The book: Under the Never Sky (Under the Never Sky #1)
The author: Veronica Rossi
The rating: 4 stars
Like Cinder and Legend before it, Under the Never Sky was one of those books that I'd been cognisant of for a long time but that I'd always passed up whenever I came across it at the bookstore. It had a pretty cover, a dystopian premise, and a whimsical title that appealed to the girly romantic in me, but the blurb always made me wary. Girl-from-dystopian-society meets savage-boy-from-the wilds and falls in love... it's not the kind of summary that instills the necessary confidence that it won't just be the sort of hackneyed dystopian-romance cash-in I know and loathe. However, after the debacle that was the Delirium series, I picked it up at the library, comforted by the fact that no matter what, it wouldn't be the worst book I read this summer.
Despite my low expectations, the first few chapters of Under the Never Sky didn't impress me much. Genetically-engineered perfect!girl with a cringeworthy name à la preteen fan-fiction, handwave-y future!tech, a futurified version of a topical societal issue to give the impression of being 'meaningful literature'... coupled with the fact that Rossi does not even have the advantage of Lauren Oliver's strangely-melodic prose, for a time I feared that I had been tempting fate with that whole 'it wouldn't be the worst book I read this summer' thought.
However, as I continued with the novel, I began to find that Under the Never Sky's dust jacket synopsis hadn't truly done the novel justice; the story was more than the Twilight-esque 'I-love-him-but-he's-dangerous' shtick that I had feared it might amount to be. The romance had surprising depth, realism, and humour; the fantasy elements gave the novel a unique twist; Rossi managed to continuously steer the novel away from the plot pitfalls into which I'd initially thought it would sink.
Overall, Under the Never Sky was by no means fantastic, but it was a solidly enjoyable start to what has the potential to be a solidly enjoyable series. I'll definitely be checking out Through the Ever Night at some point in the near future, though first on my list: the wildly successful A Song of Ice and Fire series. That might take me a while.
Wednesday, 20 August 2014
Sunday, 3 August 2014
27. Third Strike
The book: Requiem (Delirium #3)
The author: Lauren Oliver
The rating: 2 stars
I've been struggling to write a review for this book, procrastinating in a way that is normally reserved only for term papers and phone calls to relatives, and for a while I couldn't understand why. I've always enjoyed writing these reviews (it's not as if I'm being paid to tell the Internet my opinions, after all), but for some reason my subconscious seemed to be avoiding writing this review at all costs. By this point, I've already read another book that needs reviewing, so I've been forced to ret-con this review into existence lest not count Requiem towards my challenge total entirely. But now, struggling to think of something to say about the final, trite book in what I've found to be an entirely trite series, I've realized that the problem is that I simply didn't care one iota about Requiem.
Confession time: today is actually August 15th, not the 3rd, so I finished this book about two weeks ago, and I still don't have anything to say about it except to rehash everything I've said about Delirium and Pandemonium. It was boring; nothing stands out two weeks later except for the fact that the ending was positively horrendous. Utterly unexplored character deaths, arbitrary endpoints, and overall no semblance of closure for pretty much all of the major plot points of the trilogy. If I was actually emotionally invested in the series, I would probably have been thoroughly disappointed.
And, yeah, that's about it for this review. If you're thinking 'Wait, what? This review is over already? She hasn't even said anything yet!', then congratulations! That's the exact feeling you'll get when you turn the last page of Requiem. Now that you've got that experience out of the way, you can leave the Delirium series on the shelf and save yourself a handful of hours of your hard-earned free time.
The author: Lauren Oliver
The rating: 2 stars
I've been struggling to write a review for this book, procrastinating in a way that is normally reserved only for term papers and phone calls to relatives, and for a while I couldn't understand why. I've always enjoyed writing these reviews (it's not as if I'm being paid to tell the Internet my opinions, after all), but for some reason my subconscious seemed to be avoiding writing this review at all costs. By this point, I've already read another book that needs reviewing, so I've been forced to ret-con this review into existence lest not count Requiem towards my challenge total entirely. But now, struggling to think of something to say about the final, trite book in what I've found to be an entirely trite series, I've realized that the problem is that I simply didn't care one iota about Requiem.
Confession time: today is actually August 15th, not the 3rd, so I finished this book about two weeks ago, and I still don't have anything to say about it except to rehash everything I've said about Delirium and Pandemonium. It was boring; nothing stands out two weeks later except for the fact that the ending was positively horrendous. Utterly unexplored character deaths, arbitrary endpoints, and overall no semblance of closure for pretty much all of the major plot points of the trilogy. If I was actually emotionally invested in the series, I would probably have been thoroughly disappointed.
And, yeah, that's about it for this review. If you're thinking 'Wait, what? This review is over already? She hasn't even said anything yet!', then congratulations! That's the exact feeling you'll get when you turn the last page of Requiem. Now that you've got that experience out of the way, you can leave the Delirium series on the shelf and save yourself a handful of hours of your hard-earned free time.
Friday, 25 July 2014
26. C'est Pareil
The book: Pandemonium (Delirium #2)
The author: Lauren Oliver
The rating: 3 stars
I don't know if I'd go so far as to say that Pandemonium was even worse than Delirium, but it certainly wasn't any better. All the failings of the original were back in full force, coupled with a few new transgressions.
The twists still were dull and predictable, although Oliver does not have Lena figure things out until chapters after it has become blatantly obvious to the reader. This contributes to Lena's downward spiral into a completely grating, intolerable heroine, although her slowness does not hold a candle to the awful romantic plot of Pandemonium. I mentioned in my review of Delirium that the Lena/Alex romance was painfully instantaneous—her entire view of the world, morality, and herself is utterly transformed in just a few days with a cute boy? Really?—but having suspended my incredulity over this unlikely instalove and accepted the fact that Lena and Alex simply had some sort of deep, pure, unfathomable love that seventeen-year-old, never-been-kissed me cannot even begin to contemplate, I found the new romance between Julian and Lena to be completely nonsensical. It hasn't been years and she is finally healing and moving on—it has been six months, for goodness sake! Unless Oliver is trying to make a commentary on the shallowness of teenage love (which is doubtful, considering how heavily her novels are leaning on the whole true-love-romance shtick), I cannot comprehend the rationale behind Julian's inclusion in the narrative other than to force our 'completely ordinary' heroine into a love triangle with two incredibly kind, funny, attractive guys. Oh, how will she ever cope?
