftop to rooftop, Eugenides simply let him fall to his death; or even worse, get caught? The day comes that Gen <i>does</i> get caught, and Eugenides allows it (facilitates it, in fact), and the result includes a good deal of suffering for him; but, in the end, it brings about a much greater maturing of character than Gen could have ever achieved on his own. <br />
<br />
It should also be noted that, while Turner strays from the mythology, she doesn’t restrict herself to it, either. Greek mythology by itself misses a lot of its value unless it’s paired with ancient Greek history and literature, and the series brings together all three in one odd, but delightful smorgasbord of a fantasy story. <br />
<br />
All the mythology, history, and literature is veiled in the books and given different names; so any reader concerned that they’re not going to be able to follow along because they’ve never heard of figures like Odysseus, Xerxes, or Oedipus need not worry about it. The elements in the stories are so well layered that anyone could read them and still get something out of it. That can only be said of a very small number of books written recently, and Megan Whalen Turner more than deserves the compliment.Rebekah H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/18290069833908695272noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6629067534104460846.post-39518493624222496692010-11-09T10:29:00.006-05:002010-11-10T22:15:31.990-05:00Airborn<a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/_7_m19iVSHn8/TNlo6cp4scI/AAAAAAAAA4o/dmdT7CbFiX0/s1600-h/Airborn7.jpg"><img align="left" alt="Airborn" border="0" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/_7_m19iVSHn8/TNlo61HBGXI/AAAAAAAAA4s/EZp1WxWLO_s/Airborn_thumb5.jpg?imgmax=800" style="background-image: none; border-width: 0px; display: inline; float: left; margin: 0px 16px 0px 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Airborn" /></a><br />
When asked about his book, <i>Airborn</i>, Kenneth Oppel replied: <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>“I’ve long been fascinated by airships. To me, they seem almost miraculous. A luxurious passenger vessel bigger than the Titanic, yet lighter than air. They were the biggest objects ever to fly. What if airplanes hadn’t been invented? In the world of AIRBORN, airships rule the skies.”</i></span> <br />
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Airships are one of those few things in the world that are self-explanatory: they’re ships in the air. Instead of sea, they ride on wind, air currents and, in Oppel’s world, a lighter-than-helium gas called “hydrium”. Just like ships, they have crews, with all the usual ranks, such as cabin boy, officer, captain, etc.; even the men who repair the canvas covering the airship are called “sailmakers”. <br />
<br />
In <i>Airborn</i>, the airships are the best of the sea and air worlds; carrying cargo and people both, they serve any purpose that the mind can think of. Naturally, of course, the more popular use for them is cruise liner-variety passenger-ships such as the <i>Aurora</i>; sure, their travel-time can be seven times slower than the rate of a modern airplane, but they do it with such style and convenience that nobody would care. <br />
<br />
I may not fly often enough to be earning Skymiles, but I’ve flown enough to know that planes are cramped, uncomfortable, and a pain in more places than one. In fact, the talk of airships actually begins to make you wonder not “what if”, but “why”. The answer is painfully simple: the <i>USS Akron</i> and the <i>Hindenburg</i>. Their tragedies forever decided the fate of airships, reducing them to what we know today as blimps and zeppelins; and revealing the note of accuracy behind Oppel’s ironic comparison of airships and the Titanic. In hat tip to this, <i>Airborn</i> is haunted from beginning to end by the death of a sailmaker who was blown away in a storm.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>The sail maker was the father of a cabin boy named Matthew Cruse. Matt was offered the cabin boy position <i>after</i> his father died, and accepted it gladly because it would be on his late father’s ship, the <i>Aurora. </i>He would be rubbing elbows with the men who worked side-by-side with his father and under the captain his father so admired. He would be <i>the</i> Mr. Cruse of the <i>Aurora</i>.<br />
<br />
Cruse was a hardworking and good father, but being a sailmaker he was hardly ever at home. So Matt did the natural thing for a young boy to do; he idolized him. He dreams of airships because his father works on one, and when he’s offered a position, he jumps at it, even if it’s the ship his father died on; for Matt, the idea that his father <i>died</i> doesn’t even compute.<br />
<br />
Even the fact that his father is no longer living and breathing isn’t enough to convince him that his father is dead; and it’s a contradiction that Matt is willing to live with. However, to support the contradiction, he concocts an idea that even he knows is ridiculous: his father didn’t fall, he <i>flew</i>, and his spirit continues to fly and follow the <i>Aurora</i> wherever it goes. <br />
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If he’s really going to believe it, though, he’s going to have to make it seem like a reality; even if it means convincing himself that he, too, can fly. He does such a thorough job that when the captain asks him to dangle on a giant hook off the ship to rescue a failing air balloon, he does so fearlessly. <br />
