I have a weakness for reading books that CS Lewis enjoyed. I have more than one compilation of works that delve into Lewis' favourite classics and works. One such being Precious Bane by Mary Webb. I have been meaning to read this for eons but finally got around to it ( thank you Orillia Public Library). After a ramble down by the harbour yesterday I wandered into the library to see if it was there on the stacks and sure enough an age old hardcover sat waiting for me to pounce. I cancelled my amazon order for it but after my recent finish may have to put the order in again.
I loved it. I had no trouble becoming accustomed to the Shropshire diction that Webb uses and I found the setting more than amicable. It reads almost like a fairytale, its hare-lipped narrator, Prue Sarn the unlikely fairy princess she dreams of being. Her prince, Kester Woodseaves the perfect knight who whisks her off on his horse to a marriage and a sunset.
A dark fairytale to be sure, with a grim brother an abusive temperamental father and a superstitious tribunal of a town waiting to claim our poor heroine as one of the devil's very own. But Prue is full of love and wit and resource. She saves the life of her beloved before she ever engages in conversation with him.
I loved this heroine and I fell hard for the first person narrative. I was ecstatic that today's read, though so varied from yesterday's, was equally as captivating.
And yes, Clive Staples wins again. This duck has a great track record when it comes to good reads. Come to think of it, for writing good reads as well as recommending them. Awww.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Saturday, August 05, 2006
"When I was Young and in my Prime" Alayna Munce
My friend Kristine has been going on about this book for months now. Apparently a close friend of her sister's, Alayna Munce is a Torontonian who, after reading this book this afternoon, I believe to be one of the most atmospheric Canadian writers on the market. She captures Parkdale and its usual, eccentric, awkward bustle quite acutely.
Our nameless narrator is spun into a world of nostalgia and inspiration as she sorts through her grandparents' timeless letters, diaries and memorabilia. Her grandmother has alzheimers; her grandfather weakens physically the moment they put his spouse in a home. This disintegrating relationship mirrors the narrators' own.
I don't usually enjoy books where poetry is interspersed and breaks the narrative flow. However, Munce is far from overpowering. I found her a little pretentious at times ( a phrase involving Tolstoy and moralistic romanticism comes to mind as a springboard for a thought that is left fragmentary ) but more often that not the narrator's observations ---at No Frills or on the street car --- are a welcome antidote to any Torontonian stuck thinking they live in merely a static, smelly zoo.
This was a good read for someone who has just left the city and is trying to piece together her own reminiscences. What parts and neighbourhoods will stand as the defining ones? What ones make me cringle and crackle: "God! I'm so glad I'm gone!"
When I was Young and In my Prime is a book of love but it is also a book of regret. The prosaic timbre of the book echoes Anne Michael's brilliant Fugitive Pieces and I was grateful for a relapse into that beautiful weaving of poetic realism.
Moving has forbidden as much reading as I would have liked but I have fallen hard for Ellen Kushner author of a series of novels set in the fantastic albeit Regency-esque realm of Riverside. I was captivated most by The Privilege of the Sword which follows a female swashbuckler-to-be, Katherine Talbert and her new status as protector of her eccentric and flamboyant uncle, Alec Campion. Kushner is a painter of words and she has a luscious canvas to embroider. Every salon and every rampant, risque party is a treat. The interweaving metafictional story of The Swordsman whose name was Not death is an ironically witty treat. I was most taken by the character of St.Vier who, to my utter delight, figures prominently in Kushner's Swordspoint. Kushner is the kind of author that makes me want to genre hop and spend more time reading fantasy novels. She is literate and humorous and has a huge heart. I love authors whose personality shines into their work. Kushner delighted me and I hope she does not stop there.
Now having moved, painted and unpacked I hope to be spending more time reading. Reading all of the time is preferable but I am sure there will be moments lent to other activity ( quel dommage ).
Our nameless narrator is spun into a world of nostalgia and inspiration as she sorts through her grandparents' timeless letters, diaries and memorabilia. Her grandmother has alzheimers; her grandfather weakens physically the moment they put his spouse in a home. This disintegrating relationship mirrors the narrators' own.
I don't usually enjoy books where poetry is interspersed and breaks the narrative flow. However, Munce is far from overpowering. I found her a little pretentious at times ( a phrase involving Tolstoy and moralistic romanticism comes to mind as a springboard for a thought that is left fragmentary ) but more often that not the narrator's observations ---at No Frills or on the street car --- are a welcome antidote to any Torontonian stuck thinking they live in merely a static, smelly zoo.
This was a good read for someone who has just left the city and is trying to piece together her own reminiscences. What parts and neighbourhoods will stand as the defining ones? What ones make me cringle and crackle: "God! I'm so glad I'm gone!"
When I was Young and In my Prime is a book of love but it is also a book of regret. The prosaic timbre of the book echoes Anne Michael's brilliant Fugitive Pieces and I was grateful for a relapse into that beautiful weaving of poetic realism.
Moving has forbidden as much reading as I would have liked but I have fallen hard for Ellen Kushner author of a series of novels set in the fantastic albeit Regency-esque realm of Riverside. I was captivated most by The Privilege of the Sword which follows a female swashbuckler-to-be, Katherine Talbert and her new status as protector of her eccentric and flamboyant uncle, Alec Campion. Kushner is a painter of words and she has a luscious canvas to embroider. Every salon and every rampant, risque party is a treat. The interweaving metafictional story of The Swordsman whose name was Not death is an ironically witty treat. I was most taken by the character of St.Vier who, to my utter delight, figures prominently in Kushner's Swordspoint. Kushner is the kind of author that makes me want to genre hop and spend more time reading fantasy novels. She is literate and humorous and has a huge heart. I love authors whose personality shines into their work. Kushner delighted me and I hope she does not stop there.
Now having moved, painted and unpacked I hope to be spending more time reading. Reading all of the time is preferable but I am sure there will be moments lent to other activity ( quel dommage ).
Sunday, July 23, 2006
No Brainer
Levi's Will by Dale Cramer aka the best Christian fiction writer on the market ( though I am still awfully fond of the Thoenes ) won the Christy Award. This may not mean a lot in the grand scheme of secular bookselling, but I have tried to inflitrate him into the Faulkner/Harper Lee/ Leif Enger readership so I hope my small contribution is somehow aiding a bigger effort. Namely, take the two Christian extremes ( Apocalyptical horror a la Frank Peretti and Jenkins/ Lahaye and Mail-Order Bride Historical series with amish people and goats ) and even them out into something greater; Something so fantastic you can slide it to a secular friend without them knowing what they are reading. The archetypal safe fare of poorly written first person romantic narratives paired with the recent fascination with celtic people, the slave trade and composers of hymns as the male leads, should instead be replaced by sterner stuff; books that are literary and challenging and substitute a bludgeon over the head with a more subtle ethical background. Grace at the foremost, yes, but not the kind of grace that expects your reader to be spoonfed the gospels.... or moreover, the kind that shovels it down your throat if your unsuspecting mouth seems to be drooping wide. I want to be proud of Christian fiction. I want to pair the Dostoyevsky and Hugo I slid into the Christian Library I worked at with contemporary pseudo-masterpieces.
A Retrospect: I once engaged in a book I thought held eons of potential. It was set in Oxford in the 1960's and its major motif was that of the Inklings---that famous theological grouping that held Lewis, Williams and Tolkien at the now infamous Eagle and Baby. Here, the aforementioned would gather and plot and discuss--Sometimes deliciously allowing a brilliant female to intercept their predominantly male gatherings. (Here, of course, I refer to my theological goddess/mystery maven Dorothy L. Sayers ). I eagerly read on gathering that the book was peppered with romance, and thought ....to my delight.... Shakespeare. However, there was a car crash, a weepy wide-eyed night worthy of Lavyrle Spencer and, horrifically, a sequel where the once ambitious Shakesperian scholar-to-be traded her Oxford education for a potential brood of children( at the tender age of 21, I believe ) because God had called her to raise a large family. Words cannot descibe how incensed I was at the author and the book. Who am I to question the Will of the Almighty when it comes to dropping higher education to raise children? But, with few other books to counter this familial archetype, I was distraught. If readers who dapple fleetingly in the Christian market are subjected to women adhering to a long-passe social role, how can we ever convince them that there is light outside of Mitford, that not all Christian women are baking in the kitchen, and that the whole of the Christian marketplace is not the rainy-day, feel-good squishiness of Karen Kingsbury.
I want Christian Fiction with heart and guts and brains. When I was in elementary school, my young and developing imagination had no problem seeping the works of Janette Oke and BJ Hoff. The italicized prayers were wonderfully appropos, the cheesy covers ( the gawdawful covers ) with their pastels and portraits of ladies bonneted and gentleman in strawhats and suspenders did not phase me. Then, I grew up and titles like " When Hope Springs New" didn't cut it anymore. For a long time the Christian market did not exist outside of the "prairie" romance; The long series where books 2 and 7 were always out of print or unavailable. And, when it did occasionally stray from the expected, it was only to delve into the antiromance, the antonym. Raise your hands if you're still freaked out by Peretti's Door to the Dragon's Throat. Throw in a Chuck Colson and a Grant Jeffrey for good measure and you have a wavering pendulum. Sappy historical and death, destruction apocalyptic with one or two of a Grisham like law book in between. And is it utterly impossible for these people to throw anything remotely literary into this jargoning jingoism? I was delighted to read " Because of Winn Dixie " by Kate Di Camillo because I found strings of religion in the figure of a mangy mutt. How desperate are we?!?!