My second gripe about the novel is that it seems to have caught the 'overly convenient' bug. Our heroes are able to guess four-digit, numeric passcodes (twice!) using rather implausible logic; on multiple occasions Lena happens to overhear exactly the piece of information she needs at exactly the right time, like when a guard just happens to mention Julian's hospital while she's eavesdropping. No mundane, unhelpful chitchat about Joe's new cocker spaniel or how Ann traded Larry for the night shift; the only thing she overhears is exactly what she needs to know. I understand the need to trim the fat and conserve plot details, but really? It all oozes of contrived.
I suppose we have time for one final complaint: Oliver's stock purple prose. If I have to read one more teen novel where the heroine describes her male love interest as smelling of 'boy,' I am going to puke. Seriously, was this descriptor in some writing seminar I missed? Is Chapter ten of Writing Teen Romance for Dummies titled Male Olfactory Attractiveness? I am finding it just a bit strangely specific.
Despite my general dislike of everything to do with this series, I've already downloaded the trilogy's final installment onto my eReader. I'm not optimistic enough to chalk Pandemonium up to Middle Novel Syndrome; I'm almost certain that my opinion of this saga won't be saved by reading Requiem, but at least there's something cathartic about a surefire chance to complain.
My second gripe about the novel is that it seems to have caught the 'overly convenient' bug. Our heroes are able to guess four-digit, numeric passcodes (twice!) using rather implausible logic; on multiple occasions Lena happens to overhear exactly the piece of information she needs at exactly the right time, like when a guard just happens to mention Julian's hospital while she's eavesdropping. No mundane, unhelpful chitchat about Joe's new cocker spaniel or how Ann traded Larry for the night shift; the only thing she overhears is exactly what she needs to know. I understand the need to trim the fat and conserve plot details, but really? It all oozes of contrived.
I suppose we have time for one final complaint: Oliver's stock purple prose. If I have to read one more teen novel where the heroine describes her male love interest as smelling of 'boy,' I am going to puke. Seriously, was this descriptor in some writing seminar I missed? Is Chapter ten of Writing Teen Romance for Dummies titled Male Olfactory Attractiveness? I am finding it just a bit strangely specific.
Despite my general dislike of everything to do with this series, I've already downloaded the trilogy's final installment onto my eReader. I'm not optimistic enough to chalk Pandemonium up to Middle Novel Syndrome; I'm almost certain that my opinion of this saga won't be saved by reading Requiem, but at least there's something cathartic about a surefire chance to complain.
Sunday, 13 July 2014
25. Tedium
The book: Delirium (Delirium #1)
The author: Lauren Oliver
The rating: 3 stars
This book was a dystopia, that's for sure. An unimaginative, derivative dystopia, whose main 'twist' (love being forbidden) isn't really a twist at all; it's a frequent feature of dystopian literature. I'd say about half of the dystopian novels I've read also have people paired up in assigned couple units: The Giver, Matched... even Brave New World's hypersexual society portrays love as something alien and wrong.
Nevertheless, I'm a huge dystopia fan; there are worse things in the genre than cookie-cutter worlds, and so that alone wouldn't ruin the book for me. However, Oliver does not find redemption on any other front. The romance between Lena and Alex is one of paper-thin instalove. Sorry, best-friend-since-childhood, I won't shift my world view one iota based on your pleas. Oh, hello boy-I-just-met-and-who-I've-been-raised-to-wholeheartedly-believe-is-dangerous, a few days with you and my entire personality has been overhauled! Secondary characters seem pulled out of cliches: evil-stepfamily (and, just like in Cinder, the youngest stepsister is the exception);* stone-hearted policemen; so-much-better-than-me best friend (to prove just how 'ordinary' our heroine is)...
The plot twists are equally trite. Oh, the future dystopian world is enclosed by a fence, outside of which there is no civilization? I wonder where I've seen that before... (for the benefit of the hypothetical reader who has never, ever read a single dystopian novel in their entire life, the answer to that seemingly-rhetorical question is, of course, everywhere.) Coupled with the old 'if you don't see the body' law of fiction, nothing Delirium threw at me came as any sort of surprise.
While there is nothing special about Delirium, I don't mean to suggest that it is an entirely terrible novel. Oliver's prose is rather enjoyable to read, even if her subject matter isn't the most stimulating. I also found the epigraphs at the start of each chapter to be a nice touch; they allow the reader to become a bit more immersed in the culture of Oliver's world, something that is otherwise too scarcely referenced.
Despite my reservations, I have already picked up the second book in the series, Pandemonium. Perhaps some of the more problematic areas of Delirium will be rectified in this second installment, although I certainly won't be holding my breath.
*Yes, technically Lena's adopted family are her cousins, not her stepsisters, but the point still stands.
The author: Lauren Oliver
The rating: 3 stars
This book was a dystopia, that's for sure. An unimaginative, derivative dystopia, whose main 'twist' (love being forbidden) isn't really a twist at all; it's a frequent feature of dystopian literature. I'd say about half of the dystopian novels I've read also have people paired up in assigned couple units: The Giver, Matched... even Brave New World's hypersexual society portrays love as something alien and wrong.
Nevertheless, I'm a huge dystopia fan; there are worse things in the genre than cookie-cutter worlds, and so that alone wouldn't ruin the book for me. However, Oliver does not find redemption on any other front. The romance between Lena and Alex is one of paper-thin instalove. Sorry, best-friend-since-childhood, I won't shift my world view one iota based on your pleas. Oh, hello boy-I-just-met-and-who-I've-been-raised-to-wholeheartedly-believe-is-dangerous, a few days with you and my entire personality has been overhauled! Secondary characters seem pulled out of cliches: evil-stepfamily (and, just like in Cinder, the youngest stepsister is the exception);* stone-hearted policemen; so-much-better-than-me best friend (to prove just how 'ordinary' our heroine is)...
