Reviews and Recommendations: The Rithmatist by Brandon Sanderson

I hate it when I envy current writers’ ability to spin a tale.  Yes, I admire and even envy writers of past ages, too, but they are dead.  The become not so much rivals as masters, aspirations. However, with a current writer, or one just recently passed on, their presence is still too much felt, a rival against whom you continue to confront.  And yet, I still love their books, for I love good stories too much to discard such great material out of envy.  Brandon Sanderson’s novel, The Rithmatist, is one such story that produces such amazement, envy, and affection.

The Rithmatist occurs in an alternate 20th century America where certain people, called “rithmatists”, who, by making the right lines, can bring chalk drawings to life and even battle with them.  Within this world is a young man, Joel, a genius at math and a natural at rithmatic lines; but he is not a rithmatist.  No matter how near-perfect his circles, he cannot make them come to life.  He is just a boy with a dream that can never be fulfilled.  Then, one day, rithmatist students begin mysteriously disappearing, and Joel, along with a demoted professor and a remedial rithmatist student, joins the efforts to find the perpetrator and hopefully recover the students before it is too late.

So right off the bat I want to say that I love the main trio of this story.  I love nerd heroes.  I hate math, but I love when the hero loves math, and Joel loves math.  He’s a genius and prone to pride due to his intelligence, but not so much pride that he becomes irritating.  Also, he usually recognizes when he’s crossed the line, and when he doesn’t, he’s told by others.  Furthermore, his enthusiasm towards rithmatism is so endearing, and yet almost heartbreaking because he cannot use it.  As a foil, you have Melody, a girl who can use rithmastism but is a flunky.  She’s creative and artistic but cannot do the most basic lines, and she’s frustrated that no matter how hard she works she cannot seem to keep up.  Watching to two of them interact, the places where they are opposites and the places where their personalities meet, how they contrast and compliment each other, and how their friendship grows throughout the story, is enjoyable.  The third member is Professor Fitch, a kind-heart but nervous man, highly intelligent and cares about the students, but not very strong in personality and atmosphere.  His investment in his two teen charges is tangible, as is his desire to help the good headmaster and police locate the missing students.  Again, I loved reading his interactions with Joel and Melody.  The threesome are so enjoyable and lovable, even with their respective faults.

Of course these great characters wouldn’t go anywhere without a plot, and boy was I engaged.  Even with certain predictable points, especially concerning character development, the plot kept me hooked the entire way through.  I didn’t even stop long enough to figure out the mystery so that when mysteries where solved, I had only reached the vague guess stage rather than the “let’s see if I’m right” one. I just wanted to know what happened next.

Part of this was due to the amazing world-building.  I wish I could live in this place.  A steam/spring-punk world where chalk drawings come to life?  I would retake geometry for that!  And I hated geometry.  I can’t draw a circle with a compass, but I want to be able to do rithmatism.  Rithmatism itself is fascinating.  Circles.  Lines of forbiddance.  Chalklings.  Just the fact that the pictures remain 2-dimensional makes me love the idea more even if I don’t know why.  Why do the best concepts and arts have to be fake?   I do wish, though, that more of the world could have been experienced.  In particular, I wish we could have seen some of Nebrask, where rithmatists battle wild chalklings, and that we could know more about the origin of rithmatism and how rithmatists are made.  Of course when part of the plot to concealing rithmatism’s origins, not many questions are going to be answered.  I do have some suspicions, though, which I hope will be answered in the next book.

Yes, there’s another book, or at least this volume ended with the setup for a potential sequel.  Actually, usually this kind of ending annoys me (I can think of one example right now), but not this time.  In part, this is due to how, even with the sequel baiting, most of the ending surrounds a very satisfying and invigorating series of events (which I won’t reveal because spoilers!) that just carried me along and brought my love and investment in the characters to an even higher place, even if I had predicted the ending.  And yet, at the same time, the sequel baiting is one of the most irritating parts of the book because the sequel isn’t written yet!  ARGH!!!!!  I want more!  I want to read more!

I guess I’ll just have to sample of some Sanderson’s other works in the meantime.  Well.  Time to feed my envy.

Wow.  This is my most "bloggy" post yet!  I'll have to change that later when I'm not rushing to post on time because I took too long to decide on my post and so ended up just putting up my rough draft... I hate procrastination.

Sanderson, Brandon.  The Rithmatist.  New York: Tom Doherty Associates.  2013.  Print.

Reviews and Recommendations: Book Girl by Mizuki Nomura

Mine had been a life of shame.

I’m like the one black sheep born into a pure white flock.  Unable to enjoy the things my peers enjoyed, unable to grieve the things they grieved, unable to eat the things they ate-- being born an ignoble black sheep, I didn’t understand the things my friends found pleasent, such as love, kindness, and sympathy.  I simply dusted my dark wool in white powder and pretended I was a white sheep, too.

I’m still wearing my mask, still acting in this farce (Nomura 1).

For those who have read some of my other posts, perhaps you remember this quote from my post on quotes which have influenced me personally.  The words open the first of an eight-volume Book Girl series by Japanese author Mizuki Nomura and illustrated by my favorite colorist, Miho Takeoka.

Book Girl follows the events in the life of Konoha Inoue, a high school student who, in his second year of middle school, won a national writing contest and became an overnight sensation.  However, the stress of the circumstances and events that followed threw him into depression, during which he vowed to never write another novel again.  Come high school, though, he find himself caught by a book loving, book eating upperclassman, Tohko Amano, who ropes him into joining the literature club.  Now, as a high school junior, this duo’s literary adventures are about to begin.

And the adventures occur thusly:

1. Book Girl and the Suicidal Mime
2. Book Girl and the Famished Spirit
3. Book Girl and the Captive Fool
4. Book Girl and the Corrupted Angel
5. Book Girl and the Wayfarer’s Lamentation
6. Book Girl and the Undine Who Bore a Moonflower
7. Book Girl and the Scribe Who Faced God (Part 1)
8. Book Girl and the Scribe Who Faced God (Part 2)

Okay, really quick, as a student of the Japanese language myself, I’ve got a few linguistic and translation issues with these stories (i.e. It should be “Clown” not “Mime”, Literature Girl is a more accurate translation of the Japanese series title, 文学少女, and other title-related nitpicks, “goblin” is not a good translation for the word “yokai”, it should be “Touko” not “Tohko”, a huge translation error that causes confusion and supposed plot contradiction in book 1 but that I will not list because it would be a spoiler, other clumsy translations).  However, as I understand some hardships of attempting to translate such a difficult as Japanese and the need to try and make the series more accessible to foreign audiences (hence no honorifics), I’ll leave my list of objections incomplete.

So, what about the main characters?  Well, what can I say without spoilers?  I love both Konoha and Touko (yes, I shall be writing her name like that from now on), though the book-eating monster of a girl is my favorite.  She’s amusing, kind, stubborn, a glutton, passionate, imaginative, overly curious, and openly cares for everyone around her.  Konoha, on the other hand, is serious and stand-offish, someone who used to be open and emotional and honest but, for multiple reasons, now closes himself off, only opening to Touko because of her weird, relaxing atmosphere.  Over the course of the series, you naturally see more to both of these characters, such as Konoha wrestling with who he was vs. who he has become, and seeing them unfold over the series is an emotional experience.  The relationship between the two leads is fun, but also painful, to read, tender and heartbreaking.  I can’t say too much, for spoiler reasons, but their relationship and how it influences the stories, each other, and other characters is one of my favorite parts of the series.

Speaking of other characters, there are many in this series, and almost every one of them appears in more than one story.  Main characters become side characters; side characters become main characters, and no named character is ever truly forgotten.  Some characters present in the beginning few stories even end up playing pivotal roles in the last two.  I loved seeing how Nomura constantly brought back characters, giving the series a more realistic touch.  After all, just because one story ends doesn’t mean the lives of its characters do.  Also, none of characters change immediately but over several volumes, a process often overlooked with side characters.