Yet in lapses of despair, I have never ever given up on the potential of a great Christian read. Perhaps something that leans more to the Tolkienian ideal of Pre-Evangelim.... a Christian book that has more to do with ethical themes and a woven strand of subtle grace than down right allegory or sermonizing.
Ironically, the book Christy by Catherine Marshall , the namesake of Cramer's recent award, seems still ( and encouragingly) to be a placid middle ground for some readers. Even if it has never been published with a cover worthy of its inner-genius, it is the antidote for a the rumbling rant I have presently typed. I had a customer today come back after falling head-over-heels for Neil MacNeil ( hel-lo! She's human, isn't she? ) and tell me " My friend told me that this was a Christian book. Is that true?" Ahh.... bliss. Carry on Dale Cramer. Break down the barriers and please spare us from the sisterchicks, the uber-apocalyptic destruction scenes ( with the low budget Kirk Cameron spinoffs ) and most of all the new Austen-ish vein of taking a heroine and throwing her in calamitous situations only your great grandmother would find even remotely amusing. If she does crosswords in her spare time, even worse!
A Retrospect: I once engaged in a book I thought held eons of potential. It was set in Oxford in the 1960's and its major motif was that of the Inklings---that famous theological grouping that held Lewis, Williams and Tolkien at the now infamous Eagle and Baby. Here, the aforementioned would gather and plot and discuss--Sometimes deliciously allowing a brilliant female to intercept their predominantly male gatherings. (Here, of course, I refer to my theological goddess/mystery maven Dorothy L. Sayers ). I eagerly read on gathering that the book was peppered with romance, and thought ....to my delight.... Shakespeare. However, there was a car crash, a weepy wide-eyed night worthy of Lavyrle Spencer and, horrifically, a sequel where the once ambitious Shakesperian scholar-to-be traded her Oxford education for a potential brood of children( at the tender age of 21, I believe ) because God had called her to raise a large family. Words cannot descibe how incensed I was at the author and the book. Who am I to question the Will of the Almighty when it comes to dropping higher education to raise children? But, with few other books to counter this familial archetype, I was distraught. If readers who dapple fleetingly in the Christian market are subjected to women adhering to a long-passe social role, how can we ever convince them that there is light outside of Mitford, that not all Christian women are baking in the kitchen, and that the whole of the Christian marketplace is not the rainy-day, feel-good squishiness of Karen Kingsbury.
I want Christian Fiction with heart and guts and brains. When I was in elementary school, my young and developing imagination had no problem seeping the works of Janette Oke and BJ Hoff. The italicized prayers were wonderfully appropos, the cheesy covers ( the gawdawful covers ) with their pastels and portraits of ladies bonneted and gentleman in strawhats and suspenders did not phase me. Then, I grew up and titles like " When Hope Springs New" didn't cut it anymore. For a long time the Christian market did not exist outside of the "prairie" romance; The long series where books 2 and 7 were always out of print or unavailable. And, when it did occasionally stray from the expected, it was only to delve into the antiromance, the antonym. Raise your hands if you're still freaked out by Peretti's Door to the Dragon's Throat. Throw in a Chuck Colson and a Grant Jeffrey for good measure and you have a wavering pendulum. Sappy historical and death, destruction apocalyptic with one or two of a Grisham like law book in between. And is it utterly impossible for these people to throw anything remotely literary into this jargoning jingoism? I was delighted to read " Because of Winn Dixie " by Kate Di Camillo because I found strings of religion in the figure of a mangy mutt. How desperate are we?!?!
Yet in lapses of despair, I have never ever given up on the potential of a great Christian read. Perhaps something that leans more to the Tolkienian ideal of Pre-Evangelim.... a Christian book that has more to do with ethical themes and a woven strand of subtle grace than down right allegory or sermonizing.
Ironically, the book Christy by Catherine Marshall , the namesake of Cramer's recent award, seems still ( and encouragingly) to be a placid middle ground for some readers. Even if it has never been published with a cover worthy of its inner-genius, it is the antidote for a the rumbling rant I have presently typed. I had a customer today come back after falling head-over-heels for Neil MacNeil ( hel-lo! She's human, isn't she? ) and tell me " My friend told me that this was a Christian book. Is that true?" Ahh.... bliss. Carry on Dale Cramer. Break down the barriers and please spare us from the sisterchicks, the uber-apocalyptic destruction scenes ( with the low budget Kirk Cameron spinoffs ) and most of all the new Austen-ish vein of taking a heroine and throwing her in calamitous situations only your great grandmother would find even remotely amusing. If she does crosswords in her spare time, even worse!
Monday, July 17, 2006
Patricia C. Wrede, "New Moon", and some sea-faring for the kiddies
Okay. So, I really like teenie lit. We all know this. But we also know that I can chalk it up to *ahem* research because I am finishing my own teenie lit series. Also, we must recognize that it is summer and I just finished a Specialist degree in Victorian Lit. So, I have paid my dues and read many eight thousand long books with words like "thither", "ponder", and surreptitiously."
Having listed my credentials, I should basically be able to read whate'er I want.
So.... I do.
Take for instance, this wonderful, blossoming genre of Regency-lit for kids. I would like to start by thanking Patricia C. Wrede for this delightful, delectable, delicacy. First, through Sorcery and Cecilia and The Grand Tour: sort of an epistolary Georgette Heyer for the small fry; and now, enchantingly, Mairelon the Magician and The Magician's Ward. Magic of yesteryear is indeed sexy. I like to think of man "Darcy-clad" in cravats prancing ( a la Scarlet Pimpernel) about the "ton" ,as it were ,and flashing their magic tricks. Kudos to Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell for further whetting the world's appetite for this sort of thing.
Mairelon the Magician and its worthy sequel are peppered with witty banter and rapport, and enticing "cant" used by the streetsmart Kim who unwittingly ( and unwillingly) becomes ward to the "toff" Mairelon: Magician by day, spy for the British Office and Lord of the upper gentry by night.
The relationship between Kim and Mairelon took some unexpected turns that had me squealing late, late into last night . This is the kind of book you want to sneak the flashlight under the covers for.
I also read New Moon-- the sequel to Twilight by Stephenie Meyer. This book takes an unexpectedly dark turn and I must say I was completely thrown off guard by the direction it is now heading in. I am sure she will round off the trilogy nicely in the promised third sequence.
Details I shall keep tightly under lock and key seeing as I was fortunate enough to read this in its galley proof and most of the rest of the world is still anticipatorily expecting their amazon pre-orders.
I have a thing for boats. We all know this. It will be my downfall ( meaning I will one day rush off to sea, toss my self aloft and somehow, strangely, drown), but I can live vicariously through wonderful sea faring tales of the dark and deep. I am always intrigued when authors of the YA persuasion use this setting for their coming-of-age tales. For really, Horatio Hornblower, and the early non-Aubrey/Maturin O'Brian books, use ships as the vessel for self maturation.
I can eagerly recommend Peter Raven Under Fire, a recent nautical acquisition. Also, the Young Man and the Sea ( a well-needed update of the Hemingway classic for the 9-12 age range. And, my love of all things Maritimer was well-founded in Pirate's Passage by Gilkerson.
Having listed my credentials, I should basically be able to read whate'er I want.
So.... I do.
Take for instance, this wonderful, blossoming genre of Regency-lit for kids. I would like to start by thanking Patricia C. Wrede for this delightful, delectable, delicacy. First, through Sorcery and Cecilia and The Grand Tour: sort of an epistolary Georgette Heyer for the small fry; and now, enchantingly, Mairelon the Magician and The Magician's Ward. Magic of yesteryear is indeed sexy. I like to think of man "Darcy-clad" in cravats prancing ( a la Scarlet Pimpernel) about the "ton" ,as it were ,and flashing their magic tricks. Kudos to Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell for further whetting the world's appetite for this sort of thing.
Mairelon the Magician and its worthy sequel are peppered with witty banter and rapport, and enticing "cant" used by the streetsmart Kim who unwittingly ( and unwillingly) becomes ward to the "toff" Mairelon: Magician by day, spy for the British Office and Lord of the upper gentry by night.
The relationship between Kim and Mairelon took some unexpected turns that had me squealing late, late into last night . This is the kind of book you want to sneak the flashlight under the covers for.
I also read New Moon-- the sequel to Twilight by Stephenie Meyer. This book takes an unexpectedly dark turn and I must say I was completely thrown off guard by the direction it is now heading in. I am sure she will round off the trilogy nicely in the promised third sequence.
Details I shall keep tightly under lock and key seeing as I was fortunate enough to read this in its galley proof and most of the rest of the world is still anticipatorily expecting their amazon pre-orders.
I have a thing for boats. We all know this. It will be my downfall ( meaning I will one day rush off to sea, toss my self aloft and somehow, strangely, drown), but I can live vicariously through wonderful sea faring tales of the dark and deep. I am always intrigued when authors of the YA persuasion use this setting for their coming-of-age tales. For really, Horatio Hornblower, and the early non-Aubrey/Maturin O'Brian books, use ships as the vessel for self maturation.