The plot twists are equally trite. Oh, the future dystopian world is enclosed by a fence, outside of which there is no civilization? I wonder where I've seen that before... (for the benefit of the hypothetical reader who has never, ever read a single dystopian novel in their entire life, the answer to that seemingly-rhetorical question is, of course, everywhere.) Coupled with the old 'if you don't see the body' law of fiction, nothing Delirium threw at me came as any sort of surprise.
While there is nothing special about Delirium, I don't mean to suggest that it is an entirely terrible novel. Oliver's prose is rather enjoyable to read, even if her subject matter isn't the most stimulating. I also found the epigraphs at the start of each chapter to be a nice touch; they allow the reader to become a bit more immersed in the culture of Oliver's world, something that is otherwise too scarcely referenced.
Despite my reservations, I have already picked up the second book in the series, Pandemonium. Perhaps some of the more problematic areas of Delirium will be rectified in this second installment, although I certainly won't be holding my breath.
*Yes, technically Lena's adopted family are her cousins, not her stepsisters, but the point still stands.
Sunday, 6 July 2014
24. A Little Untrusting
The book: Push (The Game #2)
The author: Eve Silver
The rating: 4.5 stars
This has very little relevance to the following review, but the entire time I was reading this book, I couldn't get "Push" by Matchbox Twenty out of head. M'kay, moving right along...
I know that I've complained about Middle Novel Syndrome a lot in the past, so I was pleasantly surprised to find that Push was just as good as its predecessor - I'd go so far as to argue that it was a bit better. Miki's 'real world' life felt a bit less one-dimensional, there was nary a mention of the love triangle that had plagued the first novel, and the pacing was superb. When reading novels on my eReader, I have a habit of checking every couple of minutes to see what percent of the book I've completed thus far, but I was so utterly engrossed in Push that it came as a complete surprise when I turned the last page to find that there weren't any chapters left. The cliffhanger ending was the perfect level of satisfaction and mystery, leaving me without a doubt in my mind that I will be diving into the next book in the series the moment it hits shelves. Quite frankly, after Rush I had expected the series to be of the 'And then...' variety, but Silver is weaving one coherent story. Despite my once having called Rush 'empty calories,' it is becoming more and more apparent that The Game is a full-bodied and unique series (although again, if Crash pulls an Ender's Game twist, I'm going to have to apply some heavy penalties in the uniqueness department).
Hopefully this doesn't come across as a tad sadistic, but one of my favourite plot elements is when something awful happens to one of the protagonists and we get the chance to see the reactions of the other characters; I feel that it allows us to see inside a character or a relationship so much better. I'm not talking about the ending of Allegiant, but moreso our hero going missing, or getting amnesia, or suffering from a Heroic BSOD. I suppose it's just a specific type of dramatic irony, but done well, it can be a huge helper in selling me on a relationship, and that was the case in Push. Jackson's disappearance from the end of Rush isn't immediately resolved, and Miki's thoughts and actions in relation to his absence allowed me to become much more invested in their relationship than I otherwise might. At times, their touchy-feely courtship did rub me the wrong way, but due to the solid foundation that had been thus established, it wasn't unbearable.
As to the plot itself, given the fact that the story is well-spread across the installments, I think I'll have to read Crash before I'll be able to make a judgement. The story has potential - the groundwork has been laid - but I have the feeling that The Game is one of those series where the conclusion will make or break everything that has come before. A bad ending makes the setup trite, overdetailed, and ham-handed. An amazing ending, on the other hand... well, I guess just time will tell.
The author: Eve Silver
The rating: 4.5 stars
This has very little relevance to the following review, but the entire time I was reading this book, I couldn't get "Push" by Matchbox Twenty out of head. M'kay, moving right along...
I know that I've complained about Middle Novel Syndrome a lot in the past, so I was pleasantly surprised to find that Push was just as good as its predecessor - I'd go so far as to argue that it was a bit better. Miki's 'real world' life felt a bit less one-dimensional, there was nary a mention of the love triangle that had plagued the first novel, and the pacing was superb. When reading novels on my eReader, I have a habit of checking every couple of minutes to see what percent of the book I've completed thus far, but I was so utterly engrossed in Push that it came as a complete surprise when I turned the last page to find that there weren't any chapters left. The cliffhanger ending was the perfect level of satisfaction and mystery, leaving me without a doubt in my mind that I will be diving into the next book in the series the moment it hits shelves. Quite frankly, after Rush I had expected the series to be of the 'And then...' variety, but Silver is weaving one coherent story. Despite my once having called Rush 'empty calories,' it is becoming more and more apparent that The Game is a full-bodied and unique series (although again, if Crash pulls an Ender's Game twist, I'm going to have to apply some heavy penalties in the uniqueness department).
Hopefully this doesn't come across as a tad sadistic, but one of my favourite plot elements is when something awful happens to one of the protagonists and we get the chance to see the reactions of the other characters; I feel that it allows us to see inside a character or a relationship so much better. I'm not talking about the ending of Allegiant, but moreso our hero going missing, or getting amnesia, or suffering from a Heroic BSOD. I suppose it's just a specific type of dramatic irony, but done well, it can be a huge helper in selling me on a relationship, and that was the case in Push. Jackson's disappearance from the end of Rush isn't immediately resolved, and Miki's thoughts and actions in relation to his absence allowed me to become much more invested in their relationship than I otherwise might. At times, their touchy-feely courtship did rub me the wrong way, but due to the solid foundation that had been thus established, it wasn't unbearable.
As to the plot itself, given the fact that the story is well-spread across the installments, I think I'll have to read Crash before I'll be able to make a judgement. The story has potential - the groundwork has been laid - but I have the feeling that The Game is one of those series where the conclusion will make or break everything that has come before. A bad ending makes the setup trite, overdetailed, and ham-handed. An amazing ending, on the other hand... well, I guess just time will tell.
Wednesday, 18 June 2014
23. Agency
The book: Fractured (Slated #2)
The author: Teri Terry
The rating: 3 stars
Simply put, Fractured pales in comparison to the first novel in the series. The wonderful, immersive, and thrilling story is replaced by a slew of cheap twists and turns, coming at the reader at the bizarre pace of nothing at all, and then all at once. There's the twist where that character you knew was a bad guy all along reveals that they were a bad guy all along (to be honest, there's quite a few of these). There's the twist where that character you knew was going to die dies. There's the twist where that character you knew was a good guy all along reveals that they were a good guy all along. And it's not just double agents; its triple and quadruple and pseudo-agents that are all thrown at you at such a rapid-fire pace that you couldn't give two hoots about any of them.