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Matt doesn’t completely live in his father’s shadow, of course; he has his own ambitions. He wants to be a captain someday, but sailmaker comes first. The awaited opportunity comes a year after the air balloon incident, and disappears as quickly as it appeared. The captain is apologetic, but there’s nothing he can do. Mr. Lunardi owns the airship, and if he wants his son Bruce to be the next sailmaker on the <i>Aurora</i>, then that’s how it is. The captain even offers to refer Matt to other captains needing new sailmakers, but Matt refuses (somewhat selfishly, since he’s supporting his mother and two sisters).<br />
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When he rescued the air balloon the year before, there had been old man in the basket who had died shortly afterward. Fate would have it that now in his hour of ultimate self-pity, Matt runs into the man’s granddaughter, who has inherited every spark of the spunk and audacity that lead her grandfather to try and sail around the world in an air balloon. She has the journal of his travels, and is determined to discover the previously unknown winged mammal he claimed to see. They’re en route to the sighting spot, she says, but she needs a crew member to look at the charts and tell her <i>exactly</i> when it will be; Matt reluctantly agrees.<br />
<br />
If ships are going to start sailing the skies, then it’s just a matter of fact that pirates are going follow them there. Wealthy cruise-liners like the <i>Aurora</i> would also be among their first targets. All they want is the riches that the passengers would inevitably have, but as they leave, their own ship’s propellers are caught in the canvas of the <i>Aurora</i>, marooning her to the island down below. <br />
<br />
Following the trend of first-person young adult books, this is actually one the better examples out there. It helps that Matt—aside from his father’s death—starts out the story significantly more mature than the average YA hero, but writing also contains subtleties that most YA authors wouldn’t bother with, for fear that the aimed audience wouldn’t appreciate them. Things such as Matt’s use of “for” instead of “because”, or his describing what would be an everyday sight for him, like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ornithopter">ornithopters</a>, in passing rather than in detail, as if he assumes that the reader also lives in his world. <br />
<br />
In fact, the parallel world that his story resides in is very much like the increasingly popular <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Girl_genius">Girl Genius comics</a>: Edwardian culture combined with close-to-modern technology. <br />
<br />
Oppel himself doesn’t forget for a second who’s reading his book, and he occasionally milks the time period for modern laughs; there’s a scene in which Matt is scandalized by a young woman wearing a skirt that stops right below the knee. However, Oppel is smart enough to not belittle his hero’s world; there are values that, even if modern readers doesn’t share them, are taken dead serious. It’s no joking matter when Matt is firmly scolded for flirting with the air-balloonist granddaughter; the reason, which he accepts without question, is that he’s unable to marry her at the moment. It’s an interesting breath of fresh air from the usual crass atmosphere of most YA fiction.<br />
<br />
There are occasionally bits that make you wonder where the editor was, like Matt’s penchant for repeating himself a little too often or, more glaring, his sister’s name changing back and forth from “Sylvia” to “Emilie”. The book doesn’t ask you to inspect it that closely, however, since the characters run from one unlikely situation to the next. <i>Airborn</i> is, in it’s most basic form, a “high seas” adventure story that lauds the lost dream of airships; and, left to that, it works.Rebekah H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/18290069833908695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6629067534104460846.post-39510066393648970652010-10-31T23:27:00.011-04:002010-11-03T21:59:06.339-04:00Ender's Game<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9aimIESGw0PatAZ78GpTujIlIupRU0ztkXurORx37-MhoRNphVP9BaMFeyXTZ8HbyIpRpCe1AKwIXtSoRz-cwTL5CeGS74oc17_G_vh6LxWMsp1_7ni0BdZOjaHnwa9fx6G9X19uFiRHa/s1600/Ender's+Game.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5534418314902929698" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9aimIESGw0PatAZ78GpTujIlIupRU0ztkXurORx37-MhoRNphVP9BaMFeyXTZ8HbyIpRpCe1AKwIXtSoRz-cwTL5CeGS74oc17_G_vh6LxWMsp1_7ni0BdZOjaHnwa9fx6G9X19uFiRHa/s320/Ender's+Game.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 302px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 226px;" /></a><i>Third</i>, they called him. In a world where it was illegal to have more than two children, the term was as equally embarrassing as it was derogatory. Maybe Ender Wiggin was a special exception but, exception or not, his peers were not about to let him forget what he was.<br />
<br />