I can eagerly recommend Peter Raven Under Fire, a recent nautical acquisition. Also, the Young Man and the Sea ( a well-needed update of the Hemingway classic for the 9-12 age range. And, my love of all things Maritimer was well-founded in Pirate's Passage by Gilkerson.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
"Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist" by Rachel Cohn/David Levithan, "Catherine, Called Birdy" Karen Cushman
Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist:
First off, I like the throw-back to the Nick and Nora of Dashiell Hammett's The Thin Man.
Secondly, I enjoy both of these authors when they are writing singularly. I especially enjoyed the books Gingerbread and Shrimp by Rachel Cohn. The fresh, quirky narrative reminded me of Francesca Lia Block's fantastic "Dangerous Angels"/Weetzie Bat series.
I also enjoyed the premise of "Nick and Nora"---two music lovers meet at a punky, sweaty concert. Nick grabs the closest girl next to him to kiss just as the girl who broke his heart walks by and Nora obliges. This part consumated in the first chapters and the need for a buildup to reach the moment ( as is the case in so many teen novels ) relinquished, the next hundred-odd pages jumps His/Her perspectives, as Nick and Nora learn about each other and New York. New York becomes their playground; it is a whirlwind of adventures and the perfect scene to add to their rotating music video-type life.
One of the off-sets of the writing is the perpetual need to curse. Honestly, I am a bit of a prude, but even I shrug off a strong word now and then for the sake of poetic license. In Nick and Nora's case it actually detracts from the narrative. The reader is instead puzzling " How will Levithan and Cohn slide this "f" here and this one there...."
I know that in the name of edginess, the teenie novelists are dying to scrape down the conservative wallpaper of inhibition. But please, does originality have to be sacrificed in its stead?
An interesting whiz perfect for a night when you feel like hitting The Bronze with Buffy and Xander....it's that kind of book.
Catherine, Called Birdy is the first novel by Karen Cushman-- a now hugely popular YA novelist ( specifically in the YA genre ) who has won the Newberry. Set in the medieval time periods, Catherine is a spunky heroine who keeps an " account" of the goings-on in her quiet home and village . Although she is well and high-bred, her family's poverty asserts she marry wealthy. A score of suitors show up to court the young maiden and Catherine fights them all off... with pranks and pleas and costume changes ( such as mouse bones in her hair and blacking soot on her teeth ). It is Catherine's pursuit of her own happiness that makes this book so intriguing. Her perserverence and her refusal to marry anyone deemd unworthy sets her above the rest.
Cushman paints the medieval period without romanticism. It is grubby and gritty and dirty and crass. We see the grease, learn of the privy and hear many of the time's exclamatory remarks.
not a bad read at all. I can see why it is a favourite of some of today's more prominent young adult novelists ( Meg Cabot, et al).
First off, I like the throw-back to the Nick and Nora of Dashiell Hammett's The Thin Man.
Secondly, I enjoy both of these authors when they are writing singularly. I especially enjoyed the books Gingerbread and Shrimp by Rachel Cohn. The fresh, quirky narrative reminded me of Francesca Lia Block's fantastic "Dangerous Angels"/Weetzie Bat series.
I also enjoyed the premise of "Nick and Nora"---two music lovers meet at a punky, sweaty concert. Nick grabs the closest girl next to him to kiss just as the girl who broke his heart walks by and Nora obliges. This part consumated in the first chapters and the need for a buildup to reach the moment ( as is the case in so many teen novels ) relinquished, the next hundred-odd pages jumps His/Her perspectives, as Nick and Nora learn about each other and New York. New York becomes their playground; it is a whirlwind of adventures and the perfect scene to add to their rotating music video-type life.
One of the off-sets of the writing is the perpetual need to curse. Honestly, I am a bit of a prude, but even I shrug off a strong word now and then for the sake of poetic license. In Nick and Nora's case it actually detracts from the narrative. The reader is instead puzzling " How will Levithan and Cohn slide this "f" here and this one there...."
I know that in the name of edginess, the teenie novelists are dying to scrape down the conservative wallpaper of inhibition. But please, does originality have to be sacrificed in its stead?
An interesting whiz perfect for a night when you feel like hitting The Bronze with Buffy and Xander....it's that kind of book.
Catherine, Called Birdy is the first novel by Karen Cushman-- a now hugely popular YA novelist ( specifically in the YA genre ) who has won the Newberry. Set in the medieval time periods, Catherine is a spunky heroine who keeps an " account" of the goings-on in her quiet home and village . Although she is well and high-bred, her family's poverty asserts she marry wealthy. A score of suitors show up to court the young maiden and Catherine fights them all off... with pranks and pleas and costume changes ( such as mouse bones in her hair and blacking soot on her teeth ). It is Catherine's pursuit of her own happiness that makes this book so intriguing. Her perserverence and her refusal to marry anyone deemd unworthy sets her above the rest.
Cushman paints the medieval period without romanticism. It is grubby and gritty and dirty and crass. We see the grease, learn of the privy and hear many of the time's exclamatory remarks.
not a bad read at all. I can see why it is a favourite of some of today's more prominent young adult novelists ( Meg Cabot, et al).
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Twilight by Stephenie Meyer
ahhh Vampires. What would I do without them? They never quite captivated me with the exception of Count Dracula on Sesame Street. But then, early in the century, a blondie, British Manchester united fan, with a wicked ( pun intended ) sense of humour graced the small screen with his interpretation of the men of the night. This coffin-sleeper, grave-dweller, caught me ( especially when he was wandering around Sunnydale in a suit with Giles the Watcher ) and kept me. I liked the forbidden romance motif. The vampire and the slayer. Doomed, right? The ripest of forbidden fruit. This time the forbidden fruit is a little more subtle. This vamp is not dating a Slayer, instead a sweet tempered, self proclaimed "albino" senior at a high school in Forks, DC. The gorgeous vamp is Edward Cullen: a wispish thing with tawny hair and a dazzling crooked smile. He is not, as is usually thought, burned by the sun, yet sparkled by it. He is more angel than vamp, and more often than not ready and willing to save our hapless heroine from the trouble she seeps apt to find herself in.
Twilight is told in first person. A well-narrated first person is a treat for the gods, a bad one is ...well, I think we all know my low tolerance level for it. Meyers' Bella is a treat. She is believable ( as believable as a senior with a hankering after vamps CAN be ) and the story whips through its 500+ pages rather rapidly. I usually don't find myself drawn to the pretty boys but this Edward thing is quite the looker/rescuer/guy. Having lived since the early 20th Century is musically inclined ( and proficient at that ) and has read a heck of a lot ( to the delight of the bookwormish Bella ). He speaks articulately and always seems slightly out of reach. Physically inpenetratable, but nonetheless a foil for some of the most intense unacted sensuality I have read in a teen book in a long time. You could cut the vamp/human sexual tension with a knife. Especially when Edward takes the unsuspecting Bella to a sunny meadow. His body lights like twinkles on a Christmas tree and I thought for sure they were going to take their playful kissing a step or two further ( I might not have minded ).
Meyers kept me hooked. I appreciated her use of older names for Edward's "vamp" siblings: Esme and Carlisle and Emmett and Rosalie: distinguishing the unhuman dead ones from the rest of the high school and the small, rainy town. Meyers relinquishes a lot of the popular vampire lore, instead twisting it and making it her own . A self proclaimed LM Montgomery fan, I was sure Jasper Hale was a shout out to a certain stuttering recluse in the Chronicles of Avonlea.
There were two major problems with the novel. First, the concept of timing. I felt Edward and Bella's relationship happened quickly and rather abruptly. Secondly, that we never really knew how long they had known each other. Now that I have finished, I realize that the arc of the story is framed by the beginning of school in chapter one and the Prom in the epilogue.
The second problem is the Vampire baseball game. This is the crux that catapults the beginning of the terrifying climax but it didn't seem the right way to begin the spiral to the end. It was a little silly, to say the least and the least credible of what I thought was a fairly easy-to-fall-into world.
Good show. Now cracking the spine of New Moon: the Second in what is to be a trilogy.
Twilight is told in first person. A well-narrated first person is a treat for the gods, a bad one is ...well, I think we all know my low tolerance level for it. Meyers' Bella is a treat. She is believable ( as believable as a senior with a hankering after vamps CAN be ) and the story whips through its 500+ pages rather rapidly. I usually don't find myself drawn to the pretty boys but this Edward thing is quite the looker/rescuer/guy. Having lived since the early 20th Century is musically inclined ( and proficient at that ) and has read a heck of a lot ( to the delight of the bookwormish Bella ). He speaks articulately and always seems slightly out of reach. Physically inpenetratable, but nonetheless a foil for some of the most intense unacted sensuality I have read in a teen book in a long time. You could cut the vamp/human sexual tension with a knife. Especially when Edward takes the unsuspecting Bella to a sunny meadow. His body lights like twinkles on a Christmas tree and I thought for sure they were going to take their playful kissing a step or two further ( I might not have minded ).
Meyers kept me hooked. I appreciated her use of older names for Edward's "vamp" siblings: Esme and Carlisle and Emmett and Rosalie: distinguishing the unhuman dead ones from the rest of the high school and the small, rainy town. Meyers relinquishes a lot of the popular vampire lore, instead twisting it and making it her own . A self proclaimed LM Montgomery fan, I was sure Jasper Hale was a shout out to a certain stuttering recluse in the Chronicles of Avonlea.