Furthermore, I stopped caring about Kyla. As she gained literal freedom, losing her Levo and regaining some of her past, her character bizarrely lost agency, tossed between one group and another, constantly manipulated and with no discernible spirit of her own other than an ever-present, grating whine for her instalove, Ben. The other characters were just as drab. The interesting cast of the first book was mostly sidelined, their roles marginalized to mere plot devices: Amy, Kyla's mum, Ben, even Dr. Lysander, to a point. Their pagetime is given away to an irritating cast of terrorists from Kyla's past life as Rain; Nico in particular was grating to read. Just as the intriguing characters were replaced by a flat ensemble with obvious fates, the thought-provoking questions of memory and identity were pushed aside to make room for a lackluster exploration of whether killing is ever justified. The side supporting violence is designed to be soulless and extreme, making this exploration fairly unsatisfying; the reader is never forced to deal with a moral quandary, as it is always obvious that the AGT is just as bad as the Lorders.
However, Fractured is also the opposite of Slated in another regard: while fantastic-novel Slated had a weak ending, Fractured's final chapters are perhaps the best part of the novel. If the tone set at the end of Fractured carries over into its sequel like Slated's did, Shattered may well redeem the series for all this middle novel's wrongs. I'm eager to finally learn more about Lucy and move far, far, away from Rain, easily the most intolerable of Kyla's threefold identities. Shattered may not be next on my reading list, but Fractured hasn't quashed my spirit enough to stop me from coming back entirely.
The author: Teri Terry
The rating: 3 stars
Simply put, Fractured pales in comparison to the first novel in the series. The wonderful, immersive, and thrilling story is replaced by a slew of cheap twists and turns, coming at the reader at the bizarre pace of nothing at all, and then all at once. There's the twist where that character you knew was a bad guy all along reveals that they were a bad guy all along (to be honest, there's quite a few of these). There's the twist where that character you knew was going to die dies. There's the twist where that character you knew was a good guy all along reveals that they were a good guy all along. And it's not just double agents; its triple and quadruple and pseudo-agents that are all thrown at you at such a rapid-fire pace that you couldn't give two hoots about any of them.
Furthermore, I stopped caring about Kyla. As she gained literal freedom, losing her Levo and regaining some of her past, her character bizarrely lost agency, tossed between one group and another, constantly manipulated and with no discernible spirit of her own other than an ever-present, grating whine for her instalove, Ben. The other characters were just as drab. The interesting cast of the first book was mostly sidelined, their roles marginalized to mere plot devices: Amy, Kyla's mum, Ben, even Dr. Lysander, to a point. Their pagetime is given away to an irritating cast of terrorists from Kyla's past life as Rain; Nico in particular was grating to read. Just as the intriguing characters were replaced by a flat ensemble with obvious fates, the thought-provoking questions of memory and identity were pushed aside to make room for a lackluster exploration of whether killing is ever justified. The side supporting violence is designed to be soulless and extreme, making this exploration fairly unsatisfying; the reader is never forced to deal with a moral quandary, as it is always obvious that the AGT is just as bad as the Lorders.
However, Fractured is also the opposite of Slated in another regard: while fantastic-novel Slated had a weak ending, Fractured's final chapters are perhaps the best part of the novel. If the tone set at the end of Fractured carries over into its sequel like Slated's did, Shattered may well redeem the series for all this middle novel's wrongs. I'm eager to finally learn more about Lucy and move far, far, away from Rain, easily the most intolerable of Kyla's threefold identities. Shattered may not be next on my reading list, but Fractured hasn't quashed my spirit enough to stop me from coming back entirely.
Tuesday, 10 June 2014
22. Clean Slate
The book: Slated (Slated #1)
The author: Teri Terry
The rating: 4.5 stars
Lucy isn't okay; she is as good as dead. She doesn't exist anymore. She's been Slated.
There are a lot of works which have been described as "riveting psychological thrillers" and are anything but. Slated, on the other hand, is well-deserving of the epithet. The suspense Terry creates from the very first page is palpable and unnerving, a combination of the Chasing Yesterday series by Robin Wasserman, the Dollhouse tv-show, and The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer (before the latter lost all suspense and became just another trite paranormal romance). This suspense comes in part from Terry's voice and the way in which she describes the world, but also from the characters. Again, unnerving is the best descriptor for many of the chilling cast, their smiles and murky motivations leaving the reader, like protagonist Kyla, unsure of who to trust. Characters introduced in a negative light gradually shift to be perceived as friends; characters that initially appear allied to Kyla take on darker meanings. There's no certainties on which to cling, nobody who is incontestably on Kyla's side, not even Kyla herself, devoid of her memories and her past, but with instincts and talents that remain as vestiges of the girl she must have been before.
Another aspect which contributes to the suspense is Terry's worldbuilding, something with which I seem to be fixated as of late, but I still attest that it is extremely significant to a good futuristic story. Worldbuilding is well-integrated into Slated, a trait that stands out when info-dumps seem to be the norm in YA dystopian fiction. Terry has mastered the 'show not tell' method of building her world, and accomplishes this feat without ever causing the reader to feel utterly confused and lost, unable to follow the story due to thick jargon or oblique historical references. Furthermore, this future-UK is not farfetched or completely unbelievable. There is no outrageous future-tech or unlikely historic events, just a restrained inclusion of a few important developments: peaceful student protests that began to escalate; right versus left political tension that resulted in society toeing centre; new medical treatments coming out of autism research. Heck, the way Kyla and Ben interact with their Levos is reminiscent of diabetics checking their blood sugar. Unlike stories involving Space Amish, I can clearly imagine how society went from life as we know it today to Slated's future world; Terry uses past events to mould an undeniably plausible future, and this plausibility further increases the atmosphere of tension and suspense.
