Genre: Period fiction (takes place around 1900 in Canada)
Year Published: 1939
One of the interchangeably adorable children of Ingleside had a fancy, a brilliant, whimsical fancy. This child did not tell anyone, not the other children of Ingleside, nor the grown-ups (Mummy, Daddy, and Susan the Live-In Cook/Maid/Nanny).
Oh, the fancy of that adorable child! It was full of fairies and wonderment. Or perhaps it was full of ghosts and terror. But in any case, it truly was such a fancy as had never been heard of on all of P.E. Island.
But then the Cruel, Real World intruded upon the child's fancy. Oh, how could it be borne?? The poor little child thought the world would come falling down.
In the throes of agony, the child went to Mummy and told her all about the fancy and subsequent demolishing of said fancy. Mummy didn't laugh -- she never laughed at her dear, lovely children! -- but instead said something so understanding and kind that the child felt that the world was just after all. Ah, Mummy was the best mummy in the world.
Lather, rinse, repeat. Three thousand times.
Recommended? If you can stand the above, then by all means, go for it.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
The People of Sparks (Jeanne DuPrau)
Genre: Children's literature
Year Published: 2004
Yes, I picked up The City of Ember and its sequel simultaneously at the library. What can I say? I'm a fan of sequels. (Although, to continue yesterday's analogy, I didn't much care for The Giver's sequels, Gathering Blue and Messenger. I could honestly continue the comparison, as The People of Sparks resembles Gathering Blue in some ways, but I don't want to beat that horse to death.)
The People of Sparks picks up where The City of Ember left off (so if you're interested in reading the latter, you may want to stop reading this review now): the people of Ember, having received a message from Lina and Doon aboveground, make their way to the surface as well. They wander for a few days before finding a small settlement of people who agree to take them in for a short period of time until they can get onto their own feet.
The circumstances of the world we know are made clearer in Sparks: there has, in fact, been a "Disaster" (three plagues and four wars) that has wiped out most of humanity. People are just starting to build viable settlements again, devoid of electricity, gasoline, telephones, or much understanding of the past.
The problems start immediately: there are more Emberites than Sparks people; Emberites are, on the whole, unused to manual labor; the people of Sparks begin to resent the Emberites' drain on their jealously guarded resources. Soon violence erupts, and the future of both groups of citizens is very uncertain.
It's probably a mark of how good the premise of this book is that I wished I were reading the same novel, but for adults. The possibilities floated through my mind as I read: women would prostitute themselves for more food. Inevitably, romantic entanglements between the two groups would occur. Emberites, never having been exposed to most human illnesses, would be highly susceptible to deadly diseases. The lack of privacy in the Emberites' quarters would lead to quarrels and dissatisfaction. The social customs (e.g. for marriage, childbirth, death, etc.) of the two groups would be highly disparate, and so would cause consternation among the opposite people.
But it's a children's book, and DuPrau has to navigate within those constraints. And with that in mind, she does a very good job of showing what could go wrong under those types of circumstances. My only problem with the book is that at times it feels more like a cautionary tale or parable than it should. The "violence is bad" message gets hit a little too hard at times -- although what seems blatant to an adult may seem more subtle to a child. (But I doubt it.)
Recommended? Yes. (Same age constraints as the original.)
Year Published: 2004
Yes, I picked up The City of Ember and its sequel simultaneously at the library. What can I say? I'm a fan of sequels. (Although, to continue yesterday's analogy, I didn't much care for The Giver's sequels, Gathering Blue and Messenger. I could honestly continue the comparison, as The People of Sparks resembles Gathering Blue in some ways, but I don't want to beat that horse to death.)
The People of Sparks picks up where The City of Ember left off (so if you're interested in reading the latter, you may want to stop reading this review now): the people of Ember, having received a message from Lina and Doon aboveground, make their way to the surface as well. They wander for a few days before finding a small settlement of people who agree to take them in for a short period of time until they can get onto their own feet.
The circumstances of the world we know are made clearer in Sparks: there has, in fact, been a "Disaster" (three plagues and four wars) that has wiped out most of humanity. People are just starting to build viable settlements again, devoid of electricity, gasoline, telephones, or much understanding of the past.