Another beautiful element is the writing style.  Konoha narrates the stories in an intimate, first person voice that really portrays his character and the emotions he feels throughout the story.  While the translation is a bit clumsy compared to the Japanese, the translators did an excellent job overall of capturing Nomura’s character’s voice.

Nomura also knows how to structure her stories… for the most part.  I won’t deny that the endings or solutions of some of the stories stretched my belief a bit too far, but overall she builds her stories well.  Tension mounts without breaking, except for a quick bit of humor that rarely (if ever) feels forced, and the twists she incorporates are well done.  Some twists are better built up than others, but none of them really fails, in my opinion, to have at least some impact.

So now that I’ve covered a few technical aspects of the series, I wish to spend a bit touching on my two favorite elements of these stories.  The first is Touko.  Yes, she’s my favorite character, but she’s also my favorite part of the stories, too.  I love how goofy she is, but also her intelligence, imaginative and emotional intelligence that is.  When she isn’t too distracted, Touko has excellent critical thinking skills, and the reason she is able to solve problems she encounters is due to her imaginative intelligence, using her knowledge of literature and her imagination to draw connects and lead her to truth.  As a character, Touko presents a great example of how imagination isn’t just “fancy” but can actually help one reach truth, a lesson many in our “scientific” age have forgotten.  In addition, Touko displays a strong emotional intellect.  Sure, she often gets caught up in her own desires or naivety/optimism, which usually makes her do something foolish, but she’s sensitive to other’s emotional states and displays time and again wisdom in interacting with others, even if she may not be conscious of it.  She wants what’s best for everyone, even if it might be painful.

My second favorite aspect of this series is Nomura’s handling of serious examples of brokenness and sin in the world.  And, as a warning to any potential readers, this series is dark and contains, or at least touches on, objectionable content, including but not limited to: suicide, murder, incest, abuse, divorce, prostitution, sex outside of marriage, and homosexuality.  Before you completely disregard this series because of this list, I wish to say that Nomura usually strikes a good balance on these topics, not dwelling too long on them nor taking any of them lightly.  On the other hand, some readers might be frustrated at times with Nomura’s addressing of these subjects.  Some she condemns, some she permits, and others she leaves ambiguous (though in some of the circumstances, I appreciate the abiguity rather than clumsily trying to squeeze in a speech somewhere and becoming preachy).  

Furthermore, as Nomura doesn’t approach these topics from a Judeo-Christian worldview, her solutions to some of the problems are not always satisfactory.  For example, her *spoiler* arguments against suicide, which amount to “we’ll find some reason to live, together” and “a person is more than one moment or work”, while true statements, I thought were weak.  Unlike authors such as G. K. Chesterton, Nomura doesn’t, or in a way can’t, take the position that this world in itself is worth living for, that it is a wonderful creation worth fighting for.  She doesn’t address the selfishness and cowardice of suicide or how it’s an insult against God by purposefully marring His image and His creation while “spiritually, he destroys the world” (Chesterton 73). Obviously you don’t need to hold a Christian worldview to understand and convince others that suicide is wrong (Thank God!), and Nomura’s arguments, like I said, are true, but without a proper foundation, they can be easily ignored or topple with just a little bit of thought.  Though what can be expected from someone starting from a shaky foundation herself.

Even though I say that, and even with my frustration as Nomura’s handling of some topics, there is one thing she does for which I have no end to my appreciation: every action has a consequence.  None of the actions I described above or other poor decisions, are treated flippantly and most often causes more harm than most stories I’ve read are willing to expose.  Take, as an example, a topic often glanced over here in the west, divorce.  Nomura doesn’t take the route of “it’s fine” or “just let us grownups do what we want, you’ll get over it no problem” or any other such glaze on divorce, as if it were a perfectly normal course of events and all the kid needs is just to spend some quality time with whichever parent, or any of those sorts of things.  With divorce in this series, the emphasis is on the kid, and it is not sugar-coated at all.  All I can say is I hope the character involved is an extreme case.  Actions have consequences, and here is the West, we can often downplay or even skip over those consequences.  However, Nomura doesn’t, not with anything.  Such a consequence-heavy series, where so much of the conflict in fact revolves around consequences and poor acknowledgement of these results, was a welcome contrast to most stories I experience in the mainstream today.

And so, even with its large flaws, I love this series.  I love the characters and Nomura’s writing style and ability.  Though her lack of clarity in regards to certain sins I know to not be satisfactory, her manner of approach and refusal to brush away results and consequences makes up for it.  Dark but sweet, broken but searching for beauty and hope, I can’t recommend this series enough.

¹Nomura, Mizuki.  Book Girl and the Suicidal Mime.  New York: Yen Press.  2010.  Print.


² Chesterton, G. K.  Orthodoxy.  New York: Doubleday.  1990.  Print.

Reviews and Recommendations: Entwined by Heather Dixon

Once upon a time.  These are magical words that whisk us away to the land of fairytale.  For centuries, fairytales have enchanted the minds of children and adults, which perhaps helps to explain not only their endurance but also the prevalence of retelling these classic stories in longer and/or more modern settings.  Some, such as Disney’s movie empire, have been embraced, others fade into obscurity.  Most probably deserve such treatment, but some of these lesser knowns deserve to be recognized far more than they are.  Heather Dixon’s novel, Entwined, is one such as these.

Entwined retells the fairytale of “The Twelve Dancing Princesses”.  For details on the fairytale, I suggest reading it yourself.  It’s short, magical, and should be easy to find.  As for Dixon’s novel, here’s the description from the back of the book

 Just when Azalea should feel that everything is before her--beautiful gowns, dashing suitors, balls filled with dancing--it’s taken away.  All of it.  And Azalea is trapped.  The Keeper understands.  He’s trapped, too, held for centuries within the walls of the palace.  So he extends an invitation.

Every night, Azalea and her eleven sisters may step through the enchanted passage in their room to dance in his silver forest, but there is a cost.  The Keeper likes to keep things.  Azalea may not realize how tanged she is in his web until it is too late.

The first point which I should probably address is this story as an adaptation.  Personally, I think Dixon did a great job.  While this is a story about the twelve dancing princesses, it’s not a mere copy due to Dixon’s skillful expansions.  She expanded on many points and changed or added motivations, but all the key points of the fairytale remained.  She did not drop any necessary element or try to force anything in.  Furthermore, the methods with which she incorporated the important elements were very well thought out and executed.

Another positive element of the story is Dixon’s writing.  Throughout the story, her story feels like a dance.  It is fluid and I could almost feel a twist, a step, or a swing in the writing. With almost every paragraph, Dixon’s love of dancing shines through, which not only makes the descriptions of dances engaging even for a two-left-feet person like myself but also carries the reader along through this magical story.  The magic she weaves into the tale is also nearly as enchanting as the original fairytales.  The reason I say “nearly” is due to some less skillful execution near the end.  I won’t give details, for fear of spoilers, and I won’t say the concepts were bad, just not done as well, which made those points some of the few parts of the story that felt like a stumble in an otherwise beautiful dance.

Another of these problems is also at the end, so again, I won’t detail it, but it’s an example of missed opportunity.  There was an excellent chance to do a powerful parallel which would have not only tied together some hanging plot threads (lesser ones, I’ll admit) and also tied together some of the themes.

The third major stumble I think was the middle of the story.  It should have been condensed, or maybe some of the lead up shortened.  My copy is almost 500 pages.  For most of the book, it didn’t feel that way.  In fact, I finished it in a day.  However, there were points in the middle where I felt the length of the book.  I’m not sure where or how it should have been edited (I’d have to read the story again with pencil in hand), but it would have benefited from some tightening.

Okay, let’s finish this review sandwich with two more positives.  One other thing I enjoyed in the story were the characters.  Each princess has a distinct personality, as do all the men.  They aren’t necessarily deep, and some of the princesses are definitely more fleshed out than others, but you can generally tell who is talking.  There are even a few surprises in there, which turn previously predictable characters into fun little subplots.