Aside from the suspense, another of Slated's virtues is the novel's intriguing premise. Growing up, there were three types of novels that really enthralled me: paranormal tales about witches or fae, vampires or psychics; stories about futuristic societies where danger lurked behind an idyllic surface; and finally, exciting thrillers about lost memories, amnesia, and forgotten identities. As a kid, I could find amazing books in all three of my favourite genres if I looked, but after Twilight hit it big, paranormal stories exploded. Nowadays, hundreds of paranormal romance clones flood the market, and I avoid them like the plague; while there's likely still ones out there as good as those I'd always loved, more often than not I'll just end up disappointed by a shoddy love triangle when I pick up an urban fantasy or paranormal adventure. The second of my favourites also rose to prominence in the form of the dystopian genre, fueled by The Hunger Games and others like it. Dystopia is also beginning to suffer from an oversaturation of poor copycat novels, trying to cash in on the successful trend, but evidently I haven't given up hope on that one yet. While this book is also a dystopia, the final genre fits Slated like a glove: stories that explore identity and memory. Unlike the previous two types, this kind of novel has yet to rise in popularity, and so while there are a number of books that fall into the category, it enjoys a much greater sense of originality. There are new ideas to explore here, and Slated explores them with insight and finesse. If all our memories are taken from us, is the person we were "as good as dead?" Are our memories all that make us who we are?
However, I did have a few quibbles with the novel that prevent me from awarding it the elusive five stars. For one, I found that Kyla occasionally slipped into the role of a Mary Sue superstar: she's an exceptional, one-of-a-kind artist; she's the fastest runner in the school, faster than all the other girls and also the top male athlete, even though she joined cross country on a whim and had been in a hospital for nine months or more; she's a bit of a brainiac, finding the school entry test a breeze and able to slide immediately into regular classes. Most of the time, it's not an overwhelming aura of Mary Sue, and perhaps Kyla's special talents may be better explained in the sequel after her history is more greatly uncovered, but nonetheless, just how "special" she was left a slightly tinny taste in my mouth after an otherwise exquisite meal.
The only other problem I had was the ending, establishing the hook that will lead into the second novel in the series, Fractured. After an original, thought-provoking and well-paced plot, the last chapter seemed to be an info-dump, clumsily setting up what may be the type of undesirable vanilla rebel plot I have mentioned in previous reviews. This wrong-note ending caused the tinny taste to remain even after the delicious flavours of the novel had begun to recede, something which has me slightly worried for what Fractured has in store. However, one bad chapter doesn't necessarily spoil the whole bunch; a bit of trepidation won't temper my need to find out what happens to Kyla next, and Fractured still sits square on top of my reading list.
The author: Teri Terry
The rating: 4.5 stars
Lucy isn't okay; she is as good as dead. She doesn't exist anymore. She's been Slated.
There are a lot of works which have been described as "riveting psychological thrillers" and are anything but. Slated, on the other hand, is well-deserving of the epithet. The suspense Terry creates from the very first page is palpable and unnerving, a combination of the Chasing Yesterday series by Robin Wasserman, the Dollhouse tv-show, and The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer (before the latter lost all suspense and became just another trite paranormal romance). This suspense comes in part from Terry's voice and the way in which she describes the world, but also from the characters. Again, unnerving is the best descriptor for many of the chilling cast, their smiles and murky motivations leaving the reader, like protagonist Kyla, unsure of who to trust. Characters introduced in a negative light gradually shift to be perceived as friends; characters that initially appear allied to Kyla take on darker meanings. There's no certainties on which to cling, nobody who is incontestably on Kyla's side, not even Kyla herself, devoid of her memories and her past, but with instincts and talents that remain as vestiges of the girl she must have been before.
Another aspect which contributes to the suspense is Terry's worldbuilding, something with which I seem to be fixated as of late, but I still attest that it is extremely significant to a good futuristic story. Worldbuilding is well-integrated into Slated, a trait that stands out when info-dumps seem to be the norm in YA dystopian fiction. Terry has mastered the 'show not tell' method of building her world, and accomplishes this feat without ever causing the reader to feel utterly confused and lost, unable to follow the story due to thick jargon or oblique historical references. Furthermore, this future-UK is not farfetched or completely unbelievable. There is no outrageous future-tech or unlikely historic events, just a restrained inclusion of a few important developments: peaceful student protests that began to escalate; right versus left political tension that resulted in society toeing centre; new medical treatments coming out of autism research. Heck, the way Kyla and Ben interact with their Levos is reminiscent of diabetics checking their blood sugar. Unlike stories involving Space Amish, I can clearly imagine how society went from life as we know it today to Slated's future world; Terry uses past events to mould an undeniably plausible future, and this plausibility further increases the atmosphere of tension and suspense.
Aside from the suspense, another of Slated's virtues is the novel's intriguing premise. Growing up, there were three types of novels that really enthralled me: paranormal tales about witches or fae, vampires or psychics; stories about futuristic societies where danger lurked behind an idyllic surface; and finally, exciting thrillers about lost memories, amnesia, and forgotten identities. As a kid, I could find amazing books in all three of my favourite genres if I looked, but after Twilight hit it big, paranormal stories exploded. Nowadays, hundreds of paranormal romance clones flood the market, and I avoid them like the plague; while there's likely still ones out there as good as those I'd always loved, more often than not I'll just end up disappointed by a shoddy love triangle when I pick up an urban fantasy or paranormal adventure. The second of my favourites also rose to prominence in the form of the dystopian genre, fueled by The Hunger Games and others like it. Dystopia is also beginning to suffer from an oversaturation of poor copycat novels, trying to cash in on the successful trend, but evidently I haven't given up hope on that one yet. While this book is also a dystopia, the final genre fits Slated like a glove: stories that explore identity and memory. Unlike the previous two types, this kind of novel has yet to rise in popularity, and so while there are a number of books that fall into the category, it enjoys a much greater sense of originality. There are new ideas to explore here, and Slated explores them with insight and finesse. If all our memories are taken from us, is the person we were "as good as dead?" Are our memories all that make us who we are?
However, I did have a few quibbles with the novel that prevent me from awarding it the elusive five stars. For one, I found that Kyla occasionally slipped into the role of a Mary Sue superstar: she's an exceptional, one-of-a-kind artist; she's the fastest runner in the school, faster than all the other girls and also the top male athlete, even though she joined cross country on a whim and had been in a hospital for nine months or more; she's a bit of a brainiac, finding the school entry test a breeze and able to slide immediately into regular classes. Most of the time, it's not an overwhelming aura of Mary Sue, and perhaps Kyla's special talents may be better explained in the sequel after her history is more greatly uncovered, but nonetheless, just how "special" she was left a slightly tinny taste in my mouth after an otherwise exquisite meal.