The problems start immediately: there are more Emberites than Sparks people; Emberites are, on the whole, unused to manual labor; the people of Sparks begin to resent the Emberites' drain on their jealously guarded resources. Soon violence erupts, and the future of both groups of citizens is very uncertain.
It's probably a mark of how good the premise of this book is that I wished I were reading the same novel, but for adults. The possibilities floated through my mind as I read: women would prostitute themselves for more food. Inevitably, romantic entanglements between the two groups would occur. Emberites, never having been exposed to most human illnesses, would be highly susceptible to deadly diseases. The lack of privacy in the Emberites' quarters would lead to quarrels and dissatisfaction. The social customs (e.g. for marriage, childbirth, death, etc.) of the two groups would be highly disparate, and so would cause consternation among the opposite people.
But it's a children's book, and DuPrau has to navigate within those constraints. And with that in mind, she does a very good job of showing what could go wrong under those types of circumstances. My only problem with the book is that at times it feels more like a cautionary tale or parable than it should. The "violence is bad" message gets hit a little too hard at times -- although what seems blatant to an adult may seem more subtle to a child. (But I doubt it.)
Recommended? Yes. (Same age constraints as the original.)
Saturday, January 27, 2007
The City of Ember (Jeanne DuPrau)
Genre: Children's literature
Year Published: 2003
The great dystopian children's novel is, of course, The Giver. I consider myself privileged to have been born at just the right time to read that when I was just the right age for it.
The City of Ember is similar to The Giver in many ways: in both cases, the reader is dealing with a futuristic civilization (that may or may not have been founded after some sort of apocalyptic event) that is utterly isolated and also idiosyncratic in its traditions and daily life. Both civilizations lack history, most arts, and non-human creatures. The main difference is that while The Giver is all about human life without humanity (e.g. love, sex, choice, death), The City of Ember is about human life without natural light.
If that sounds like a flimsy premise, reconsider: think about what life would be like if the only light we had access to was electric light. And Jeanne DuPrau does an excellent job of imagining a city without the sun: electric lights go on and off at preordained intervals; buildings are built low to the ground so as not to block light; anywhere outside Ember's boundaries is absolutely dark, and thus unpassable (as the people of Ember do not have "movable lights"). In the introduction to the book, we are told that 220 years after the city's founding, a box will open with instructions on how to leave the city. But within the first couple chapters, we know things have gone awry: 220 years have come and gone, the lights that create daylight are faltering, and food in Ember's storerooms is running low.
Of course, because this is a children's novel, it is two children who eventually find and believe in the instructions. And because it is children's literature, few of the grim possibilities imaginable in a city like Ember are carried out. But not everything is smooth sailing for Lina and Doon, our protagonists: as the city-dwellers' time is clearly running out, some of the more powerful adults in Ember take it upon themselves to get theirs while the getting is good -- utterly predictable, to an adult reader, but interesting to see through the children's naive eyes.
DuPrau excels in two things that very much helped this book: 1) the imagining and subsequent description of Ember, and 2) the creation of believable and evocative suspense. I often have a difficult time picturing places that are only described to me, but Ember was very clear in my mind as I read the book. And as Lina and Doon got closer to solving their puzzle, I was genuinely eager to know how all the problems were going to be resolved.
Certainly The City of Ember raises none of The Giver's existential questions, and its prose is nowhere near that level. But it's an enjoyable read, and I think that these kinds of books open up new avenues for kids' imaginations -- always a good thing.
Recommended? Yes. (Reading level: maybe third grade at the youngest, if they can get through a book with twentyish chapters, and seventh grade at the oldest, if they haven't already moved on to adult post-apocalyptic literature.)
Year Published: 2003
The great dystopian children's novel is, of course, The Giver. I consider myself privileged to have been born at just the right time to read that when I was just the right age for it.