There were two major problems with the novel. First, the concept of timing. I felt Edward and Bella's relationship happened quickly and rather abruptly. Secondly, that we never really knew how long they had known each other. Now that I have finished, I realize that the arc of the story is framed by the beginning of school in chapter one and the Prom in the epilogue.
The second problem is the Vampire baseball game. This is the crux that catapults the beginning of the terrifying climax but it didn't seem the right way to begin the spiral to the end. It was a little silly, to say the least and the least credible of what I thought was a fairly easy-to-fall-into world.
Good show. Now cracking the spine of New Moon: the Second in what is to be a trilogy.
Friday, July 07, 2006
The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
The last time I read the Secret Garden I was young.... very young. So young, my young self thought that the London mentioned in stories must be the same as the one where my aunt lived ( in Ontario ); not that far out of reach. The Secret Garden had such an impact on my burgeoning imagination, that traveling to visit London Ontario, every beautiful Victorian farmhouse dotting the villages and hamlets leading to the city ( Arva, Lucan, Birr ) were all potential candidates for where the story took place. Don't try to tell my eight year old self that the Yorkshire moors are a far cry from Huron County farm country. I wouldn't believe you.
I cannot believe I waited this long to revisit the magic of one of the very first novels I remember reading. Yet, funnily, everything came back so easily it seemed as if it were one of my oldest friends. I loved reading of Dickon: the magic boy who could enchant the wildlife around him, of Mary the contrary miss who barked at the servant Martha but was still given ( by the same ) a skipping rope, and of Archibald Craven, the slightly deformed, Rochesterish lord of the manner, who came and went at will, who probably dressed wholly in black and who neglected his hypochondriac ghost-son named Colin---- so afraid of developing a lump to match his father's, Colin stayed in bed all day. Until Mary rescued him.....and a garden. At the same time.
Of course the rebirth motif is completely lost to a whipper-snapper, but Burnett weaves so well the awakening of the soul and the revitilization of the spirit with the sudden rekindling of the magic garden: locked after the death of its beautiful, timeless mistress. In fact, by the end, the garden and the boy Dickon seem so seamlessly intertwined, one wonders if Dickon actually existed. Is he instead a human metaphor for the liveliness the garden instills in those who tend it?
The reunion scene between the once-lame Colin who runs to his father, breathless and refreshed is very endearing.
I am glad I stumbled upon this again. Loved gushing over it with my friends and making them revisit it as well. I think it is one of the books that influenced a lot of children when they were young.
I cannot believe I waited this long to revisit the magic of one of the very first novels I remember reading. Yet, funnily, everything came back so easily it seemed as if it were one of my oldest friends. I loved reading of Dickon: the magic boy who could enchant the wildlife around him, of Mary the contrary miss who barked at the servant Martha but was still given ( by the same ) a skipping rope, and of Archibald Craven, the slightly deformed, Rochesterish lord of the manner, who came and went at will, who probably dressed wholly in black and who neglected his hypochondriac ghost-son named Colin---- so afraid of developing a lump to match his father's, Colin stayed in bed all day. Until Mary rescued him.....and a garden. At the same time.
Of course the rebirth motif is completely lost to a whipper-snapper, but Burnett weaves so well the awakening of the soul and the revitilization of the spirit with the sudden rekindling of the magic garden: locked after the death of its beautiful, timeless mistress. In fact, by the end, the garden and the boy Dickon seem so seamlessly intertwined, one wonders if Dickon actually existed. Is he instead a human metaphor for the liveliness the garden instills in those who tend it?
The reunion scene between the once-lame Colin who runs to his father, breathless and refreshed is very endearing.
I am glad I stumbled upon this again. Loved gushing over it with my friends and making them revisit it as well. I think it is one of the books that influenced a lot of children when they were young.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Charlie Bone and the Hidden King by Jenny Nimmo
The Charlie Bone series has been one of my favourite kids series over the past couple of years. There are moments where I swear I like it better than Harry Potter. It's gentler and it is something you can sit down and relax in. Like the photographs Charlie can enter and travel through, you melt into the world of the characters, of Bloor Academy, of Paton ( my favourite) the Light booster and Julia Ingledew's medievalesque bookshop.
Although many of the secretive elements and mysteries of the story are not so cleverly cloaked ( you know by the end of the first book the identity of Charlie's missing father ), it is not the surprise, yet the journey to Charlie's discovery that makes the Children of the Red King books such a delight .
I knew when we reached the fifth ( and according to Jenny Nimmo the last ), all slightly dangling threads would have to be tied neatly up. In the basest sense, the Hidden King leaves you with that satisfaction. However, I would have liked a little more "meat" at the end, so to speak, when the conclusion and it's Happily-ever-after are presented. I would have liked a little more after the discovery and the climax. Just some time to sit happily and watch reunions. Further, since I find Charlie's uncle Paton the most interesting character in the series, I would have enjoyed his reunion with Lyell Bone and subsequently his engagement (?) to Julia Ingledew. On that note, I could have done with more information on Benjamin Brown and how his story turned out, the same for Olivia Vertigo and even Billy, the small albino kid who can talk to animals.
Nimmo tied the plot up enough that a smile spread across my face but I still found it skeletal. She could have fleshed things out a little more for me.
Nonetheless, this Quintet ( especially its finale ) have been worth the four year span. I sell them far more than most Children's books at the store and forever have customers return enchanted.
Farewell Charlie Bone, sensitive boy who can travel into pictures and roam around. I am sure I will revisit you on many occasions.
Although many of the secretive elements and mysteries of the story are not so cleverly cloaked ( you know by the end of the first book the identity of Charlie's missing father ), it is not the surprise, yet the journey to Charlie's discovery that makes the Children of the Red King books such a delight .
I knew when we reached the fifth ( and according to Jenny Nimmo the last ), all slightly dangling threads would have to be tied neatly up. In the basest sense, the Hidden King leaves you with that satisfaction. However, I would have liked a little more "meat" at the end, so to speak, when the conclusion and it's Happily-ever-after are presented. I would have liked a little more after the discovery and the climax. Just some time to sit happily and watch reunions. Further, since I find Charlie's uncle Paton the most interesting character in the series, I would have enjoyed his reunion with Lyell Bone and subsequently his engagement (?) to Julia Ingledew. On that note, I could have done with more information on Benjamin Brown and how his story turned out, the same for Olivia Vertigo and even Billy, the small albino kid who can talk to animals.
Nimmo tied the plot up enough that a smile spread across my face but I still found it skeletal. She could have fleshed things out a little more for me.
Nonetheless, this Quintet ( especially its finale ) have been worth the four year span. I sell them far more than most Children's books at the store and forever have customers return enchanted.
Farewell Charlie Bone, sensitive boy who can travel into pictures and roam around. I am sure I will revisit you on many occasions.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Just some more stuff I've read
Novik, Naomi THRONE OF JADE
HIS MAJESTY'S DRAGON
John Lanchester THE DEBT TO PLEASURE
McKay, Hilary SAFFY'S ANGEL
INDIGO'S STAR
PERMANENT ROSE
Aiken, Joan BLACK HEARTS IN BATTERSEA
Bunn, T. Davis THE NIGHT ANGEL
Smith, Debbie AMANDA
Stockwin, Julian TENACIOUS
MacLeod, Alastair NO GREAT MISCHIEF
Birdsell, Sandra THE RUSSLANDER
Philbrick, Nathan THE YOUNG MAN AND THE SEA
Ferguson, Will BEAUTY TIPS FROM MOOSEJAW
WHY I HATE CANADIANS
HOW TO BE A CANADIAN ( with Ian Ferguson)
Shields, Charles MOCKINGBIRD: A LIFE OF HARPER LEE
Keating, HRF SHERLOCK HOLMES: THE MAN AND HIS WORLD
Morrissey, Deborah SYLVANUS NOW
Go Canadiana ( with a bit of Sherlockiana and kids books interspersed )
HIS MAJESTY'S DRAGON
John Lanchester THE DEBT TO PLEASURE
McKay, Hilary SAFFY'S ANGEL
INDIGO'S STAR
PERMANENT ROSE
Aiken, Joan BLACK HEARTS IN BATTERSEA
Bunn, T. Davis THE NIGHT ANGEL
Smith, Debbie AMANDA
Stockwin, Julian TENACIOUS
MacLeod, Alastair NO GREAT MISCHIEF
Birdsell, Sandra THE RUSSLANDER
Philbrick, Nathan THE YOUNG MAN AND THE SEA
Ferguson, Will BEAUTY TIPS FROM MOOSEJAW
WHY I HATE CANADIANS
HOW TO BE A CANADIAN ( with Ian Ferguson)
Shields, Charles MOCKINGBIRD: A LIFE OF HARPER LEE
Keating, HRF SHERLOCK HOLMES: THE MAN AND HIS WORLD
Morrissey, Deborah SYLVANUS NOW
Go Canadiana ( with a bit of Sherlockiana and kids books interspersed )
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Sherlockiana
I have been in a bit of a Sherlock draught, and after watching a snippet of the Richard Roxburgh Hound of the Baskervilles the other evening, I realized enough was enough. So, I toted out the Complete Annotated Sherlock Holmes edited by Leslie S. Klinger. Over the past two Christmases I have acquired all three of the expensive volumes, and though they have been looking beautiful chez Desktop, I have not yet cracked them open. Was I ever in for a treat. They are a dream!! It would take me years to go through every little tidbit or goody tucked in this extensive academia. I was most enthralled by Klinger's insertion of some of the great essays of the Baker Street Journal, which he has interspersed appropos where needed. Especially, on his personal essay about the Great Hiatus and some of the abounding theories of the Master's whereabouts.