The only other problem I had was the ending, establishing the hook that will lead into the second novel in the series, Fractured. After an original, thought-provoking and well-paced plot, the last chapter seemed to be an info-dump, clumsily setting up what may be the type of undesirable vanilla rebel plot I have mentioned in previous reviews. This wrong-note ending caused the tinny taste to remain even after the delicious flavours of the novel had begun to recede, something which has me slightly worried for what Fractured has in store. However, one bad chapter doesn't necessarily spoil the whole bunch; a bit of trepidation won't temper my need to find out what happens to Kyla next, and Fractured still sits square on top of my reading list.
Saturday, 7 June 2014
21. Royal Fluff
The book: The One (The Selection #3)
The author: Kiera Cass
The rating: 4 stars
I'm sure everyone has those guilty pleasure books, the kind that they'd never imagine buying in any format other than eReader, the kind with no redeemable qualities whatsoever, yet the kind that simply cannot be put down and that is devoured within twenty-four hours of purchase. This book is one of those. I'm typically a big proponent of YA literature, vehemently opposed to those who deem it to be pointless drivel. Just like any other type of novel, YA can be profound and meaningful explorations of character and theme, investigating slithers of teenage reality through intriguing and imaginative narratives. On the other hand, The One is pure, unadulterated fluff.
From a standpoint of literary quality, The One fares poorly. It has an overbearing love triangle, a caste-based dystopian world that is uncannily reminiscent of every single other caste-based dystopian world ever written, a vanilla rebel plotline, and following in the tradition of current popular dystopias, a ridiculously high body count, something that feels completely unnecessary in a novel which is essentially a futuristic The Bachelor. Other faults include the novel introducing characters and having them disappear with no warning, not even a cursory mention in the epilogue (I'm looking at you, Paige), subscribing to the YA fad-du-jour of the male lead having a physically abusive father, and the fact that Cass seems dedicated to giving everyone positively horrendous names: Maxon; Amberly; America; Aspen; Clarkson; the list goes on and on. Furthermore, America is your cliche teen heroine, full of romantic angst, horrible communication skills (90% of the plot relies on every single conversation causing more problems than it solves), and a fierce streak of independence... absolutely nothing at all like Collins' Katniss, or Condie's Cassia, or Roth's Tris. Not one bit. Nuh-uh.
All that taken into consideration, I loved The One. Despite being away on vacation, my eyes were glued to my eReader all day, stylus tapping through pages during dinner at an Italian restaurant or underneath the covers of my hotel room bed, the downy comforter not doing enough to prevent my Kobo's telling glow from keeping the others awake. The story is fluff, but sometimes a little fluff is a good thing. The One is entertaining, readable, and addicting; it takes only a few chapters to become hooked on Cass' comfortable prose. Somehow, it is so incredibly inviting, deliciously engrossing even in its banality. Cass writes in a way that makes you want to keep reading, in a way that makes all else seem irrelevant.
I hate love triangles, I hate reality television, yet for all its flaws, I did not hate The One and The Selection series. The worldbuilding was cliche; the characters flat; the plot trite, yet I still hung on every word. Overall, I'm incredibly eager to see what Kiera Cass will write next; if she can write such a captivating novel with everything stacked against it, I can't wait to find out what she can do when her words have a good plot, world, and characters to back them.
The author: Kiera Cass
The rating: 4 stars
I'm sure everyone has those guilty pleasure books, the kind that they'd never imagine buying in any format other than eReader, the kind with no redeemable qualities whatsoever, yet the kind that simply cannot be put down and that is devoured within twenty-four hours of purchase. This book is one of those. I'm typically a big proponent of YA literature, vehemently opposed to those who deem it to be pointless drivel. Just like any other type of novel, YA can be profound and meaningful explorations of character and theme, investigating slithers of teenage reality through intriguing and imaginative narratives. On the other hand, The One is pure, unadulterated fluff.
From a standpoint of literary quality, The One fares poorly. It has an overbearing love triangle, a caste-based dystopian world that is uncannily reminiscent of every single other caste-based dystopian world ever written, a vanilla rebel plotline, and following in the tradition of current popular dystopias, a ridiculously high body count, something that feels completely unnecessary in a novel which is essentially a futuristic The Bachelor. Other faults include the novel introducing characters and having them disappear with no warning, not even a cursory mention in the epilogue (I'm looking at you, Paige), subscribing to the YA fad-du-jour of the male lead having a physically abusive father, and the fact that Cass seems dedicated to giving everyone positively horrendous names: Maxon; Amberly; America; Aspen; Clarkson; the list goes on and on. Furthermore, America is your cliche teen heroine, full of romantic angst, horrible communication skills (90% of the plot relies on every single conversation causing more problems than it solves), and a fierce streak of independence... absolutely nothing at all like Collins' Katniss, or Condie's Cassia, or Roth's Tris. Not one bit. Nuh-uh.
All that taken into consideration, I loved The One. Despite being away on vacation, my eyes were glued to my eReader all day, stylus tapping through pages during dinner at an Italian restaurant or underneath the covers of my hotel room bed, the downy comforter not doing enough to prevent my Kobo's telling glow from keeping the others awake. The story is fluff, but sometimes a little fluff is a good thing. The One is entertaining, readable, and addicting; it takes only a few chapters to become hooked on Cass' comfortable prose. Somehow, it is so incredibly inviting, deliciously engrossing even in its banality. Cass writes in a way that makes you want to keep reading, in a way that makes all else seem irrelevant.
I hate love triangles, I hate reality television, yet for all its flaws, I did not hate The One and The Selection series. The worldbuilding was cliche; the characters flat; the plot trite, yet I still hung on every word. Overall, I'm incredibly eager to see what Kiera Cass will write next; if she can write such a captivating novel with everything stacked against it, I can't wait to find out what she can do when her words have a good plot, world, and characters to back them.