Ender, however, was unconcerned. As long as that monitor remained nestled in the back of his neck, he had nothing to fear from them. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Inserting monitors into children had become a common practice since the second “Bugger” invasion. When the insect-like aliens invaded the first time, humanity had just barely won; the second time, it was literally won by a happy accident, a brilliant general being in the right place at the right time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Happy accidents do not happen twice, so the International Fleet started the Battle School. The more promising children of the monitor trials would go on to the school as young as six years old to be trained as future captains and generals. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Ender <i>does </i>have nothing to fear, until they remove the monitor and inform him that he’s been accepted at the School. To the officials at the School, he is more than promising; one could have as many well trained captains and generals as they liked, but in order to win a war against a higher-intelligence alien species, one would need an Alexander the Great. That’s just what Ender has the potential to be. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
There’s only one problem: Ender may have the intelligence to keep the most well-educated adults on their toes, but when all’s said and done, he's still just a small child, and a very sensitive one at that. </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><a name='more'></a><br />
Ender is the type of child who would never turn himself into a military genius on his own, so the School will have to do it themselves, and the moral dilemma begins. Whether the officials are right or wrong in their treatment of Ender and the other students of the Battle School is by no means an easy question to answer. Lazy readers, be warned, Orson Scott Card is a merciless author, thoroughly fleshing out both sides of the argument and expecting his readers to put forth the effort to figure it out on their own.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Dilemmas rarely have only two faces to them, however, and with this particular case there are certainly several issues on the table to be considered. Card is quite comfortable with his craft, and he doesn’t mind using it like the plaything that it is. The ideas he uses to express the many issues throughout the story are usually quite cliché, such as distrust of authority, children vs. adults, etc; but Card applies them to his advantage, tossing them around half-seriously, sometimes using them to deceive the reader, or even completely inverting them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
As a science-fiction novel, <i>Ender’s Game</i> takes the path less trodden. Instead of working with societies, causes, or philosophical ideas on a whole it takes a more personal approach, looking at it all through more or less Ender’s eyes. In a way one could call it “layman’s sci-fi”; you don’t need to be acquainted with Asimov, Bradbury, Heinlein, etc., or to have even heard of them, to appreciate the personal plight of Ender, the Battle-School’s problems, or the war with the “Buggers”. Science-fiction veterans may be tempted to get nitpicky on some details (like the impossibility of “Ansible” communications), but even they should value Card’s ability to tell a decent space-faring yarn.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
As a quick ending note to this review, if you can get a hold of the Sound Library audiobook, do so. It is more than worth the extra trouble. As a devoted lover of audiobooks myself, I can honestly say that Card is one of the few authors I have met who are a joy to <span style="font-style: italic;">listen</span> to. He was a playwright before he was a novelist, and he himself admits that his words are more often meant to be heard, not read. Furthermore, the Sound Library version is just about one of the most well-done audiobooks I have heard to date. So, again, I encourage you to put forth the extra effort, even if you believe that listening to audiobooks is a sin against reading (I have heard the arguments, that reading is better than listening, etc. I won't address them now, but I might someday when I get the chance).</div>Rebekah H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/18290069833908695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6629067534104460846.post-77409781151374087712010-10-19T23:34:00.006-04:002010-11-01T19:16:28.119-04:00Hattie Big Sky<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWKMrHi9-uBT05I2q7z0UpmO8kInXP7sJvkMzC5XNdbdaNSWMHZTd2BrXuN5l3wfWdRA9STckCZzeZ-ATApLhUl9isCWwcEUF097mt0mdFFuHf5624bdTMu5clG6cSUoljg3-z7gg4kLO2/s1600/Hattie+Big+Sky.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529966938622258594" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWKMrHi9-uBT05I2q7z0UpmO8kInXP7sJvkMzC5XNdbdaNSWMHZTd2BrXuN5l3wfWdRA9STckCZzeZ-ATApLhUl9isCWwcEUF097mt0mdFFuHf5624bdTMu5clG6cSUoljg3-z7gg4kLO2/s320/Hattie+Big+Sky.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 227px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 150px;" /></a><br />