Different boats float for different people, this is my boat Cookies. Klinger, an eminent member of the Baker Street Irregulars takes a much more scholarly approach to the Canon than his predecessor, William S. Baring-Gould the long time authority on annotated Sherlockiana. I have hours more to spend perusing this gorgeous set and cannot wait to learn more about the World's Greatest Fictional character.
My Sherlockian frame of mind led me to a couple of biographies on the subject. The first being Baring-Gould's thorough account aptly entitled Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street. Baring-Gould's theories are incredulous and not altogether credible, but a heck of a lot of fun anyhow. His most famous is that Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler produced an heir, that inimitable Nero Wolfe of Thirty Fifth Street. This is a little too much for me, but I enjoyed Baring-Gould's vast knowledge of everything Holmesian.
I was most impressed as well by June Thomson's Holmes and Watson: A Study in Friendship. This book gave some much needed time to our friend Wats., who is often sidelined Nigel-Bruce like as an erratic nitwit. I have been in love with Watson, our fair mediator, gambler, ladies' man for years and hate to seem him catagorized as such ( Ian Hart is the best Watson I have seen to date, by the way on film or on telly ). Thomson tends to generalize and often merely summarize some of the events spanning the forty six years of friendship but she makes some interesting notes about SH and Watson and her index is incredible ( she includes Dorothy L. Sayers, he-llo! ) Thomson addresses the ludicrous assumption of a homosexual relationship, and possible ( further plausible ) theories of her own concerning the Great Hiatus. Her insight into the Holmes-Mycroft relationship was also quite acute. I liked her idea that Holmes and Watson ( and Moriarty in fact ) may have met in Barts before the fateful Stamford introduction of A Study in Scarlet. Further, Thomson delves into Moriarty as a scientific genius supposing her may have calculated E=Mc2 before Einstein's birth. She spends equal time on Sherlock and Watson and draws on the gentler parts of their tumultuous relationship.
Mitch Cullin's A Slight Trick of the Mind peers into Holmes as an elderly gentleman around the time of the Second World War. Though less acerbic and sardonic than Michael Chabon's The Final Solution, it adds a tender psychological insight into the aged faltering of the World's Greatest mind.
John Lescroart's Son of Holmes dives into the world of the next Sherlock. I hate the portrayal of Watson, and Lescroart lacks Caleb Carr's astute Doylean voice circa. The Italian Secretary . Not my favourite pastiche.
I am always interested in people who take a different approach to the pastiche. For example, those who lurk in the minds of Moriarty and Lestrade, and even Mrs. Hudson. My favourites of the day include Carole Nelson Douglas and her Irene Adler series. Laurie R. King is the other authority in adding a feministic touch to the masculine world of the Baker street genius, but as Sherlock Holmes would never marry ( for mental equivocality or ANY other reason ), I write her off after the inspired The Beekeeper's Apprentice. Chapel Noir and Castle Rouge are the two Irene Adler books that dive into Jack the Ripper territory. I like the parallel between Nell Huxleigh ( the "Boswell" of the Adler series ) and the astute Irene and Holmes and Watson. Her slant on the Scandal itself ( the introduction to my favourite femme fatale ) is particularly colourful.
Different boats float for different people, this is my boat Cookies. Klinger, an eminent member of the Baker Street Irregulars takes a much more scholarly approach to the Canon than his predecessor, William S. Baring-Gould the long time authority on annotated Sherlockiana. I have hours more to spend perusing this gorgeous set and cannot wait to learn more about the World's Greatest Fictional character.
My Sherlockian frame of mind led me to a couple of biographies on the subject. The first being Baring-Gould's thorough account aptly entitled Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street. Baring-Gould's theories are incredulous and not altogether credible, but a heck of a lot of fun anyhow. His most famous is that Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler produced an heir, that inimitable Nero Wolfe of Thirty Fifth Street. This is a little too much for me, but I enjoyed Baring-Gould's vast knowledge of everything Holmesian.
I was most impressed as well by June Thomson's Holmes and Watson: A Study in Friendship. This book gave some much needed time to our friend Wats., who is often sidelined Nigel-Bruce like as an erratic nitwit. I have been in love with Watson, our fair mediator, gambler, ladies' man for years and hate to seem him catagorized as such ( Ian Hart is the best Watson I have seen to date, by the way on film or on telly ). Thomson tends to generalize and often merely summarize some of the events spanning the forty six years of friendship but she makes some interesting notes about SH and Watson and her index is incredible ( she includes Dorothy L. Sayers, he-llo! ) Thomson addresses the ludicrous assumption of a homosexual relationship, and possible ( further plausible ) theories of her own concerning the Great Hiatus. Her insight into the Holmes-Mycroft relationship was also quite acute. I liked her idea that Holmes and Watson ( and Moriarty in fact ) may have met in Barts before the fateful Stamford introduction of A Study in Scarlet. Further, Thomson delves into Moriarty as a scientific genius supposing her may have calculated E=Mc2 before Einstein's birth. She spends equal time on Sherlock and Watson and draws on the gentler parts of their tumultuous relationship.
Mitch Cullin's A Slight Trick of the Mind peers into Holmes as an elderly gentleman around the time of the Second World War. Though less acerbic and sardonic than Michael Chabon's The Final Solution, it adds a tender psychological insight into the aged faltering of the World's Greatest mind.
John Lescroart's Son of Holmes dives into the world of the next Sherlock. I hate the portrayal of Watson, and Lescroart lacks Caleb Carr's astute Doylean voice circa. The Italian Secretary . Not my favourite pastiche.
I am always interested in people who take a different approach to the pastiche. For example, those who lurk in the minds of Moriarty and Lestrade, and even Mrs. Hudson. My favourites of the day include Carole Nelson Douglas and her Irene Adler series. Laurie R. King is the other authority in adding a feministic touch to the masculine world of the Baker street genius, but as Sherlock Holmes would never marry ( for mental equivocality or ANY other reason ), I write her off after the inspired The Beekeeper's Apprentice. Chapel Noir and Castle Rouge are the two Irene Adler books that dive into Jack the Ripper territory. I like the parallel between Nell Huxleigh ( the "Boswell" of the Adler series ) and the astute Irene and Holmes and Watson. Her slant on the Scandal itself ( the introduction to my favourite femme fatale ) is particularly colourful.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
And it's quite a list with one downright hearty conclusion, mateys, I'm in love with Anthony Horowitz
Since my exams ended, I have done nothing but read kids's books. ... okay, a few adult ones too, but only in between.
I cannot possibly give them all some time cher bloggie because there are tons...tons.... tons of them....
Instead, I will pick away at some of the memorable ones.
First, Wendelin Van Draanen's Sammy Keyes series. They are not the greatest thing since sliced bread... not nearly as clever as my newfound friend, Peter Abrahams, but not bad for lunch breaks at work. So, I'm not whining.
A Parcel of Patterns by Jill Paton Walsh. This is a story about Mall, a young woman in a fictional rural English society Eyam in Derbyshire circa 1655. Therein, the plague strikes traveling via a parcel of dress patterns from the country's more urban centres. Mall has to watch the horrific ramifications of the disease that could kill her entire family and community in a fell swoop. The tenderness of this often haunting story is channelled in the character of Thomas, Mall's beloved shepherd, who risks his life burying the village's dead, foregoing any thoughts of his own contraction of the disease to stay near Mall.
The story seems rather dense for the 9-12 group it is listed for---what with Walsh's impeccable gutteral dialect and Mall's pitch perfect narrative----and, it has a bit of a cop-out ending that flowed a little too seamlessly, but nonetheless this is quite a collage, this Parcel, and I would recommend it to older readers.
Lily's Big Day by Kevin Henkes
I come from an extended family obsessed with Mr. Henkes. I have read Chrysanthemum, Wemberley Worried, and Julius, Baby of the World more times than a sane person should admit counting. Whenever I do a reading for primary kids I skip the rest of the books on the library shelf and skip to the Henkes. His YA books leave a lot to be desired, but his careful, humorous picture books are snort pop -out- your -nose funny. Lily's teacher is getting married and Lily ( our Scarlett O'Hara with whiskers, as one reviewer cites ) is determined to be the flower girl....whether or not a pretty little mouse named Ginger, her teacher's neice, has been chosen instead. More than one mouse spends time in the unco operative chair by the end. Too funny.
Once Upon a Marigold by Jean Ferris.
A cute story about a troll named Ed who adopts a boy named Christian who falls in love with a bookwormish princess named Marigold. Christian and Marigold's forbidden love is transplanted through p-mail ( mail carried a la pigeon ) and there are some cute laughs. Shrek-ish to say the least.
The Penderwicks by Jeanne Birdsall
This adorable throw back to the episodic tales of Alcott and Burnett is furnished by Birdsall.... first time novelist and lucky winner of the National Book Award for a chraming gem. I read most recommendations people give me and when someone said this might be my cup of earl grey, I hopped on. I was entranced by the summer magic afforded to four very different sisters and the rich boy next door ( Marchs and Laurie, anyone ? ) There are rabbits, a gardener named Cagney, and a four year old named Batty who always wears fairy wings. Fast driven plot, this is not.... however, it is savoury perfection for those who pine for the fiction of yesteryear. Loved it ! It made me breathe a sigh of calm relief.