My final positive is really what I think to be the strongest element of Entwined: the themes.  Entwined is about love.  But not just romantic love.  In fact, romantic love is almost non-existent for large portions of the story.  Much more important are the familial love of the royal family and the friendships between the twelve daughters, and they are done so well!  Just a story focussing on those aspects alone, done as Dixon does, would have made a great story.  However, they are further enhanced by their place in the fairytale.  Another love that is touched upon at times is sacrificial love, and it does play a major, in rare, role in the story.  So, C. S. Lewis fans, for those of you looking for a good book containing The Four Loves, here’s one for you.

But positive love is not the only kind present.  As so many great fairytales do, Dixon’s novel incorporates touches of the cautionary tale, warning of attraction to that which is dangerous and of loving something or someone too much and hurting others for it.

One last theme I will mention is forgiveness.  Through her tale, Dixon highlights the dangers of pride founded on self-pity and bitterness and how healing is found in forgiveness.  It’s beautifully executed.  Again, just that theme in the way she wrote it would make a great story on its own, but within its casing of fairytale, Dixon brings it to life in ways only magic can do.

Entwined, Heather Dixon’s retelling of “The Twelve Dancing Princesses”, is a wonderful adaptation of the fairytale.  With fluid writing, fun characters, and fantastic themes, she pulls together a story that dances across the page, gently pulling the reader into the flow of the tale and, like its source material, enchants the reader.  With a book like that, I think we can say, “And they lived happily every after.”

Entwined.  Dixon, Heather.  New York: Greenwillow Books.  2011.  Print.

Reviews and Recommendations: Lord Peter Mysteries by Dorothy Sayers

So, before we begin, I apologize for missing last week’s update.  I dislike giving excuses unless something was legitimately unavoidable, so I’ll just summarize as “I forgot”.  And that’s it.  Now, onward!

Quiz time!  How many classic masters of mystery do you know?  I’m guessing most know only two: Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie.  When compared to the list of classic novelists, this list seems rather… sparse.  Personally, I can understand.  First of all, the birth of mystery as a distinct genre is relatively recent, most often credited to Edgar Allen Poe (that’s mid 1800s, by the way).  Furthermore, the very genre is most often built around the question “who did it”, and once that question is answered, the story often loses some of its appeal.  My prime example is The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux, but I’m sure you readers of mystery can think of a few yourselves.  For the most part, mystery seems like an expendable genre.  And that’s coming from someone who loves mysteries.

Fortunately, however, there are exceptions.  One such exception is Robert Louis Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, which is so well written in such elements as atmosphere and foreshadowing that the story pulls the reader in even after the mystery is solved.  Another exceptional example, and the topic of this weeks post, is Dorothy Sayer’s Lord Peter Mystery Series.

Dorothy Sayers lived in the early to mid 1900s and was a friend of C. S. Lewis, who admired her work, and his fellow Inklings.  Her most mentioned works, to my knowledge, are her article “The Lost Tools of Learning” and her book The Mind of the Maker, both excellent reads.  However, of what I’ve read, the works of hers I like best are her mysteries starring debonair amateur detective, Lord Peter Wimsey.

My first praise for this series is the beauty of the writing.  Sayers knows how to write good prose.  The sentences flow together, hiccups are few if any, and there are so many clever, quotable lines.  Sayers, in her book The Mind of the Maker and in more than one of her fictions, emphasizes the importance of vocation.  She holds that if someone is called to a work, then that person should strive for excellence in his or her craft.  Sayers lives that out with her writing.

More of her skill can be seen in how Sayers constructs her mysteries.  Sayers knows how to pace a mystery, how to instill a good frustration in the reader to mirror the characters’, when to include red herrings, when to slip in clues, and how to bring about the resolution.  And when I say “slip in clues”, I mean it.  In every Lord Peter mystery I’ve read, Sayers has always made her cases solvable, sometimes even outright stating the key clue.  Sometimes this key is near the end, sometimes at the beginning, sometimes the full implication of that clue might need some more obscure knowledge, sometimes it stares in the face of the audience right till the end, but it’s always been there in every novel I’ve read, hidden in plain sight.  Another nice aspect of her mysteries is how they are chronological and pass in real time.  The full benefit of this I will describe in a bit.  In addition to Sayer’s skillful insertion of clues, she also manages to make her mysteries believable.  I’ve read some mysteries where the solution is logical on paper but sounds ridiculous when you think about it (really, final death in And Then There Were None?  Really?).  Sayers mysteries are grounded.  Every solution makes sense.  That simple logic in her mysteries is very much appreciated.

And now, onto my favorite ingredient in Sayer’s mystery recipe: the characters.

First, a dash of Wimsey.  Lord Peter Wimsey is an aristocrat, the second son to a noble family, with too much time on his hands and a talent for sniffing out trouble.  In fact, he runs towards it.  Though his proud and rather vain at times, the witty optimist Wimsey is just fun to follow.  Furthermore, his impulsive actions do not go without consequence.  Reading his reactions when they happen and then in future books is… not a delight, as often the consequences are terrible, but the closest to delight as can be reached under the circumstances.  The manner in which he changes is also quite refreshing.  If you compare the Wimsey of Whose Body? with that of Gaudy Night, you can feel the difference.

The reason for this change, I think, is mainly due to his relationships.  Surrounding Wimsey is a great supporting cast, of which I will mention three: the police officer and designated “dasher of Wimsey’s theories”, Charles Parker, the faithful friend and butler, Bunter, and the intelligent and blunt, Harriet Vane.  I love these characters.  And I adore the interactions between these characters and Wimsey.  Parker helps keep Peter grounded with his no-nonsense attitude, Harriet is a fellow intellectual who is not afraid to critique Wimsey and encourage him to change and grown, and Bunter… oh, Bunter!  He’s my favorite!  Without Bunter, Wimsey would get nowhere.  It is Bunter who gathers much of the information, who does the forensic work, and is really the detective’s rock.  If Peter is the forerunner to Batman (yes, the first Batman comic was published after the first Lord Peter Wimsey mystery), then Bunter would be Alfred.  Except he’s, I can’t believe I’m saying this, better than Alfred!  At from what I’ve seen, as not only does Bunter keep Peter standing, but he also acts as an indispensable aid to Peter’s detective work.  His first name is also Mervyn, so he gets extra points.  I love Bunter.

And there you have it.  A spoiler-free gushing about Dorothy Sayer’s mystery series.  A few words of caution in closing, though: although there’s nothing explicit, there are occasional instances of sexual immorality.  There’s also some cursing, though, again, nothing beyond a PG to PG-13 type rating.  Just don’t read it to the tykes.

So, yeah, if you like mystery, check this series out.  If you like novels, check this series out, for it holds much more appeal than mere mystery.  These are fictions in which Sayers lived out the theology she held and the demands she made of other artists.  To put it shortly: they are written with excellence.

All works mentioned here (c) their respective owners... which in this case is all Dorothy Sayers

Reviews and Recommendations: The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux

For the most part, I will not review classics on this blog.  Long story short, a few ill-done literature classes in middle school and high school discouraged me from reading them as the teachers made a habit of praising stories while choosing very boring sections to read.  Not the whole story.  Not even an author’s best work.  Just his most famous work and a boring section from it.  I came out of those classes thinking I did not like classics (nice broad paint strokes there), except Shakespeare and mythology that is, and have only in the past few years began working on increasing my classics reading list.  Furthermore, there are instances like The Man Who was Thrusday where I think a single read through inadequate to discuss the text with any justice.

That said, for Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera, I have no inhibitions.  I don’t understand why this book is a classic.  Can I see why it has lasted till now?  Well… considering the popularity of series like Twilight, yes, I can.  For those who read my post transcribing a letter draft, you may remember my summary of Phantom, where I likened this book’s issues to some main ones I’ve heard said of Twilight: two guys in love with a black-slate female, boring main characters, and an ending without consequences.