Here's a quick review I did of Hattie Big Sky recently. A slightly edited version will be appearing in <a href="http://www.inkandfairydust.com/">I&F</a> on December 1st.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">Orphanages, adoption, and unsavory situations; stories about orphans are practically the stuff literature is made of. Or, at least, they own a decent portion of it, so that even the average non-reader knows a few. From Grimm to Dickens, we have the pattern laid out and our expectations ready for how the plot will work; the drama should start about the time the orphan’s adopted by someone abusive or a heartless relative and resolved by either escape of the victim or conversion of the perpetrators. Sixteen year-old Hattie Inez Brooks, however, is already beyond all that, leaving her unpleasant relative behind when a previously unknown uncle bequeaths her a 320-acre claim in Montana.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That is to say, he bequeaths her an <i>unproven</i> 320-acre claim in Montana.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Indeed, <i>proving up</i>, as it’s known, is half the trouble of it all. The Montana prairie may be the land of big skies and bigger dreams, but the law is quite firm with homesteaders. Buildings must be built, a percentage of the land must be tilled and planted, a fraction of the property fenced in, and a fee paid, all within three years. One might think it’s a goal actually achievable, but when Hattie arrives, her problem is not that she has only three <i>years</i>; it’s that she only has <i>ten months</i>—her mysterious uncle started the claim two years, and two months ago, and the law isn’t about to rewind the clock just because it’s hers now; a claim’s a claim, no matter who’s tilling the soil.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Both fortunately and unfortunately for Hattie, she’s not alone. The good neighbors are more than willing to lend a hand when the going gets rough and frequently save her from her own stupidity; while the more politically-minded ones are just as willing to make her life that much harder. Yet, if the Mother Nature of Montana has it her way, neither party may get what they want. The lesson that Hattie has yet to learn is that despite all their personal dramas, every claim owner in Montana bows down the same mistress, Dame Nature. After all, she is homesteading in “next-year country”; <i>next year will be better</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Hattie tells her own story, and is our narrator month by grueling month as she teaches herself to cook, quilt, farm, and survive sixty-four below weather, mainly by the sheer strength of willpower. There’s a reason why the <i>Hattie</i> comes before the <i>Big Sky</i> in the title; more than homesteading, Montana prairie, or all other things combined, the story is first and foremost about Hattie and her development into a confident young woman. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The writing could’ve benefited from a few touch-ups by a good editor, but it’s not bad, and certainly more than tolerable. If nothing else, the bizarre prairie-life fun facts make up for it (they become particularly entertaining when Hattie acquires chickens); and the lengthy bibliography at the end assures the reader that the author, Kirby Larson, definitely did her homework on the matter. <i>Hattie Big Sky</i> is a wonderful, if painfully brief, romp in the world of prairie life that both lovers of the subject and those indifferent to it will enjoy. </div>Rebekah H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/18290069833908695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6629067534104460846.post-7018990804617096512010-10-12T23:18:00.002-04:002010-11-01T19:18:20.871-04:00The Chronicles of Prydain<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwEaBUBRGryufh_HRAXHamsXy-q28JzjHtjZ2KWukcuY3mW3fOylp-aQA6ecrGZurG5flpvnkHXyD-l-NCTKo0ecYX9VLSM7XIFkgneO9qm4UxeXMwqwRRH54avkj3cOoUnwplEC26jgCG/s1600/images.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527370014077945042" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwEaBUBRGryufh_HRAXHamsXy-q28JzjHtjZ2KWukcuY3mW3fOylp-aQA6ecrGZurG5flpvnkHXyD-l-NCTKo0ecYX9VLSM7XIFkgneO9qm4UxeXMwqwRRH54avkj3cOoUnwplEC26jgCG/s320/images.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 183px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 119px;" /></a><br />
<br />
So, to start this off, here's a review of Lloyd Alexander's The Chronicles of Prydain that I wrote for <a href="http://www.inkandfairydust.com/">I&F</a> a little over a year ago:<br />
<span style="font-family: "; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
</span> <br />
<div><table align="left" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" hspace="0" style="height: 18px; width: 5px;" vspace="0"><tbody>
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</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 115%;">A boy with no heritage who dreams of being a hero and goes on adventures; it’s a storyline that’s used, particularly in the fantasy genre, <i>ad nauseam</i>. Throw in a loquacious princess, a tactless bard whose harp strings snap every time he “colors” the truth, and an ape-like creature who refers to himself in the third-person, and there will be, perhaps, a little more interest. Unfortunately for the Chronicles of Prydain, there is truly very little from its exterior alone that would attract readers in this day and age when children/teen fantasy is an industry all its own. </span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 115%;">The Chronicles, for the most part, lack a central plotline that connect all five of the books together other than the hero Taran’s journey from boyhood to manhood. Indeed, the tale of how the pig-keeper became the hero is a simple one at heart. Unlike other, more recent fantasy,<a name='more'></a> the Chronicles don’t try to impress its readers; the plotlines aren’t really clever, and nor are they entirely original. Well-versed fantasy readers might be put off by the patchwork-like feel of the land of Prydain. There are no deep philosophical or theological musings; but none of those things are the point. The story doesn’t ask the reader to take it anywhere near as seriously as, say, Lord of the Rings, but asks the reader to just enjoy the adventure as it’s presented.