Another book that tastes like peppermint tea is Mandy by the Julie Andrews who I had forgotten dabbled in kids' books. Mandy is a beautiful orphan story reminiscent of Alcott and Burnett. A Secret Garden-esque plot has our young orphan creeping over the hedges that line her orphanage and a broad beautiful estate beyond. Mandy commandeers a small nearby gardener's shed, fills it with trinkets, plants, and love and becomes even more desirous of a home of her own. It harks back to days of yore, tugs on ye olde heart strings, and makes the Melrose Duck sing. Good show.
Peppermints in the Parlour by Barbara Brookes Wallace.
Nice gothicky mystery for the whipper snappers with great, bleak language and Dickensian flair ( with a dash of Poe *natch*)
The Claidi Collection by Tanith Lee.
Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast for the Young Sort. Weird clockworky tale of fantasy and magic and mechanical things and romance.
Bilgewater by Jane Gardam
This book was recommended by my impeccable kids lit resource, but I cannot say I thoroughly enjoyed it. It was too dark for the mood I was in and read more sad than escapist. A young, flawed, awkward woman boards in her father's all boy's school and learns harshly the lessons of being closely scrutinized by members of the opposite sex. With the arrival of a suave, sophisticated girl linked to a nearby college, Marigold decides to dabble in chic-ness. The thing is cold and depressing, a Holden Caulfield for girls. It left me with a non-toothpasty taste in my mouth and I don't think I'll ever return. I like the name Terrapin though, and might use it in the future.
Shug by Jenny Han
Characters are named for the Colour Purple. Hello. Fun!
Ingo by Helen Dunmore
This decade's Splash for teens
I am the Messenger and The Book Thief by Marcus Zusak
We're talking uber dark, Duckies. One of the two of these morbid meanderings is narrated by death. But, both make statements, both meddle in the macabre, and one of the two delves into the horrors of the Holocaust. Kudos for intermingling suspense and history and itching to take a leap.
Trickster's Queen and The Will of the Empress by Tamora Pierce
Everyone in the world knows that I love Tamora Pierce and I shalt forever more so let me sum it up in "fantastic" and move on.
Okay, can I now finally squee about Anthony Horowitz? Book lovers of the world unite, this guy is Versatility in human form. Genius thy name is Horowitz. I must confess the obsession began a la Foyle's War, and Midsomer Murders, but he is so much more than a clever constructor of adult screenplays.
I love Alex Rider. Will forever more, and have now caught up finishing the last I needed Eagle Strike. Perfection. Cannot wait for the Rider movie in August.
Other Horowitzian delights sans Alex:
The Diamond Brothers' Series:
The Falcon's Malteser
South by Southeast
Public Enemy Number 2
Three of Diamonds.
If you don't want to read the aforementioned merely based on their clever titles, then something is obviously wrong with you. They are film noir for the kiddies.... Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade for a 12 year old. The kid wins... every time.... outsmarting his older, Private Eye brother and coming home with not the credit, but the carefully won hearts of every reader.
Horowitzian dapples into Elizabethan history ( is there anything this guy cannot do?) lead you to the Devil and his Boy. This book is partly written for the benefit of sceptical adults. You have to have a basic knowledge of the history to read how he turns Shakespeare for Dummies on its ear. I laughed hard.... very hard.... face very red and throat contorted hard. Tom Falconer reminds one of the protagonist in Cue For Treason by Geoffrey Trease, but he is far more humane and far more loveable and adventurous. In the speed-reader time it takes you to get from page one-176 you have an uber-short reconstruction of pigsty London, a quick fix of Shakespeare writing Titus Andronicus and an audience with the painted Queen ( not to mention a girl pick pocket worthy of Tess in Horatio Lyle). The ending is a surprise, though every cliche is trampled out blazingly. But the delight in Horowitzian cliche.... is he's laughing at it up his sleeve, and turning it on a 360 degree angle. This will not disappoint.
Anthony Horowitz meets Clive Barker and you've got the Gatekeeper's series:
Raven's Gate and Evil Star are darker than the usual Horowitzian fare. His dark, macabre humour is replaced with well... dark macabre. Scary and intended for the teen audience. I felt chills up my neck.
The last Horowitzian read was The Killing Joke: an irreverent smorgasboard of quips and satire for adults. A puzzle is intertwined with the quest of one man to find a joke's origin.... but his encounters along the way make this Quixotic tread memorable. A beach read with intellectual spice.
Welcome Home by Stuart McLean This is McLean's anthropological leap into the life of small town Canada. From Saskatchewan, Ontario, through Quebec and the Maritimes, McLean set himself a list of criteria and ran with his instinctive talent for capturing the everyday by visiting an array of towns sans bank machines, finding pin boys still existed at bowling alleys, and meeting people so real and so distinctively Canadian they captured the heart of the country: whether waiting at Corner Gas-ish bus stops, or chatting with Stuart about their most recent sculptural forage into the world of automotive metal squeezed into art, McLean is in his element. The best travel literature book I have read since the similarily Canadiana masterpiece-in-the-making Beauty Tips from Moosejaw by the irrepressible Will Ferguson
Last but not least the Sherlockian in me ignites with Laurie R. King's latest The Art of Detection. The title might surprise those used to her Sherlock Holmes/Mary Russell books when you find out it is actually set in modern San Francisco and pulls a CSI type look into the murder of a die hard Sherlockian.
King is an underrated mystery writer and throughly worth your time. She knows her ducks.... lines them in a row.... and adds a punch with her emotional appeal. I am a fan, yes I am.
I cannot possibly give them all some time cher bloggie because there are tons...tons.... tons of them....
Instead, I will pick away at some of the memorable ones.
First, Wendelin Van Draanen's Sammy Keyes series. They are not the greatest thing since sliced bread... not nearly as clever as my newfound friend, Peter Abrahams, but not bad for lunch breaks at work. So, I'm not whining.
A Parcel of Patterns by Jill Paton Walsh. This is a story about Mall, a young woman in a fictional rural English society Eyam in Derbyshire circa 1655. Therein, the plague strikes traveling via a parcel of dress patterns from the country's more urban centres. Mall has to watch the horrific ramifications of the disease that could kill her entire family and community in a fell swoop. The tenderness of this often haunting story is channelled in the character of Thomas, Mall's beloved shepherd, who risks his life burying the village's dead, foregoing any thoughts of his own contraction of the disease to stay near Mall.
The story seems rather dense for the 9-12 group it is listed for---what with Walsh's impeccable gutteral dialect and Mall's pitch perfect narrative----and, it has a bit of a cop-out ending that flowed a little too seamlessly, but nonetheless this is quite a collage, this Parcel, and I would recommend it to older readers.
Lily's Big Day by Kevin Henkes
I come from an extended family obsessed with Mr. Henkes. I have read Chrysanthemum, Wemberley Worried, and Julius, Baby of the World more times than a sane person should admit counting. Whenever I do a reading for primary kids I skip the rest of the books on the library shelf and skip to the Henkes. His YA books leave a lot to be desired, but his careful, humorous picture books are snort pop -out- your -nose funny. Lily's teacher is getting married and Lily ( our Scarlett O'Hara with whiskers, as one reviewer cites ) is determined to be the flower girl....whether or not a pretty little mouse named Ginger, her teacher's neice, has been chosen instead. More than one mouse spends time in the unco operative chair by the end. Too funny.
Once Upon a Marigold by Jean Ferris.
A cute story about a troll named Ed who adopts a boy named Christian who falls in love with a bookwormish princess named Marigold. Christian and Marigold's forbidden love is transplanted through p-mail ( mail carried a la pigeon ) and there are some cute laughs. Shrek-ish to say the least.
The Penderwicks by Jeanne Birdsall
This adorable throw back to the episodic tales of Alcott and Burnett is furnished by Birdsall.... first time novelist and lucky winner of the National Book Award for a chraming gem. I read most recommendations people give me and when someone said this might be my cup of earl grey, I hopped on. I was entranced by the summer magic afforded to four very different sisters and the rich boy next door ( Marchs and Laurie, anyone ? ) There are rabbits, a gardener named Cagney, and a four year old named Batty who always wears fairy wings. Fast driven plot, this is not.... however, it is savoury perfection for those who pine for the fiction of yesteryear. Loved it ! It made me breathe a sigh of calm relief.
Another book that tastes like peppermint tea is Mandy by the Julie Andrews who I had forgotten dabbled in kids' books. Mandy is a beautiful orphan story reminiscent of Alcott and Burnett. A Secret Garden-esque plot has our young orphan creeping over the hedges that line her orphanage and a broad beautiful estate beyond. Mandy commandeers a small nearby gardener's shed, fills it with trinkets, plants, and love and becomes even more desirous of a home of her own. It harks back to days of yore, tugs on ye olde heart strings, and makes the Melrose Duck sing. Good show.
Peppermints in the Parlour by Barbara Brookes Wallace.
Nice gothicky mystery for the whipper snappers with great, bleak language and Dickensian flair ( with a dash of Poe *natch*)
The Claidi Collection by Tanith Lee.
Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast for the Young Sort. Weird clockworky tale of fantasy and magic and mechanical things and romance.