Wednesday, 4 June 2014
20. Down to Earth
The book: Salvage
The author: Alexandra Duncan
The rating: 3.5 stars
"Are we always our mistakes? Does anything we do heal them?"
It's never wise to judge a book by the quotes on the back of the dust jacket, but some glowing praise from my favourite YA sci-fi writer, Beth Revis, as well as other just-as-rave reviews which dubbed Salvage "kick-ass, brilliant, feminist science fiction" definitely gave me high hopes for this debut novel.
While Salvage was enjoyable enough, it certainly didn't live up to my lofty expectations. A good novel needs a lot of the things, but when that novel is science fiction, perhaps the element that is paramount is its worldbuilding. A good world can make or break a novel, and while generic worldbuilding can be redeemed by an extremely intriguing plot or characters, a well-built world can carry a generic cast of characters or a well-worn plot a far ways. Unfortunately, Salvage's world failed to deliver. From the very beginning, I found it difficult to buy into the whole Space Amish scenario; even once the setting shifted to the Gyre, the worldbuilding continued to puzzle. A futuristic setting is unique in that it enables the author to easily communicate their view on present-day issues through the future they create, but Duncan seems to shy away from making any sort of statement one way or another on any issue other than feminism. A continent made of trash is bound to carry connotations of some sort regarding environmentalism or commercialism or... something. But instead, the setting of the Gyre is vastly underdeveloped, used for nothing more than yet another cheap tragedy to push the main plot along. Forget Diet Theme... Duncan introduces InvisiTheme, so hard to see, it's like it's not even there!
While I've stated that unique characters and their characterization can make up for a dull world, the cast of Salvage is nothing new. Be it in the Parastrata, the Gyre, or Mumbai, Duncan's world seems to be populated exclusively with stock characters. Child prodigy? Check. The golden-hearted one with a troubled past? Check. The kind mentor figure whose death acts as a driving force to our hero's quest? Check. The calculating, immoral, and emotionless scientist? Check. There's very few characters in Salvage that you haven't seen a thousand times before, and in likely more nuanced variations. Furthermore, these characters are exceptionally flat... save for dying, nobody changes much over the course of the lengthy novel, and this lack of depth and development prevents the reader from becoming engrossed in Duncan's tale.
The one exception to this rule is Ava Parastrata, the story's heroine. Her character development - and the feminist theme portrayed by this development - are easily the most engaging aspects of Salvage (almost as if Ava and the girl-power message sucked every last drop out of the characterization and theme budgets, making them intriguing, rich splashes on a backdrop of grey and cliche). My opening quote provides a good summation of Ava's storyline and conflict: is redemption possible? Can one become whole again, become someone new? Refreshingly explored and thoughtfully developed, this thread, coupled with some good ol' girl-power that is not often found in sci-fi novels, provides a taste of what I'd hoped Salvage would be. It's not enough to truly allow the novel to realize its potential, but it's certainly better than nothing.
The other redeeming feature of Salvage is the way Duncan resists the urge to follow in the current YA fad of stretching every story over a trilogy. I can easily see how a lesser writer might have split Salvage into three books: book one taking place on the Parastrata, book two in the Gyre, and book three beginning once Ava and Miyole arrive in Mumbai. As I've mentioned before, there are few things I appreciate more than a writer penning a solid stand-alone, and I'm glad to say that Salvage was that. A multi-segmented tale was started, developed, and finished between two covers, and I was thoroughly satisfied by the time I flipped the last page. Yes, Salvage wasn't all that I hoped it would be, and yes, it was rather myopic, focusing almost exclusively on Ava and the central theme at the expense of all else, but I had a smile on my face by the time I turned the last page, and from one reader to another, can we really ask for much else?
The author: Alexandra Duncan
The rating: 3.5 stars
"Are we always our mistakes? Does anything we do heal them?"
It's never wise to judge a book by the quotes on the back of the dust jacket, but some glowing praise from my favourite YA sci-fi writer, Beth Revis, as well as other just-as-rave reviews which dubbed Salvage "kick-ass, brilliant, feminist science fiction" definitely gave me high hopes for this debut novel.
While Salvage was enjoyable enough, it certainly didn't live up to my lofty expectations. A good novel needs a lot of the things, but when that novel is science fiction, perhaps the element that is paramount is its worldbuilding. A good world can make or break a novel, and while generic worldbuilding can be redeemed by an extremely intriguing plot or characters, a well-built world can carry a generic cast of characters or a well-worn plot a far ways. Unfortunately, Salvage's world failed to deliver. From the very beginning, I found it difficult to buy into the whole Space Amish scenario; even once the setting shifted to the Gyre, the worldbuilding continued to puzzle. A futuristic setting is unique in that it enables the author to easily communicate their view on present-day issues through the future they create, but Duncan seems to shy away from making any sort of statement one way or another on any issue other than feminism. A continent made of trash is bound to carry connotations of some sort regarding environmentalism or commercialism or... something. But instead, the setting of the Gyre is vastly underdeveloped, used for nothing more than yet another cheap tragedy to push the main plot along. Forget Diet Theme... Duncan introduces InvisiTheme, so hard to see, it's like it's not even there!
While I've stated that unique characters and their characterization can make up for a dull world, the cast of Salvage is nothing new. Be it in the Parastrata, the Gyre, or Mumbai, Duncan's world seems to be populated exclusively with stock characters. Child prodigy? Check. The golden-hearted one with a troubled past? Check. The kind mentor figure whose death acts as a driving force to our hero's quest? Check. The calculating, immoral, and emotionless scientist? Check. There's very few characters in Salvage that you haven't seen a thousand times before, and in likely more nuanced variations. Furthermore, these characters are exceptionally flat... save for dying, nobody changes much over the course of the lengthy novel, and this lack of depth and development prevents the reader from becoming engrossed in Duncan's tale.
The one exception to this rule is Ava Parastrata, the story's heroine. Her character development - and the feminist theme portrayed by this development - are easily the most engaging aspects of Salvage (almost as if Ava and the girl-power message sucked every last drop out of the characterization and theme budgets, making them intriguing, rich splashes on a backdrop of grey and cliche). My opening quote provides a good summation of Ava's storyline and conflict: is redemption possible? Can one become whole again, become someone new? Refreshingly explored and thoughtfully developed, this thread, coupled with some good ol' girl-power that is not often found in sci-fi novels, provides a taste of what I'd hoped Salvage would be. It's not enough to truly allow the novel to realize its potential, but it's certainly better than nothing.