Because I thought my initial reaction too emotionally charged and wished to provide a more objective viewpoint on Phantom, I decided to reread the story in preparation for this post.  My verdict: same issues, but not as horrible book as I first concluded.  Don’t get me wrong; it’s not a great book, not even a good book, but it’s not terrible.  I’ll even reword my main complaints into (1) a bad love story and (2) wasted potential.  Now, while I wish to address these two points, I will be largely sidestepping them in this post, especially the first, as next week’s topic more directly addresses both.  As such, this post will instead cover a few other issues I had, such as semantics and word choice.

Speaking of which, I really struggle with the style of my copy of Phantom, published and presumably translated by Puffin Classics.  Now, I can’t comment upon the style of the original text, as I cannot read French, where it perhaps sounds better.  Nor can I say how well my copy is translated.  As a (very) amateur translator myself and frequent reader of foreign material, I understand the translator’s dilemma when trying to fit a square paragraph in a round language.  Translations often can’t be verbatim or capture a word or phrase quite right.  I’m willing to be merciful, as I cannot compare the original text to my copy.  However, there are a few hiccups that really bothered me.  First off, Puffin Classics decided to translate “fantôme” as “ghost,” despite “phantom” being in the title and the most well-known title of character.  Why the change?  It also sounds clumsier to call him “the Opera Ghost.”  Linguistically speaking, “phantom” has a more ominous, mysterious feel to it.  I just don’t understand the translation decision.  Another issue comes in some of Puffin’s other word choices.  For instance, I can’t say how accurate a translation it may be, but they have the Phantom call someone a “great booby.”  Seriously?  This is our villain?  Poor word choice breaks the threatening atmosphere, Puffin.  But I suppose these points sound like nitpicks of the more linguistically minded, as a physicist might be bothered by describing the speed of light as “very fast.”  Still, I think a translation, so long as it is accurate, should attempt to present its content in a fitting manner.

Moving on, I will now touch the plot and writing of the story.  Here is where the idea of “wasted potential” comes out.  Again, I will not cover everything under this heading, but a few points deserve mention.  To begin, the story should not have been told from Raoul’s point of view.  More will be said next week on why, but know my opinion is that, as in all the adaptations of which I currently know, the story should have been told from the Phantom’s view point.  There’s also the whole ending thing, which I will cover next week as well.

Related, though not wholly dependent upon, the concept of telling the story from the Phantom’s eyes is Leroux’s problem of constantly breaking tension.  I give Leroux credit for his outline.  The progression of events makes sense, and under a different storytelling style, the tension would have built until its culmination and resolution.  There are even a few scenes executed well that drew me in and made me feel the atmosphere.  Too bad he couldn’t have done that consistently.

If you have read my letter transcription, I describe one scene in which Christine and Raoul are speaking on the opera rooftop and constantly think they hear some sort of exclamation, fearing the Phantom may be listening.  Now, conceptually, this scene could be tense and exciting… except Leroux states from the beginning of the scene that the Phantom has followed them and also provides quotations of what the Phantom is crying out.  From the very start of the scene and all throughout, Leroux tosses suspicion and tension from the roof of the opera house, letting it smash to pieces upon the street below.  This happens time and again, even in the prologue where Leroux spoils his own story due to his framing it as if he were reporting on a true event.  What makes this broken tension worse, though, is how Leroux shows that he can write tension and write it well during the Persian’s narrative.  This section, the climax of the story, is so good, with atmosphere and tension.  Why couldn’t the rest of the story have been told so well?

Also, why couldn’t the main characters be as good as the side-character Persian, who only shows up in the climax?  Seriously.  The Persian is my favorite, summarized in three Cs: compassionate, clever, and courageous.  Out of compassion he helps the Phantom in the past and then Raoul in the story’s climax, he displays intelligence and foresight in his actions, and he shows his courage in confronting the Phantom despite knowing the dangers.  The Persian is the best character.  I would much rather read the story of his and the Phantom’s meeting, interactions, and eventual arrival to France than the story we got.  Instead, we have a shallow love story about a greater and a lesser stalker falling into a triangle of twisted love with a singer and then trying to kill the other so he can take the trophy.  Okay, I’ll admit that description to be a bit mean-spirited, though I do think it pretty accurate (more on that next week).

Back to characters,  the main characters are disappointing.  I’m not someone who thinks you need fully realized characters to have a great story.  However, in a story like this, a 300-page novel where the romance and relationships between characters is supposed to be the driving aspect of the story, someone to cheer for would be nice.  Unfortunately, neither of the character of Christine or Raoul is engaging, the Phantom is interesting but hardly present, and the “romance” is horrible.  In addition, apparently both Raoul and Christine are idiots, as shown in the rooftop scene described earlier.  If you can hear full phrases like “Because I had seen him!” so clearly as to record them for Leroux to later find and included in his “true” story, then there is probably someone behind you.¹ So, yeah, the main couple are stupid and have barely any relationship.  What is there I do not think romantic, nor is it interesting without the Phantom, and this is coming from someone who generally loathes love triangles.

For all that, though, the story isn’t horrible and, I think, still worthy of consideration and discuss.  Yes, it has some horrible things, such as some of the writing choices, broken tension, bland main characters, and bad romance (next week), but Phantom does have some good moments.  The last third of the book containing the Persian is fun and well executed, and there are points where Leroux shows he does know how to write.  It’s just he isn’t consistent and apparently chose the wrong story to tell.  Still, it’s not dreadful.  I can understand why people would like the book.  Actually, the second read through I found much more enjoyable than the first.  I attribute this to entering into the story with dashed expectations.  The Phantom of the Opera shouldn’t be a classic, nor should it be approached as one.  If you strip off the “classic” label and read it simply as a book, then perhaps you might be pleasantly surprised, and you can certain get some good conversations out of it, and maybe even a blog.

¹Leroux, Gaston.  The Phantom of the Opera.  London: Penguin Group.  2008.  137.  Print.


All works mentioned in this post (c) their respective owners

Reviews and Recommendations: Till We Have Faces by C. S. Lewis

This is my favorite book.  Till We Have Faces is the final fiction work of world-famous Christian thinker C. S. Lewis, my favorite novel not just of his but of all literature I have read, and yet most to whom I have mentioned the name have never heard it.  How can this be?  How can something so wonderful a story so skillfully written be so shockingly overlooked?  Truth be told, I never knew of Till We Have Faces until a few years ago, when I read it for a college literature class.  

Actually, I’m one of those people who never even knew Lewis wrote more than the Chronicles of Narnia until college, let alone read much of it!  Of his Chronicles, I remember readingThe Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and The Horse and His Boy, watching the BBC videos (on vhs) from Lion through The Silver Chair, and listening to my dad read The Magician’s Nephew.  Beyond that, I knew nothing of Lewis’s bibliography, not until college where I read first Learning in Wartime, learned of his theological works, and grew to appreciate Lewis as an author through The Problem of Pain.  I now own an anthology of Lewis’s major theological works, an anthology of the Chronicles (from which I read my missing Narnia experience, The Last Battle), an anthology containing most of Lewis’s short writings (almost 900 pages worth), the second volume of his space trilogy (my mom has the first and third), and, of course, my favorite book and Lewis’s final story, Till We Have Faces.

So, going back to Till We Have Faces, why do I love it?  I will not be covering the personal side of things in this post, as that would be a whole post unto itself, but rather some of more the technical aspects of the story that make it excellent.  But first, a plot description:

Till We Have Faces retells the tale of Psyche and Cupid, or Eros, but rather than follow Psyche, the narrator is Psyche’s ugly oldest sister, Orual.  The sisters live in the fictional, pre-Christian country of Glome, where Orual raises Psyche after the girl’s mother dies in childbirth.  Orual, rejected by nearly everyone for her ugliness, loves Psyche, and Psyche Orual.  When tragedy strikes Glome, Psyche is offered to Cupid, God of the Mountain, as a sacrifice.  In despair, Orual travels to the mountain, hoping to give Psyche a proper burial only the find her sister alive and well.  However, what should have become a joyful reunion instead begins Orual’s distortion and destruction of her most precious relationships.