Bilgewater by Jane Gardam
This book was recommended by my impeccable kids lit resource, but I cannot say I thoroughly enjoyed it. It was too dark for the mood I was in and read more sad than escapist. A young, flawed, awkward woman boards in her father's all boy's school and learns harshly the lessons of being closely scrutinized by members of the opposite sex. With the arrival of a suave, sophisticated girl linked to a nearby college, Marigold decides to dabble in chic-ness. The thing is cold and depressing, a Holden Caulfield for girls. It left me with a non-toothpasty taste in my mouth and I don't think I'll ever return. I like the name Terrapin though, and might use it in the future.
Shug by Jenny Han
Characters are named for the Colour Purple. Hello. Fun!
Ingo by Helen Dunmore
This decade's Splash for teens
I am the Messenger and The Book Thief by Marcus Zusak
We're talking uber dark, Duckies. One of the two of these morbid meanderings is narrated by death. But, both make statements, both meddle in the macabre, and one of the two delves into the horrors of the Holocaust. Kudos for intermingling suspense and history and itching to take a leap.
Trickster's Queen and The Will of the Empress by Tamora Pierce
Everyone in the world knows that I love Tamora Pierce and I shalt forever more so let me sum it up in "fantastic" and move on.
Okay, can I now finally squee about Anthony Horowitz? Book lovers of the world unite, this guy is Versatility in human form. Genius thy name is Horowitz. I must confess the obsession began a la Foyle's War, and Midsomer Murders, but he is so much more than a clever constructor of adult screenplays.
I love Alex Rider. Will forever more, and have now caught up finishing the last I needed Eagle Strike. Perfection. Cannot wait for the Rider movie in August.
Other Horowitzian delights sans Alex:
The Diamond Brothers' Series:
The Falcon's Malteser
South by Southeast
Public Enemy Number 2
Three of Diamonds.
If you don't want to read the aforementioned merely based on their clever titles, then something is obviously wrong with you. They are film noir for the kiddies.... Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade for a 12 year old. The kid wins... every time.... outsmarting his older, Private Eye brother and coming home with not the credit, but the carefully won hearts of every reader.
Horowitzian dapples into Elizabethan history ( is there anything this guy cannot do?) lead you to the Devil and his Boy. This book is partly written for the benefit of sceptical adults. You have to have a basic knowledge of the history to read how he turns Shakespeare for Dummies on its ear. I laughed hard.... very hard.... face very red and throat contorted hard. Tom Falconer reminds one of the protagonist in Cue For Treason by Geoffrey Trease, but he is far more humane and far more loveable and adventurous. In the speed-reader time it takes you to get from page one-176 you have an uber-short reconstruction of pigsty London, a quick fix of Shakespeare writing Titus Andronicus and an audience with the painted Queen ( not to mention a girl pick pocket worthy of Tess in Horatio Lyle). The ending is a surprise, though every cliche is trampled out blazingly. But the delight in Horowitzian cliche.... is he's laughing at it up his sleeve, and turning it on a 360 degree angle. This will not disappoint.
Anthony Horowitz meets Clive Barker and you've got the Gatekeeper's series:
Raven's Gate and Evil Star are darker than the usual Horowitzian fare. His dark, macabre humour is replaced with well... dark macabre. Scary and intended for the teen audience. I felt chills up my neck.
The last Horowitzian read was The Killing Joke: an irreverent smorgasboard of quips and satire for adults. A puzzle is intertwined with the quest of one man to find a joke's origin.... but his encounters along the way make this Quixotic tread memorable. A beach read with intellectual spice.
Welcome Home by Stuart McLean This is McLean's anthropological leap into the life of small town Canada. From Saskatchewan, Ontario, through Quebec and the Maritimes, McLean set himself a list of criteria and ran with his instinctive talent for capturing the everyday by visiting an array of towns sans bank machines, finding pin boys still existed at bowling alleys, and meeting people so real and so distinctively Canadian they captured the heart of the country: whether waiting at Corner Gas-ish bus stops, or chatting with Stuart about their most recent sculptural forage into the world of automotive metal squeezed into art, McLean is in his element. The best travel literature book I have read since the similarily Canadiana masterpiece-in-the-making Beauty Tips from Moosejaw by the irrepressible Will Ferguson
Last but not least the Sherlockian in me ignites with Laurie R. King's latest The Art of Detection. The title might surprise those used to her Sherlock Holmes/Mary Russell books when you find out it is actually set in modern San Francisco and pulls a CSI type look into the murder of a die hard Sherlockian.
King is an underrated mystery writer and throughly worth your time. She knows her ducks.... lines them in a row.... and adds a punch with her emotional appeal. I am a fan, yes I am.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
"The King's English" by Betsy Burton
This book is a love song to bookselling. Betsy Burton opened a book shop in Salt Lake City Utah in the late '70's called " The King's English" and this book is her hymn of praise. It is written episodically and interspersed throughout are lists of books she has loved, hated, handsold, used, been inspired by. Also, lists she has received from other Independent Bookstores throughout the states. In the age of large bookchains, all-consuming and overwrought discounted department stores, The King's English unravels the war the Indies had with the new superstores at the beginning of the 90's.
Perhaps the most inspiring part of this book was finding someone who related first hand to the joy of pairing someone with his/her perfect book. I boast in my own job that I can tell what a person's perfect book match is by merely extracting a trait or two of their personality. Asking questions with carnivalesque flair and hoping that what I put in their hands is not only a snippet of myself, but of something greater: a force that might change their life! This highly sentimentalized view of the power of book exchange was exactly what I need as I think about leaving my own special bookstore.... how it has been the greatest experience of my life.
Burton relays the hyper activity of a Harry Potter sleepover, the financial troubles that caused her colleagues and herself to painstakingly choose which books must be sent back to the publisher to save the fiscal year, how she helped ( or not ) John Mortimer take luggage out of his car at the airport, and how she and Isabel Allende cooked dinner together. In fact, I think it is the author anecdotes that made the book for me. Her charming encounter with Tony Hillerman ( who I am beginning to believe must be the nicest duck in the business.... this is not the first time I have heard him spoken of as such ), her laugh-out-loud signing with Sue Grafton and her look at the prim Elizabeth George ( who borders on bitchiness in my opinion ). Also, her reminiscence of Rohinton Mistry's cancelled engagement after he was treated badly at the Utah airport not long after September 11th. For a woman so invested in her job....and her favourite authors, this unforeseen circumstance nearly broke her heart.
Burton was and is driven by an innate passion stronger than any external business force. I want to explore this pseudo-mythical book paradise which looks like a house and has rooms full of different books.
A bookseller's calling is a high one.... and it means so much more than facts and figures.
Perhaps the most inspiring part of this book was finding someone who related first hand to the joy of pairing someone with his/her perfect book. I boast in my own job that I can tell what a person's perfect book match is by merely extracting a trait or two of their personality. Asking questions with carnivalesque flair and hoping that what I put in their hands is not only a snippet of myself, but of something greater: a force that might change their life! This highly sentimentalized view of the power of book exchange was exactly what I need as I think about leaving my own special bookstore.... how it has been the greatest experience of my life.
Burton relays the hyper activity of a Harry Potter sleepover, the financial troubles that caused her colleagues and herself to painstakingly choose which books must be sent back to the publisher to save the fiscal year, how she helped ( or not ) John Mortimer take luggage out of his car at the airport, and how she and Isabel Allende cooked dinner together. In fact, I think it is the author anecdotes that made the book for me. Her charming encounter with Tony Hillerman ( who I am beginning to believe must be the nicest duck in the business.... this is not the first time I have heard him spoken of as such ), her laugh-out-loud signing with Sue Grafton and her look at the prim Elizabeth George ( who borders on bitchiness in my opinion ). Also, her reminiscence of Rohinton Mistry's cancelled engagement after he was treated badly at the Utah airport not long after September 11th. For a woman so invested in her job....and her favourite authors, this unforeseen circumstance nearly broke her heart.
Burton was and is driven by an innate passion stronger than any external business force. I want to explore this pseudo-mythical book paradise which looks like a house and has rooms full of different books.
A bookseller's calling is a high one.... and it means so much more than facts and figures.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Jumping the Scratch by Sarah Weeks
I picked up Jumping the Scratch because the cover was so subtle. Just a button on a sea of red. I thought if the words inside are as minimalist as the cover, this will be a good time.
Jamie Reardon is in an awkward phase of life. Not out of elementary school, his father has left, the life he once knew and loved ( a domestic paradise, really ) is far behind him, and he lives in a trailer with his mom who spends her nights working at the local Cherry factory, and his aunt, Sapphy, whose own employment at said factory caused a freak accident and the loss of her memory.
For such a thin book, Jumping the Scratch deals with huge issues including amnesia, divorce, and sexual abuse.
Jamie is a convincing narrator. He loves his aunt and its his details of the story that make it most believable. He writes of the china gravy boat his aunt eats her favourite sorbet in after she has broken the rest of the dishes, he abashedly admits that he thought "Arthur" was visiting his Jr. High class instead of the "Author" his teacher had mentioned. The title becomes an interesting metaphor for snippets of Jamie's life. First, he loves his aunts old records: Billie, Frank Sinatra et al, secondly it is his euphemism for amnesia, if his aunt can skip the scratch on her memory she will be okay again. Thirdly, it is the block that hinders him from fully acknowleding an abusive moment. Throughout the book, Jamie drops hints at "tasting butterscotch" : a flavour thoroughly repulsive.