The City of Ember is similar to The Giver in many ways: in both cases, the reader is dealing with a futuristic civilization (that may or may not have been founded after some sort of apocalyptic event) that is utterly isolated and also idiosyncratic in its traditions and daily life. Both civilizations lack history, most arts, and non-human creatures. The main difference is that while The Giver is all about human life without humanity (e.g. love, sex, choice, death), The City of Ember is about human life without natural light.
If that sounds like a flimsy premise, reconsider: think about what life would be like if the only light we had access to was electric light. And Jeanne DuPrau does an excellent job of imagining a city without the sun: electric lights go on and off at preordained intervals; buildings are built low to the ground so as not to block light; anywhere outside Ember's boundaries is absolutely dark, and thus unpassable (as the people of Ember do not have "movable lights"). In the introduction to the book, we are told that 220 years after the city's founding, a box will open with instructions on how to leave the city. But within the first couple chapters, we know things have gone awry: 220 years have come and gone, the lights that create daylight are faltering, and food in Ember's storerooms is running low.
Of course, because this is a children's novel, it is two children who eventually find and believe in the instructions. And because it is children's literature, few of the grim possibilities imaginable in a city like Ember are carried out. But not everything is smooth sailing for Lina and Doon, our protagonists: as the city-dwellers' time is clearly running out, some of the more powerful adults in Ember take it upon themselves to get theirs while the getting is good -- utterly predictable, to an adult reader, but interesting to see through the children's naive eyes.
DuPrau excels in two things that very much helped this book: 1) the imagining and subsequent description of Ember, and 2) the creation of believable and evocative suspense. I often have a difficult time picturing places that are only described to me, but Ember was very clear in my mind as I read the book. And as Lina and Doon got closer to solving their puzzle, I was genuinely eager to know how all the problems were going to be resolved.
Certainly The City of Ember raises none of The Giver's existential questions, and its prose is nowhere near that level. But it's an enjoyable read, and I think that these kinds of books open up new avenues for kids' imaginations -- always a good thing.
Recommended? Yes. (Reading level: maybe third grade at the youngest, if they can get through a book with twentyish chapters, and seventh grade at the oldest, if they haven't already moved on to adult post-apocalyptic literature.)
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
The Toughest Indian in the World (Sherman Alexie)
Genre: Short stories
Year Published: 2000
I like to think of myself as a savvy shopper. I found The Toughest Indian in the World at a secondhand shop and recognized Sherman Alexie as a much-lauded poet, so I threw it into my pile of books to purchase. (My local secondhand shop is the best in Pennsylvania, so I will often come out with an armload of books and a gap in my wallet where a $20 bill used to be. When books are a buck apiece, I'm not that picky about exactly what I'm getting.) When I got home, I realized it wasn't poetry. But Alexie's opening paragraphs grabbed me, so I kept reading, assuming it was a novel.
Well, I got to the end of the first story and realized it wasn't a novel either. But it was an excellent story, so I kept reading, and I'm glad I did.
I happen to live in one of the five states in the country with the smallest percentage of the American Indian population, so I have absolutely no personal experience with Indians. That being the case, this book was, besides being entertaining, educational for me. All of Alexie's stories center around being Indian (that's his nomenclature, and I refuse to P.C.-ify the man's work) in modern-day America. Most, though not all, of his stories involve sex, and they're all about love, in their own peculiar ways. They're also about the difficulties that Indians face -- racism, interracial relationships, assimilation, enormously high death rates for Indian teens, the encroachment of Christianity, disproportionate rates of alcoholism and diabetes -- but now that I've written that whole list out, I'm afraid I've made it sound like an "issues" book that sacrifices plot for message. That's not at all the case. Alexie sketches great characters and great dialogue for those characters, and these stories are first and foremost about the characters. Indian issues are simply the backdrop for the prose.
The centerpiece of the book is a story, the longest of the bunch, called "The Sin Eaters." It is the only story in the pack that ventures past realism into a sort of sci-fi surrealism, but it is probably my favorite of the collection. As far as I'm concerned, the story is the answer to the question, "What would be the modern-day equivalent of the Trail of Tears?" (It's not a happy story, as you may have guessed.)