In my discussion of this story, I wish to begin with characters.  To speak on every character would take too much time, so I will only focus on the main characters, Orual and Psyche.  For everyone else, I will just quickly mention that, while not detailed, each character is different and has specific influence on the plot and Orual’s character.  They are all important, and even their words and actions have consequences.  

Now, on Orual, while I do not hold that one needs amazing, realistic characters to have an amazing story (I’ll talk about that some other time), Orual really is incredible.  In writing Orual, Lewis did not write a character; he wrote a person.  Every time I reread Faces, I encounter a smart, rational, but sensitive girl, driven to cling to any love or acceptance she finds.  Due to being ugly in place where beauty and sex are the only worth of a woman, she is rejected by everyone, made to feel inferior and worthless.  Furthermore, she has always felt pushed aside by her younger, more attractive sister, Redival.  Orual is hurt and craves love, and when she finally receives some, first from her mentor and then from Psyche, she latches on, gripping to those pieces of joy and acceptance.  However, because of her fear and insecurity, she hangs on too tight, becoming jealous and obsessive.  She is a character with real emotions and pain that lead to tragic decisions with horrible consequences.  Orual’s thoughts and actions are influenced by those around her, forming conflict as she tries to understand different thoughts and struggles to think logically.  I found myself understanding Orual’s thought process and how she came to her conclusions, even when I knew her to be wrong.  Orual is real to me.

In contrast, there is Psyche.  Psyche is what most people would label a “Mary Sue.”  She is kind, beautiful, gracious, perfect really, the only type of person worthy to be the bride of a god.  Now, setting aside any arguments on if “Mary Sue” labeling is legitimate, Lewis’s decision on Psyche’s character is exactly how it should be.  Think about it.  Our narrator is Orual, someone who loves Psyche to the point of obsession.  Psyche is everything that Orual wishes she could be: beautiful, loving, and a person almost everyone adores on sight.  Of course Orual would present Psyche as perfect.  Maybe Psyche did have flaws, but we can’t know, nor does it matter.  It matters not how Psyche really is, only how Orual sees Psyche.  Allow me to refer to my own life.  I have a younger sister who is talented at art, funny, kind, patient, quietly charismatic, never gets in trouble, pretty much the perfect person… or at least, that’s how my sinful nature painted her, overlooking any flaws and only seeing her as everything I, a competitive, argumentative unfunny, uncharismatic (to name a few issues) person, lacked.  Years and many conversations later, I can now see her more objectively.  However, when you’re beaten down by rejection and your own flaws and hang around someone who is, in many ways, your opposite, objectivity jumps out the window.  Whatever Psyche’s real person, what matters is Orual’s perception of her: a goddess in both beauty and character within mortal flesh.

So we have Orual, ugly and rejected, and Psyche, perfect and embraced.  Their story, a powerful tale of twists and emotions and sorrow and love, I will not describe here.  I gave a story blurb earlier, and I do not wish to give away any more plot-wise.  Just know that Lewis proves himself an amazing storyteller.  He manages to retell the myth, even turning Orual into a sympathetic villain, without falling into many pitfalls of retelling stories from the point of view of the villain.  Often the villain becomes simply “misunderstood,” and “heroes” become the villains, as with Grendel in one film adaptation of Beowolf, Elphaba in Wicked, and Maleficent in the recent Disney retelling of Sleeping Beauty named after the “Mistress of all Evil.”  Lewis skillfully avoids this trap, making Orual “misunderstood” but still wrong, which results in the beautifully woven tragedy that is Till We Have Faces.

Aiding the storytelling and the reality of Orual as a character is Lewis’s writing style.  His style sounds natural, as though Orual were a real person writing a personal record.  What’s more, Lewis breaks the “rule” of cutting out unnecessary details by adding superfluous tidbits about Glome, as if it were a real place.  As much as this might bother the more indoctrinated modern reader/writer to the “rules of good writing,” these details actually give the story more of a realistic feeling, for, although it does not matter story-wise how far the Shennit river might be to the palace and city, it matters to Orual.  The inclusion of the geographic and cultural factoids make the story feel much more like the records of a real person than a deliberately crafted fiction.  I really cannot praise the writing style enough.  Additionally, it’s beautifully written, with masterful use of language, which alone is reason to read the novel.

Finally, I wish to say that the teachings of Till We Have Faces possess power and, in some places, beauty.  Like with the plot, I do no wish to spoil too much here  However, I will be taking two of these messages, as they are connected, and expounding upon them in a few weeks, messages that also just so happen to be connected to my personal reasons for loving this story.  So if you’re curious about some of the messages in this story, just be patient a little longer.

Till We Have Faces is my favorite book.  I also hold it to be Lewis’s most skillful pieces of fiction.  The characters are amazing, the plot interesting and emotionally impacting, the writing style engaging, and the lessons I have learned from it (and I’m sure there are at least some I still have not understood) continue to impact me and draw me back to the story.  Teach and entertain, thereby prompting rereading, and doing all with excellence, now that’s good Christian literature.

Lewis, C. S.  Till We Have Faces.  New York: Houghton Harcourt Publishing Company.  1984.  Print.

All properties mentioned in this post (c) their respective owners.

Reviews & Recommendations: The Man Who Was Thursday by G. K. Chesterton

Oh where do I start?  Well, I suppose a quick paraphrase of info from The American Chesterton Society’s website might be a good place.

G. K. Chesterton was a British, Catholic writer who lived during the late 19th to early 20th century.  Though he identified as a journalist, he wrote a plethora of material from novels to plays to poetry, and more.¹

Of Chesterton’s massive library of work, the one being mentioned today is his small novel The Man Who Was Thursday.  I say “mentioned” because there… really isn’t a lot I think I can say about this story.  No.  Scratch that.  There isn’t a lot I think I should say about this story.  Thursday is the kind of story that I know I’ll have to read again.  There is no doubt in my mind that I missed so much, not because it was poorly written, but because there is so much to unpack within this short book.  After finishing Thursday, I knew I wanted to write a blog post about it, but I also feel completely inadequate to accurately and satisfactorily discuss this novel.  As such, this post shall be short and only surface-level, and you’ll just have to read the story yourself to know anything more.  Now then, onward!

The best descriptive phrase I can give to The Man Who WasThrusday is “a philosophical and theological novel with espionage overtones.”  Within the story, the main character, a poet named Gabriel Syme, becomes a secret police officer and then infiltrates an underground anarchist organization.  Within the council of his enemies, he receives the title of Thursday and soon begins his efforts to dethrone the head of the organization, the impressive and intimidating Sunday, and save his beloved England from anarchy.  I’m afraid I can say no more than that on the premise, as, due to this book’s short length, there is little to be said without spoilers.

Some positives noted upon first reading can be recorded in a few phrases, and negatives in even fewer.  First off, I would say that the tone and happenings of the novel, the twists, mystery, suspense, and the pacing of the plot, quite engaged me, as those elements should in an espionage tale.  What’s more, there are so many tightly packed, philosophical statements and quotes within the book, which I love, but not so many as I think would bog down the casual reader. Although, I could probably just take a few of them and write a whole blog post about them, and I am convinced there are numerous I overlooked, as well, prompting me to desire rereading.  Furthermore, the characters, both good and bad, are interesting, though I shall not say how.  Again, it’s difficult to step into that topic without going in too deep, especially for a surface-level review such as this.

Concerning negatives, there is only I think to mention.  While each character is distinct, there are quite a few of them for so short a book, and I found myself mixing persons up.  There was also not much time to be given in developing each person and getting to know them, adding to the prevalence of mistaking one character for the other.

There is one more element with which I took issue, one related to the plot, which I shall not discuss here, for it would contain spoilers I would not desire to impart; however, to include it with my “negatives” would not be entirely honest.  In truth and upon reflection, what I find a problem is not actually the events to which I refer, but rather my prior expectations.  Unfortunately, I think there may be some readers who, reaching that to which I refer, would throw the book away or consider it ruined, but that is, I hold, to be more related to the preconceptions and philosophies of the modern reader rather than a flaw of the book itself.