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 115%;">That’s not say that the stories are mindless and have no messages whatsoever; quite the contrary. Amidst many other, smaller points it has one main theme that starts from page one when Taran bemoans his lack of a title; his amused elder retorts that he can be “the Assistant Pig-Keeper”, and as duties lists the chores Taran already has. Taran, as can be imagined, is hardly pleased with this answer, but nonetheless actually begins using the title when his normal duties somehow end up leading him into battles and the courts of kings. The name, both fortunately and unfortunately for Taran, sticks, and as each book goes on, following him from one adventure to the next, it becomes a source of humiliation for him. He eventually</span><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 115%;"> does</span><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 115%;"> pick up on the point of it, humility, and takes it to heart; and only then does the story truly consider him a hero and call him as such. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 115%;">It’s an unusual twist for a story that starts out so typically, and it’s one of the things that set the Chronicles of Prydain apart. Any story that has a protagonist who’s an orphan, or a nobody, or any other low, poor status can be counted on to be the hero by the end, but not to learn humility and maturity; if ever, he learns it as a side-note. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 115%;">The writing, if a little archaic at times, is refreshingly well done; although it does have its few problems, mainly that the first book feels a bit rushed and unsure while the second half of the fourth book lags. The names of the characters, mostly pulled from Welsh mythology, feel like tongue-twisters at first try, but they’re easy enough to get used to. The humor is innocent and unpresumptuous; instead of trying to make the reader laugh out loud with witty punch-lines, it only seeks to make them smile; which, in one way or another, allows the reader to feel much more content. “Indeed, the more we find to love, the more we add to the measure of our hearts.”<a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=6629067534104460846&postID=701899080461709651#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "; line-height: 115%;">[1]</span></span></span></a> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 115%;">The atmosphere of the Chronicles could be called ‘charming’ to an extent, but that aspect lasts only up to the last book, <i>The High King</i>, where, as a finale, it introduces a sobriety and a story-telling technique that well ties all five books together without restricting their respective stories. As the main masterpiece of the series, it draws up a climax and ending that well satisfies.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 115%;">Even with <i>The High King</i>’s contribution, though, the series could still hardly be considered <i>stellar</i> fantasy; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 115%;">the writer, Lloyd Alexander, may not be very inventive, but he does tell the truth about reality. He may not give the reader places or creatures to remember, but he does give them hope, which alone makes a story <i>worth</i> hearing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div><div><hr align="left" style="font-size: 78%; height: 3px;" width="33%" /><div id="ftn1"><div class="MsoFootnoteText"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=6629067534104460846&postID=701899080461709651#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "; line-height: 115%;">[1]</span></span></span></a> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">(<i>The Black Cauldron</i>, <i>Henry Holt and Co.</i>, pp.28<i>.</i>)</span></div></div></div>Rebekah H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/18290069833908695272noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6629067534104460846.post-87316747432478535082010-10-12T22:25:00.000-04:002010-10-12T23:15:32.695-04:00First Post!As the <a href="http://www.splendoroftruth.com/curtjester/">Curt Jester</a> once said, "And I said let there be blog, and there was blog and it was good."<br /><br />Welcome to <span style="font-style: italic;">And a Sweet Sound it Made</span>. <br /><br />Let me state right off the bat that this is <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> an online journal, and that the purpose of this blog is for me to have a place to put all those book, movie, and music reviews and commentary that I've been wanting to write but never had the excuse to. That said, I hope you enjoy what you find here and come back as often as I post. <span style="font-style: italic;">Ideally</span>, that would be once a week, but there's a big difference between ideals and actual practice, so we'll see what happens. <br /><br />Once again, I hope you like what you find; and if you do, remember, I consider comments to be the best compliments you can give me!Rebekah H.http://www.blogger.com/profile/18290069833908695272noreply@blogger.com2