The other stories are much more concerned with the everyday -- especially the last, "One Good Man," the most touching one in the collection, written in the first person by a middle-aged Indian man whose father's feet are amputated because of diabetes complications. It's the only story in the bunch that reads as though it could be autobiographical -- though it's not the only one in first person -- and it's a fitting way to end the book, with this possible peek, perhaps false, into Alexie's own life.
Recommended? Yes.
Year Published: 2000
I like to think of myself as a savvy shopper. I found The Toughest Indian in the World at a secondhand shop and recognized Sherman Alexie as a much-lauded poet, so I threw it into my pile of books to purchase. (My local secondhand shop is the best in Pennsylvania, so I will often come out with an armload of books and a gap in my wallet where a $20 bill used to be. When books are a buck apiece, I'm not that picky about exactly what I'm getting.) When I got home, I realized it wasn't poetry. But Alexie's opening paragraphs grabbed me, so I kept reading, assuming it was a novel.
Well, I got to the end of the first story and realized it wasn't a novel either. But it was an excellent story, so I kept reading, and I'm glad I did.
I happen to live in one of the five states in the country with the smallest percentage of the American Indian population, so I have absolutely no personal experience with Indians. That being the case, this book was, besides being entertaining, educational for me. All of Alexie's stories center around being Indian (that's his nomenclature, and I refuse to P.C.-ify the man's work) in modern-day America. Most, though not all, of his stories involve sex, and they're all about love, in their own peculiar ways. They're also about the difficulties that Indians face -- racism, interracial relationships, assimilation, enormously high death rates for Indian teens, the encroachment of Christianity, disproportionate rates of alcoholism and diabetes -- but now that I've written that whole list out, I'm afraid I've made it sound like an "issues" book that sacrifices plot for message. That's not at all the case. Alexie sketches great characters and great dialogue for those characters, and these stories are first and foremost about the characters. Indian issues are simply the backdrop for the prose.
The centerpiece of the book is a story, the longest of the bunch, called "The Sin Eaters." It is the only story in the pack that ventures past realism into a sort of sci-fi surrealism, but it is probably my favorite of the collection. As far as I'm concerned, the story is the answer to the question, "What would be the modern-day equivalent of the Trail of Tears?" (It's not a happy story, as you may have guessed.)
The other stories are much more concerned with the everyday -- especially the last, "One Good Man," the most touching one in the collection, written in the first person by a middle-aged Indian man whose father's feet are amputated because of diabetes complications. It's the only story in the bunch that reads as though it could be autobiographical -- though it's not the only one in first person -- and it's a fitting way to end the book, with this possible peek, perhaps false, into Alexie's own life.
Recommended? Yes.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
In the Image (Dara Horn)
Genre: Literary fiction
Year Published: 2002
No cutesy intro, this time, dear readers: I loved this book, and I'd like to say that as soon as possible. I loved it for its characters, for its fluid incorporation of Jewish culture and law, for its multiple, true-to-life plot threads, but most of all, for its language. Some of the passages in In the Image forced me to put down the book and breathe for a while, just so I could bear to continue reading. Sometimes it was because Dara Horn writes beautifully, but more often it was because the words matched my own thoughts or experiences so closely that it was eerie. I feel the need to provide a few examples, so here goes:
Or, moving from the mundane to the sublime, this is the interior monologue of a man who's fallen in love with Leora (the main character):
Anyone who's ever moved out of their childhood home has experienced the first, and anyone who's been in love has experienced the second. But the language and the clarity of metaphor that Horn employs are stunning to me. Her novel reads like prose written by a particularly clear-headed poet.
The novel is about equally balanced between the present-day life of Leora, and the recounting of one Jewish family's experiences with life in America and in Europe throughout the twentieth century. The Holocaust barely figures, however; the novel is very much about individuals, and all of the people we follow closely are lucky enough to escape the Nazis' path. They are not, however, particularly lucky in other respects, and Horn catalogues mental illness, domestic abuse, cruelty, and death with the same crystal-clear voice she uses in the above passages. Only her matter-of-fact treatment makes some of the worse incidents readable, but as a reader you feel she is only being historically fair, never sadistic, in making her characters' lives difficult.