All loose ends tie well. Jamie's story is short and to the point. The details are what make it. You feel for Jamie as he shirks the cans of cherries his mom sends for his lunch, the peanut butter he scrapes off his sandwich as a supposed "memory-builder", the copy of the Hobbit he pretends to read to avoid bullying at school, also for his budding relationship with odd duck Audrey Crouch, hypnotist and be-speckled pseudo genius who saves Jamie from burying himself too far in his shell.
Jamie's Aunt Sapphy wants her memory, Jamie wants to lose his; it is an interesting dichotomy and one that works rather well within the confines of Weeks' sparse prose.
Don't spend money on this. You'll finish it in an hour. But sign it out somewhere.
Jamie Reardon is in an awkward phase of life. Not out of elementary school, his father has left, the life he once knew and loved ( a domestic paradise, really ) is far behind him, and he lives in a trailer with his mom who spends her nights working at the local Cherry factory, and his aunt, Sapphy, whose own employment at said factory caused a freak accident and the loss of her memory.
For such a thin book, Jumping the Scratch deals with huge issues including amnesia, divorce, and sexual abuse.
Jamie is a convincing narrator. He loves his aunt and its his details of the story that make it most believable. He writes of the china gravy boat his aunt eats her favourite sorbet in after she has broken the rest of the dishes, he abashedly admits that he thought "Arthur" was visiting his Jr. High class instead of the "Author" his teacher had mentioned. The title becomes an interesting metaphor for snippets of Jamie's life. First, he loves his aunts old records: Billie, Frank Sinatra et al, secondly it is his euphemism for amnesia, if his aunt can skip the scratch on her memory she will be okay again. Thirdly, it is the block that hinders him from fully acknowleding an abusive moment. Throughout the book, Jamie drops hints at "tasting butterscotch" : a flavour thoroughly repulsive.
All loose ends tie well. Jamie's story is short and to the point. The details are what make it. You feel for Jamie as he shirks the cans of cherries his mom sends for his lunch, the peanut butter he scrapes off his sandwich as a supposed "memory-builder", the copy of the Hobbit he pretends to read to avoid bullying at school, also for his budding relationship with odd duck Audrey Crouch, hypnotist and be-speckled pseudo genius who saves Jamie from burying himself too far in his shell.
Jamie's Aunt Sapphy wants her memory, Jamie wants to lose his; it is an interesting dichotomy and one that works rather well within the confines of Weeks' sparse prose.
Don't spend money on this. You'll finish it in an hour. But sign it out somewhere.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Flyfishing is poetical....
While essays and exams continue to limit new book prospects, I am relegated to chatting about oldie but goodies. Today's oldie-but-goodie is A River Runs Through It by Norman MacLean. I cannot in all consciousness, have a blog about books and not include this gem. I first discovered the book (for shame!) after a long obsession with the film. I think I was in grade seven when my dad picked up the film from the rental store. It remains the only movie I can tolerate Brad Pitt in. I cannot describe how moved I was; as much then ( if somewhat differently ) as I am now. There is something poetical in the story itself that supersedes medium; intrinsically woven into the fly-fishing motif, in the sudden eruption of modernism such as cars and speak-easy's, and the relationship between the two competitive and completely opposite brothers: the altruistic and bookish "professor" Norm and his younger, teasing, refreshing and rapscallion brother Paul.
Perhaps it was their life as minister's kids ( something I relate to firsthand ) or the beautiful Montana scenery: painted in sparse prose like a watercolour, or the watching eye of the prim minister and his elegant rural wife.
I loved the story, MacLean's fictionalized autobiographical account is told in an almost W.O. Mitchell-esque manner. Both write a love story not only to "Golden Ages" of yesteryear but to landscapes: broad, beautiful, engulfing: the kind of landscape that would make you want to grab your fishing gear and basket, jump into the torrent tides or kiss a pretty girl with rose-bud lips mid-Charleston.
River makes me homesick for a town I never lived in, reminiscent of an era I never lived in,mindful of an article I never read in the Helena newspaper, and regretful of a life that was never mine. It is quite a sensory, unusual book that can take you home as this one can. To a home you think you know as well as the author. You can smell the trout jumping upstream, feel the creaky bannister in the parsonage, and even touch the new vinyl on an old Ford.
Escape to the Twenties and pick this little treasure up; it is not as hopelessly ambitious as The Great Gatsby. It is a breath of fresh, Montana air.
Perhaps it was their life as minister's kids ( something I relate to firsthand ) or the beautiful Montana scenery: painted in sparse prose like a watercolour, or the watching eye of the prim minister and his elegant rural wife.
I loved the story, MacLean's fictionalized autobiographical account is told in an almost W.O. Mitchell-esque manner. Both write a love story not only to "Golden Ages" of yesteryear but to landscapes: broad, beautiful, engulfing: the kind of landscape that would make you want to grab your fishing gear and basket, jump into the torrent tides or kiss a pretty girl with rose-bud lips mid-Charleston.
River makes me homesick for a town I never lived in, reminiscent of an era I never lived in,mindful of an article I never read in the Helena newspaper, and regretful of a life that was never mine. It is quite a sensory, unusual book that can take you home as this one can. To a home you think you know as well as the author. You can smell the trout jumping upstream, feel the creaky bannister in the parsonage, and even touch the new vinyl on an old Ford.
Escape to the Twenties and pick this little treasure up; it is not as hopelessly ambitious as The Great Gatsby. It is a breath of fresh, Montana air.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Eyre moment ....
Last night, upon return to my hometown for a slight sojourn, I opened up the copy of Jane Eyre mainstayed on my night table ( one needs a copy everywhere one goes.... multiple copies at that ). Flipping through my favourite bits, I tried to reconcile myself with my past in an attempt to recall my first impressions of JE. Grade ten: Mrs. Amos' class ( one of my least favourite teachers ever: degraded To Kill a Mockingbird by patronizingly drawling: "It's a charming little story") waiting for the bell to ring and first period to start, sneaking the paperback Penguin my aunt had loaned me under the desk and guiltily reading of Jane's arrival at St.John Rivers' house. Keeping it well tucked as I stood for O Canada, and then, thankful I was near the back, still reading while Mrs. A ( the most unoriginal person and not the most colourful swab of a rainbow), played us a scratchy recording of Romeo and Juliet. Thinking what it must be like to be stranded, cold and hungry on the unfeeling moors.
Last night, reading again, I justified my means for this long imaginative obsession. It's a story about physicality in handsome and plain forms, in mutilated hands and black eyes and hair one only imagines cuts straight and severely down the middle, of head's that are large and animalistic holding the Victorian conception of a massive brain beneath: Jane is ( forgive the tendency to rhyme ad nauseum) "plain", Rochester "hideous, you always were sir", Thornfield a treacherous dark maze, Bertha a wild-haired "other" misplaced and coiled in a dark room that only peeks to the country side. And amidst this physicality rages something far more organic: the need to pair up, to set out, to adventure and love then return to where you started. There's comfort in the cyclical.
Last night, reading again, I justified my means for this long imaginative obsession. It's a story about physicality in handsome and plain forms, in mutilated hands and black eyes and hair one only imagines cuts straight and severely down the middle, of head's that are large and animalistic holding the Victorian conception of a massive brain beneath: Jane is ( forgive the tendency to rhyme ad nauseum) "plain", Rochester "hideous, you always were sir", Thornfield a treacherous dark maze, Bertha a wild-haired "other" misplaced and coiled in a dark room that only peeks to the country side. And amidst this physicality rages something far more organic: the need to pair up, to set out, to adventure and love then return to where you started. There's comfort in the cyclical.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Of the bookwormish persuasion
Welcome to my new blog, where I mean to post anything ( and everything ) literary.
My tastes range widely, eclectically and are often strangely varied.
I love young adult fiction and my dream job is to write for that demographic.
My mainstay blog can be found here.
On my nightstand right now:
The Intimate Life of LM Montgomery by Irene Gammel
Scorpia: An Alex Rider Novel by Anthony Horowitz
Hard Times by Charles Dickens
Instead of three Wishes by Megan Whalen Turner
Oh Danny Boy by Rhys Bowen
Villette by Charlotte Bronte
The Holy Bible (KJV)
Conundrums for the Long Weekend: England, Dorothy L. Sayers and Lord Peter Wimsey by Robert Kuhn McGregor
In my bookbag: Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers
A College of Magics by Caroline Stevermer
Emily Climbs LM Montgomery
My tastes range widely, eclectically and are often strangely varied.
I love young adult fiction and my dream job is to write for that demographic.
My mainstay blog can be found here.
On my nightstand right now:
The Intimate Life of LM Montgomery by Irene Gammel
Scorpia: An Alex Rider Novel by Anthony Horowitz
Hard Times by Charles Dickens
Instead of three Wishes by Megan Whalen Turner
Oh Danny Boy by Rhys Bowen
Villette by Charlotte Bronte
The Holy Bible (KJV)
Conundrums for the Long Weekend: England, Dorothy L. Sayers and Lord Peter Wimsey by Robert Kuhn McGregor
In my bookbag: Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers
A College of Magics by Caroline Stevermer
Emily Climbs LM Montgomery
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