To conclude, G. K. Chesterton’s The Man Who Was Thursday, proved to me a mentally stimulating, philosophic, and theologic story with enough adventure and espionage suspense to keep, I think, even the more casual reader interested.  What’s more, the deceptively small sized book holds much material to be reconsidered and examined, which prompts me to read it again, and if a book really must do anything, I suppose it would be just that. 


¹"Discover Chesterton."  The American Chesterton Society.  American Chesterton Society, n. d.  Web.  30 Nov.  2014.

The Man Who Was Thursday (c) G. K. Chesterton

Reviews & Recommendations: The Redwall Series by Brian Jacques

My childhood from about 9-15 could be described with one name: Brian Jacques.  More specifically, I read and reread his Redwall series.  It was Brian Jacques and his abbey of Redwall that hooked me on reading, and it was his style that I first imitated when I developed an interest in writing.  Even today, when I pick up one book of this series, I end up in a tale of amusing characters, fun adventure, and mouthwatering food all wrapped up in nostalgia and skillful storytelling.  I love traveling to the western sea coast, to gaze upon the fire mountain of Salamandastron.  I love entering Redwall Abbey, to walk beneath the light streaming through stained glass windows as I cast my eyes upon the legendary tapestry.  I love exploring Mossflower Wood, seeing places that have changed from countless season prior, as well as the surprises hidden throughout.  I love journeying down the River Moss or the meadow streams in Gousim longboats, seeing the fish and dragonflies as paddlers belt out river songs.

But I’m probably getting ahead of myself.  First comes the mind behind the 25-volume Redwall series.

Brian Jacques was a British jack-of-all-trades and storyteller.  His author debut occurred after he wrote a book for a school for blind children.  The story found its way to the printing press, and then to the general public, beginning a long children’s series that would end up being named after this first book, Redwall.

So what is Redwall?  The Redwall Series unfolds in a fictional, medieval-style world occupied by anthropomorphic animals.  The protagonist of the first book is Matthias, a young mouse living in Redwall Abbey, who wants to be a warrior like his hero, Martin the Warrior.  When his home is attacked by the sea rat, Cluny the Scourge, Matthias sets out to find Martin’s legendary sword to combat Cluny’s horde and save his beloved home.

From that Abbey and its surrounding forest of Mossflower Wood, the world expanded.  Prequels were written, detailing the life of Martin, how he became a warrior and came to live in Redwall, and other characters influential in the formation of the world of Redwall.  In the tale of the founding of Redwall Abbey, we are introduced to the dormant volcano, Salamandastron, ancient fortress of the badger lords, fierce fighters and skilled weapon smiths, and their British Royal Air Force-inspired soldiers, the Long Patrol Hares.  Multiple times, characters travel across the sea, whether to distant lands or to escape from them.  From the North and the East come enemies and go heroes.  Slowly, over each volume, more of the world is formed, or what is known expands.

Of course as the heroes travel, whether to distant lands or just around their own homes, they encounter different creatures and what might be called cultures.  The sensible moles, whose earthy ways include lots of solid wisdom, the sailor otters, fun-loving in peace but fierce in war, the rambunctious hares, perilous on both the battle field and at the dinner table, the argumentative and short-tempered shrews, and many more, including the variations of each group depending on their location.  Sea otters and river otters aren’t quite the same, and never mistake a pygmy shrew for a Guosim shrew.

As you might have picked up from my descriptions so far, there are many ties throughout the stories, and not just geography or character type. In each story, there is always a riddle or puzzle to be solved, whether it be a map to the heroes’ goal or the location of a hidden item, for an example.  Understandably, some people might find some of the elements a bit too repetitive.  As might be expected of such a long series, sometimes these riddles overlap.  What’s more, at times plot elements get recycled, resulting in two books that, while definitely different, feel very similar to each other.  This could make the stories a bit tiresome to some readers.

Also, I will not claim that every volume is excellent.  Some stories, such as Taggerung and Rackety Tam, I liked more than others, like Pearls of Lutra.  Some I have only read once.  Some I’ve reread multiple times.  That’s just how series are.

In addition, as Brian Jacques initially wrote his stories for blind children, he uses a lot of descriptions, particularly for food, often toughing on taste, smell, and texture.  Some people might find this tiring.  I never did, nor do I now.  To me, the food is part of the culture of Redwall, a symbol of prosperity, friendship, peace and goodness; where good food is absent or wasted, so they are as well.  Still, if you hate descriptions of food that will make your mouth water, I’m sorry; Redwall is full of them.

One final issue some readers might have with the story is the binary nature of good and evil.  Creatures such as mice, squirrels, moles, badgers, and the like are 99% good.  In contrast, animals like rats, weasels, ferrets, and foxes make up the bulk of the villains.  Sometimes you might end up with a vole that’s lured into helping the villains for his own gain, but these are rare.  This does not mean good characters are without flaws or villains lack strengths, but the lines are clearly drawn  Like with the food descriptions, I’m not bothered by this.  I think having basic good-versus-evil stories are, in fact, healthy.  However, this post is long enough already, so I won’t go into it here.

A final point I wish to bring up about Redwall is how, for a children’s book, it brings up tough topics.  Sure, it’s not the deepest series, but it’s certainly not completely shallow.  For example, in every book characters die.  Good characters, even main characters, die.  Sometimes it’s from courageous sacrifice, sometimes they are a casualty of war, sometimes they are killed only because they, harmless and kind though they are, happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Characters die, and it hurts, and this exposure to death within literature opens the door to thought on the universal experience of mortality.  

Besides death, the Redwall series also covers topics such as revenge and killing, which can lead to important conversations.  Is revenge okay?  Should we ever seek revenge?   What about killing?  When, if ever, is it permissible?  Brian Jacques gives his own answers to these questions, and I think his answers need to be examined and contemplated.  Good, evil, death, revenge, killing, these are important topics and ones I wish more children’s stories today engaged.

To finish up, I love Redwall.  I love the characters, the world, the food, and the stories.  Any chance I get, I recommend this series because, Brian Jacques, you made my childhood, and you made it an adventure.

Redwall (c) Brian Jacques

Reviews and Recommendations: The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

You know those times when you take a whole bunch of notes about something, then promptly lose those notes, and then after searching for weeks you resign yourself the the reality that you must choose one of two options: go back through the material or just work with what you can remember?  Well, this is one of these times, and I’m choosing option 2, because I really don’t want to go through Suzanne Collins’s The Hunger Games again.

Let me clarify.  I don’t think the book is bad.  There are elements I like that drew me in, but that doesn’t mean I want to read it again.  And why might that be?  Well, please allow me to tell you.

That which I like can be summed up in two words: concept and pacing.  I really like the concept of The Hunger Games, which, in case there are any who don’t know, goes as such.  The story follows a young teenaged girl, Katniss Everdeen, as she takes her younger sister’s place in her dystopia country’s annual battle royal, the titular Hunger Games.  The Games were instituted by the government after a certain rebellion as a method of deterring further uprisings.  Every year, two children, aged anywhere between 12-18, must be sent from each district of the country to participate, and there is only one winner.  If she ever wants to see her friends and family again, Katniss must be prepared to win the games, no matter the cost.

As I said, I like the concept.  It’s grave, intriguing, and there is immediate emotional investment by the fact that children are being pitted against each other in a life-or-death “game” treated like reality tv by the dystopian capital.  With the concept, there is also some potential social commentary and some possible conversations that could come up right from get go, and Collins delivers pretty well.  After a rocky start, the pacing carries the concept, making a high-tension narrative that keeps you turning pages right up until the end, especially due to her excellent use of cliff-hanger chapter ends.  I found myself reading almost the whole book in about two days.  However, that was after leaving the book for about six months due to a clunky beginning.

I’m going to say this now, there will be some spoiler-ish things in what follows.  I’ll try to avoid particulars, but I’m not sure slight spoilers can be avoided if I wish to give my honest thoughts on the story.  You’ve been warned.