I think that this book will be easier to read and understand if you are, in fact, an American East Coast Jew of Eastern European extraction. But I don't think that non-Jews should skip over this book because all the characters are Jewish. As long as you pay attention, you will get a glimpse (or maybe more) of the interwoven symbols and themes -- Jewish and irreligious -- that populate each chapter of In the Image. Horn is careful to slip explanations of all her straightforward Jewish usages into the text, and you can appreciate the book just fine without the deeper understanding you would get from a background in the Bible. Prose this good is too precious to pass over because you don't happen to share the author's religion.
Recommended? Hell yes.
Year Published: 2002
No cutesy intro, this time, dear readers: I loved this book, and I'd like to say that as soon as possible. I loved it for its characters, for its fluid incorporation of Jewish culture and law, for its multiple, true-to-life plot threads, but most of all, for its language. Some of the passages in In the Image forced me to put down the book and breathe for a while, just so I could bear to continue reading. Sometimes it was because Dara Horn writes beautifully, but more often it was because the words matched my own thoughts or experiences so closely that it was eerie. I feel the need to provide a few examples, so here goes:
Leora and Lauren and Melanie slept on futons, ate off of hard plastic picnic plates, hung their posters on the walls using poster gum, and lived their evenings by the light of halogen lamps. They recycled their newspapers, deleted their answering machine messages, and rarely were in the apartment at the same time. They each bought their own food and never even considered consolidating their shopping, preferring somehow the three half gallons of orange juice that clogged up the refrigerator each week. Every woman for herself. Only Lauren bothered to clean the bathroom. There were a few pots and pans, hauled in by various parents on various move-in days and duly bequeathed to the apartment at large upon move-out, but only the spaghetti pot received any kind of regular use. The vast majority of their drinking glasses were mugs embossed with the names of insurance companies. It was as if all of them had signed a secret unwritten lease stipulating that it wasn't worth buying real forks or getting things framed or having real beds, that this wasn't real life but rather some kind of dress rehearsal for it, that they wouldn't be there long.
Or, moving from the mundane to the sublime, this is the interior monologue of a man who's fallen in love with Leora (the main character):
Being with [her] . . . does not so much resemble a time as it does a place. A moment spent with Leora does not join the moments of his life alongside the other moments, sliding like a bead onto the string of his life and clicking into place next to the moment spent walking to meet her at a restaurant and followed by the moment spent squinting at the sky alone later that evening while trying to make out a star. No, a moment spent with Leora separates itself, refusing to associate with the drab neighborhood of memories around it, walling itself off like an ancient quarter of a city filled with crooked streets, where you don't need to know where you are going because you are already there.
Anyone who's ever moved out of their childhood home has experienced the first, and anyone who's been in love has experienced the second. But the language and the clarity of metaphor that Horn employs are stunning to me. Her novel reads like prose written by a particularly clear-headed poet.
The novel is about equally balanced between the present-day life of Leora, and the recounting of one Jewish family's experiences with life in America and in Europe throughout the twentieth century. The Holocaust barely figures, however; the novel is very much about individuals, and all of the people we follow closely are lucky enough to escape the Nazis' path. They are not, however, particularly lucky in other respects, and Horn catalogues mental illness, domestic abuse, cruelty, and death with the same crystal-clear voice she uses in the above passages. Only her matter-of-fact treatment makes some of the worse incidents readable, but as a reader you feel she is only being historically fair, never sadistic, in making her characters' lives difficult.
I think that this book will be easier to read and understand if you are, in fact, an American East Coast Jew of Eastern European extraction. But I don't think that non-Jews should skip over this book because all the characters are Jewish. As long as you pay attention, you will get a glimpse (or maybe more) of the interwoven symbols and themes -- Jewish and irreligious -- that populate each chapter of In the Image. Horn is careful to slip explanations of all her straightforward Jewish usages into the text, and you can appreciate the book just fine without the deeper understanding you would get from a background in the Bible. Prose this good is too precious to pass over because you don't happen to share the author's religion.
Recommended? Hell yes.
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