So, yes, I began The Hunger Games and then put it down for half-a-year before picking it back up again.  As for why, well, basically everything pre-departure for the Games is why.  In the first couple chapters, the pacing is actually pretty horrendous, trying to clumsily cram waaaay too much into the first 2-3 chapters.  Also, while I understand the logic in Katniss’s willingness to sacrifice herself for her younger sister, Prim, I did not feel anything for it, despite the emotional weight it’s all supposed to have in the story.  I’m even an older sister myself who knows about the love of an older sister to her younger sisters.  However, I am not Katniss.  I am not Prim’s older sister, and I just didn’t know, still don’t know, enough about Prim to care about her, and when that familial connection is supposed to be a driving force in a character’s decision, having that emotional pull is pretty significant.  It doesn’t even take much to establish an emotional connection between characters.

Take as an example the fairytale “Beauty and the Beast.”  At the start of the story, Beauty’s father, a formerly wealthy merchant who recently met with tragedy in a business venture, hears that some of his merchandise might have survived and prepares to depart to confirm his hopes.  He asks his three daughters what gifts they desire upon his return.  The first two ask for expensive dresses and jewelry while Beauty only desires a single rose.  Well, as you probably know, the father’s trip proves unprofitable.  On his way back home, he stumbles upon an enchanted castle, where he is given hospitality from an unknown host.  When the father walks through the garden the next day, he spots a wonderful rose bush and, remembering Beauty and desiring to fulfill at least one of his child’s requests, he plucks a rose.  This angers the host, who we learn is the Beast, and the Beast only releases the father on the promise that one of his daughters will take his place.  When the father returns home, Beauty, out of love for her father, decides to go, and so begins the tale.

My summary here does not do the story justice, but I hope you can see how, through very simple ways, like character’s actions and interactions, the love between the father and Beauty gains substance.  Much like The Hunger Games, “Beauty and the Beast” begins with one family member taking the place of another, but unlike with “Beauty and the Beast,” I felt no connection between the family members, and that’s not even counting the mother, who really just exists to make Katniss seem resourceful.  All we know is that everyone loves Prim and that (apparently) she’s a wonderful person while not many people like Katniss.  And I’m supposed to care about this family?  In fewer pages than even one scene of The Hunger Games, “Beauty and the Beast” establishes a stronger and more endearing family dynamic.

And so, with no emotional tension, all the poorly done info/backstory dumping, and failed character building squeezed into the first couple chapters, I just about had enough.  Even though the first chapters are supposed to pull the audience in, I was so offset by them I didn’t want to read the rest.  The only reason I picked the book back up again was because my sister really enjoyed the series.

Well, after I picked it back up, I did find myself pleasantly surprised when the pacing righted itself soon after.  My issues do no stop with the first few chapters, though.  Another issue I had was with writing style.  Collins’s writing style in The Hunger Games was mixed with me.  On the one hand, she wrote in a way that feels pretty similar to how a person might speak.  This kept the storytelling simple and fast paced, a necessity for this type of story.  A downside, though, is that I felt the style made the book seem too much like a movie without my imagination having to do any work.  I didn’t have to think about it, and I like thinking substance in my reading.  Also, big surprise, I did not like the present tense.  “But doesn’t that make it less clear whether or not she’ll live?” you ask.  I’m going to call this out and say, “No.  Not necessarily.”  Guess what?  I’ve actually read books written in 1st-person past tense where the narrator dies at the end.  Yep.  They exist, and by playing with the expectation of “past tense=he lives” my mind was blown.  Since then, I can’t accept the whole “ambiguity” argument for present-tense, and I’ve tried to keep in mind that past-tense does not equal safety for the narrator.

Ironically, I actually ended up subconsciously reading the story in past-tense most of the time.  I would read “was” where it said “is” and substitute all indications of present-tense with past-tense conjugation.  Then every now-and-again I would come across some present-tense verb and my mind would suddenly remember “Oh!  Right, present-tense!” taking me out of the story every time.  I will admit this to be more my fault, but it still remains that, at least for me, Collins ended up writing interruptions right into her story.  Not a fan.

The last thing I’ll cover here has to do with the main character herself.  I’m going to state this plainly: I do not like Katniss.  I really don’t.  I’m not going into any details here for spoiler reasons, but Katniss is actually the last reason I was so turned off by the first few chapters and a main reason I don’t want to read the book again.  Even though I was supposed to be cheering for her, I found it hard to.  I don’t blame characters in the book for disliking Katniss; in fact, I sympathize with them.  Katniss in The Hunger Games is, in my opinion, pretty unlikable.

Going back to “Beauty and the Beast,” it again does not take much to establish characters you root for.  Beauty, with asking only for a single rose, establishes herself as a character who cares more for beauty than riches, and her father, by wanting to still bring a rose back to her, and even by his asking his daughters what gifts they desire, shows himself to be a caring and thoughtful father.  Really, it doesn’t take much.  Just a little hint of positive character traits here or there goes a long way.  However, what I remember of Katniss is “People don’t like me, I’m not an especially likable person, and I’m not charismatic.  Oh, but everyone loves Prim!”  Yeah.

My dislike for Katniss is so strong that it even delayed my picking up the second book in the series, Catching Fire.  After finishing the first book, I actually wanted to start on the sequel right away, but I didn’t have the second book with me, so I couldn’t.  About fifteen minutes later, however, all that desire had evaporated, in large part because I didn’t want to read about Katniss.  I can only hope that everyone I’ve spoken with is right and that she gets more bearable in later books.

Yes, you read right; I’m going to read the rest of the trilogy.  I’m not sure I’ll post blogs about them, though.  So many people have already reviewed this current hit trilogy that I am hesitant to join them.  My reasons for doing this review were really two fold: after finishing the first book, I realized I had enough notes to write a full review, and I wish to discuss a certain topic in my next post, which I formulated due to reading The Hunger Games, so it only seemed fitting to discuss the book as well.

So now that I’ve reviewed the book, do I recommend it?  Well… not really.  There are good things in it.  I think there’s stuff that can be dissected and discussed based on the concept, and the pacing and chapter endings edged me on in the reading.  However, all the issues that make me not want to read the story again also make me hesitant to recommend the novel.  It’s not a bad book, but it’s not a good book either.  I guess if you want to read a story that’s like a popcorn action movie with a few extra layers, this is your ticket, but that’s probably the best I can say about it.

Edit 12/6/2014: Corrected my spelling in a couple places

Collins, Suzanne.  The Hunger Games.  New York: Scholastic Press.  Print.  2008

Reviews & Recommendations: The Chronicles of Prydain by Lloyd Alexander

“Is It Good Enough for Children?”

For those who don’t know, is the title of a short article by children’s author Madeleine L’Engle, most famous for her novel A Wrinkle in Time.  As you might expect, the article addresses the topic of children’s stories, concluding that (spoilers) “if a children’s book is not good enough for all of us, it is not good enough for children.” ¹ Of the articles I’ve read so far on children’s literature, this one and C. S. Lewis’s “On Three Ways of Writing for Children” are my favorites to the point that I consider them “must reads” for any writer and “should reads” for any reader.

Both articles confront the idea of what I call “childish literature,” stories (often for children) where nothing really happens.  There is no danger, no tension, and everything is safe and quiet.  You know what stories I mean.  In contrast, there’s what I call “children’s literature,” stories that are “good enough for all of us” and don’t lose their power as we mature, but rather increase in power and meaning.  Included in these ranks are such titles as The Chronicles of Narnia, The Wizard of Oz, and the subject of this week’s post: The Chronicles of Prydain by Llyod Alexander.

To paraphrase an “About the Author” section in one book, Alexander was an American author from Philadelphia with a deep passion for reading and writing.  Among his favorite narratives were classic mythology and folklore of knights and bravery, like King Arthur.  After training for World War II in Wales, he fell in love with the land and its language, a love he transferred and transformed into his own world, Prydain.²

The Prydain Chronicles are a series of five books following the adventures of Taran, assistant pig keeper and wannabe hero.  After an attack on his home by an evil sorcerer and the escape of the pig he keeps, Henwen, Taran chases after Henwen to try and retrieve her.  However, he receives more than he bargained for as he stumbles upon an adventure that changes his life forever.

I really wish I could say more, but further description would give way to spoilers, and we don’t want that, now do we?  In this review, I will address the story as a series rather than individual books because I don’t think I could properly describe my experience unless I discuss the Chronicles as a whole.  Yes, the stories are stand alone, in a way similar to the Harry Potter series, with each novel containing a complete story.  However, the real impact the series has on me involves the narrative as a whole.  You shall see why later.  (Though if I had to pick a favorite, it’d be the second book, The Black Cauldron.)

There really is so much to love in Prydain.  I love all the recurring characters, even those that start out annoying.  They all have such different personalities, and while they aren’t as fleshed out as, say, Potter and his friends, the characters don’t feel like cardboard.  Each character has a different manner of speech and interaction, so that I never confuse one character for the next.

The plots for each volume are different, as well.  There may be some repetition here and there, but each trip to and through the world of Prydain is distinct.  Again, I really wish I could say more, but you should just read them for yourself to see what I mean.

I do have some issues, though, first of which being that the land of Prydain is a very generic “fantasy world” setting.  I wish Alexander had fleshed out his world more.  The other issue, and really my biggest one with the whole series, I will not say here, as it is a major spoiler.  However, even with these two issues, I enjoyed the stories and how distinct each one was from the others.

So, characters and plots, I love them both.  However, as much as I enjoy them, these two aspects are not my favorite part of the stories, which brings me to a third element: themes.  With Alexander’s handling of themes, he wrote stories that became, for me, more than just children’s stories, but the kind of children’s stories that made me wish there was more children’s literature!  What impressed me most is that there are really only two themes in the whole series: identity and what it means to be a hero.  There’re sub-themes that pop up at times about loss and the importance of sacrifice, but it’s really these two themes of identity and heroism that shape the stories.  It is with these two themes that we see and experience Taran’s transformation.

At the story’s beginning, Taran is a teenager desiring to be a hero.  He wants honor and prestige.  He wants to be somebody, somebody great.  Over the course of five books, however, Taran’s understanding of heroism and identity change, as does ours.  Although the question remain the same (What is a hero?  What is honor?  Who am I?), Taran’s answers do not. Each sequential book takes these two themes and unpacks them, adding more layers and maturity with each volume, so that the character of Taran in book one is a different person from Taran of book five.   With The Chronicles of Prydain, Lloyd Alexander taught me not just about heroes and identity, but also about the power of recurring, maturing themes.  Just for that, I cannot recommend this series enough.  

Combining likable characters, varied plots, and a common thread of themes, The Chronicles of Prydain has earned itself a place among my most recommended children’s stories because, if you ask me, this story is definitely good enough for children.



¹L'Engle, Madeleine.  "Is it Good Enough for Children?"  The Christian Imagination.  Leland Ryken.  Colorado Springs: Waterbrook Press, 2002.  427-431.  Print.

²Alexander, Lloyd.  The Foundling and Other Tales of Prydain.  New York: Henry Holt and Company, 1999.  Print.


The Chronicles of Prydain (c) Lloyd Alexander

Reviews & Recommendations: Lilith by George MacDonald

For the first book examined on this blog, I'm going to start with a somewhat lesser known author: George MacDonald, a Scottish writer and minister from the late 19th early 20th century.  I say "lesser known" because although MacDonald's name has reemerged in the mainstream after nearly fading into obscurity, I do not hear his name said very often, which is a shame.  Many famous authors, such as C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien, considered him a master storyteller, and W. H. Auden likened MacDonald to Poe in his skills.  What's more, MacDonald mentored Lewis Carroll, author of the classic Alice in Wonderland stories.

Admittedly, for a while I actually regarded MacDonald quite lightly, even with his resume.  Yes, I enjoyed reading The Princess and the Goblin, The Princess and Curdie, and The Light Princess.  Also, while it does not attract me much in terms of story, I could see some skillful writing and teaching with At the Back of the North Wind.  However, liking an author's story does not equal admiring the author himself.  I did not understand what these famous authors meant in describing MacDonald as a great teacher and storyteller, at least not until I read Lilith.

Lilith is a novel narrated in first person by a Mr. Vane who, after meeting a mystical raven, is taken  through a mirror into a world of magic and peril.  After losing himself in this other world, Mr. Vane faces the true nature of life and death while seeking redemption for what he once abandoned.  It's a story difficult to describe without spoilers, so I'm afraid I must leave my summary here.

Before continuing, let's get one thing straight: I think MacDonald a better teacher than writer. In many of his stories, Lilith included,  MacDonald's characters are flat.  What's more, the plot starts slow, an often off-putting issue.  Worst of all, though, is that MacDonald has a somewhat convoluted writing style.  Much of the time he is great, with engaging imagery and insightful dialogue, but there are also many places where he writes sentences so long and complicated that I still don't comprehend it even after rereading, yanking me out of the story.  Because of this, the first forth of Lilith proved difficult, and I took a couple weeks to read what I can usually cover in a few hours.

However, after passing that first forth, MacDonald finally began to draw me in when the protagonist, Mr. Vane, meets a group of children in a country of giants.  This episode only covers two chapters, but the children were so likable that I found myself invested.  Then, at the end of the section, MacDonald integrated biblical teaching in such a natural way that I literally stopped and stared at the sentence.  

Perhaps it seems contradictory to say biblical teaching was inserted "naturally" when I ended up arrested in my reading by its surfacing.  What I mean by "natural" is not that it wasn't obvious but rather that there was no sense of being forced into the text.  In my experience, many stories containing Scripture would have been better without it because it's been crammed into the story, slathered on so thick and stuffed so much where it doesn't fit that I feel suffocated.  Even C. S. Lewis's works I think sometimes feels slightly forced, but in that ending sentence of Lilith's 14th chapter, I read a near quote of Scripture as if there were nothing else that could fit there.  It belonged there.

From then on, I raced through the tale like a child on a treasure hunt, having fun on my adventure in an intriguing story and world while watching for allusions to or direct inserts of Scripture.  I found many pieces of theology scattered throughout the story, and those pieces always fit; I never felt suffocated.  In fact, the Scripture enhanced the story by providing plot twists, motivation, and depth.  For the first time, I understood the power of MacDonald's writing and his skills as a teacher.  I have read that Lilith is inferior to MacDonald's novel, Phantastes, due to its direct approach to Scripture rather than allegorical, but even should this be so, I would still place Lilith on the list of "books that every Christian should read," if just as an example of weaving Scripture into story without any apparent seams.

That being said, MacDonald's incorporation of Scripture is not the only reason I recommend this book, especially to Christians.  MacDonald held a rather unorthodox strain of Christianity.  Those who know legends surrounding the character of Lilith might know one of these unorthodoxies, and I find these elements make the book more worthy of mention.  This book stirs thought.  It occasionally presents teachings that are not supported by Scripture and at times might even conflict with the traditional understanding of the Bible; I think Christians need this kind of interaction.  We need to be able to examine a story critically, pointing out and rejecting what is wrong while gleaning what is good.  Shall we throw out the seed because of the husk?  Though there are many stories with which critical thinking could be practiced, I hold Lilith to be an especially profitable story with much more wheat than chaff.

Does this mean I will recommend all books I read for the sake of finding the "seeds" in them?  No, of course not.  Not all tales are beneficial.  Would you make wine of diseased grapes?  Furthermore, the purpose of story is not just to teach but also to entertain.  If I do not enjoy a book, I will not recommend it, even if it should contain 100% sound Doctrine.  In the case of Lilith, I did enjoy it.  I think its story engrossing (when it got started) and world enchanting, and I also think there is much truth worth mining, even if there be the occasional goblins.  But when we should encounter them, let us not despair but instead sing a little tune of truth, for everyone knows goblins hate singing (especially when it is clever), pick up our lanterns and pick axes, and continue digging.  You never know what gem might be just a page turn away.

Lilith (c) George MacDonald