The other redeeming feature of Salvage is the way Duncan resists the urge to follow in the current YA fad of stretching every story over a trilogy. I can easily see how a lesser writer might have split Salvage into three books: book one taking place on the Parastrata, book two in the Gyre, and book three beginning once Ava and Miyole arrive in Mumbai. As I've mentioned before, there are few things I appreciate more than a writer penning a solid stand-alone, and I'm glad to say that Salvage was that. A multi-segmented tale was started, developed, and finished between two covers, and I was thoroughly satisfied by the time I flipped the last page. Yes, Salvage wasn't all that I hoped it would be, and yes, it was rather myopic, focusing almost exclusively on Ava and the central theme at the expense of all else, but I had a smile on my face by the time I turned the last page, and from one reader to another, can we really ask for much else?
Tuesday, 27 May 2014
19. Kings in Castles
The book: Falling Kingdoms (Falling Kingdoms #1)
The author: Morgan Rhodes
The rating: 4.5 stars
When it comes down to it, there seems to be two main ways authors may write a series. Seemingly the most popular is the "And then..." approach, employed by such trilogies and sagas as The Hunger Games, Divergent, Legend... heck, even Twilight. In this type of series, the story is incredibly segmented, always open-ended and with a hook to keep readers tuning in for the next installment, but with clearly defined and separate plotlines for each entry, and increasing in scope with each passing novel. The Hunger Games is a perfect example: book one is a regular ol' Hunger Games; book two is a super special Hunger Games; book three is a massive revolution. It's very formulaic... first something big happens, and then this bigger thing happens, and then something even bigger. The other type of series is the "Part 1 of X" variety; instead of a set of matryoshka plots, the series tells one overarching story, with twists and turns, new developments and shifting priorities, but it's all one coherent plot nonetheless, broken up over a number of tomes to prevent a War and Peace situation from happening.
In Falling Kingdoms, Rhodes employs the latter, and it's this decision that is responsible for some of both the strengths and weaknesses of the novel. While an "And then..." series delivers immediate gratification at the end of book one, series like Falling Kingdoms play the long game, sacrificing a neatly-wrapped book one conclusion for a gripping, suspenseful setup with the power and pace of a runaway train. Falling Kingdoms spends much of its time planting and cultivating seeds, the benefits of which the reader does not fully reap by the time the final page is turned, but which set the stage for what has the potential to be an immensely more satisfying sequel than an "And then..." series opener would likely have. On the other hand, while Falling Kingdoms hints at lucrative future dividends for its readers' investment, it reads a lot like a prequel, merely priming the pump for the main event.
That's not to say that the novel is lacking in the action department. On the contrary, Rhodes creates a superb pacing, a crescendo of sorts as the reader is eased into the richly-backgrounded kingdoms of Mytica through three differing perspectives (technically four, although insofar as the plot is concerned, Lucia and Magnus are essentially just two characters within the same POV), building up to an exhilarating battle much akin to those of Tolkien or Lewis. These contrasting perspectives are very reminiscent of the similarly-named Fall of a Kingdom novel by Hilari Bell, one of my personal fantasy favourites, and so the resulting effect is definitely a treat. Reading about a character from another character's perspective is, for some reason, so deeply satisfying (particularly when that perspective is unflattering); perhaps this is due to the general appeal of dramatic irony, or perhaps it is because it allows for a more profound characterization. I've written before on the problematic subject of YA and children's authors tending to equate protagonists with heroes, and that provides another rationale for the appeal of stories told from perspectives of characters who aren't on the same side. Through these multifaceted perspectives, we are given insight into not just the character's rationalizations of their actions, but also into their flaws and failings. 'Good' versus 'bad' isn't necessarily so clear cut; 'protagonist' and 'antagonist' do not equal 'hero' and 'bad guy' as the antagonist from one perspective is the protagonist of another. Coupled with the fact that, despite the swords and magic, the societies of the titular falling kingdoms are uncomfortably reminiscent of those of the real-world, and these perspectives encourage the reader to explore certain issues from an angle different from that with which they'd be accustomed. While by the end of the novel the reader will clearly side morally with certain characters moreso than others, Falling Kingdoms accomplishes the admirable feat of not characterizing a conflict in black and white, but in shades of grey.
Falling Kingdoms (or more accurately, the novel's publicists) stylizes itself as "Game of Thrones for teens." I'm typically quite hesitant about this kind of reader-bait; whatever is popular at the moment always gets name-dropped on the blurbs of books - 'it's the most gripping book since X'... 'fans of Y will absolutely love'... The Selection comes to mind, stylized as "The Hunger Games meets The Bachelor." However, this is one monicker I can back 100%. Falling Kingdoms has got incest. It's got merciless character deaths. It's got action and intrigue and a world that you'd love to visit, but you sure as hell would not want to live there. It's not Game of Thrones, but any fan of that series, teen or not, could do a lot worse than immerse themselves in Rhodes' thrilling world to get their next fantasy fix. My summer reading stack is still towering on my night stand, but I can't help but slip in Rebel Spring, the second book in the series, somewhere near the top of the pile.
The author: Morgan Rhodes
The rating: 4.5 stars
When it comes down to it, there seems to be two main ways authors may write a series. Seemingly the most popular is the "And then..." approach, employed by such trilogies and sagas as The Hunger Games, Divergent, Legend... heck, even Twilight. In this type of series, the story is incredibly segmented, always open-ended and with a hook to keep readers tuning in for the next installment, but with clearly defined and separate plotlines for each entry, and increasing in scope with each passing novel. The Hunger Games is a perfect example: book one is a regular ol' Hunger Games; book two is a super special Hunger Games; book three is a massive revolution. It's very formulaic... first something big happens, and then this bigger thing happens, and then something even bigger. The other type of series is the "Part 1 of X" variety; instead of a set of matryoshka plots, the series tells one overarching story, with twists and turns, new developments and shifting priorities, but it's all one coherent plot nonetheless, broken up over a number of tomes to prevent a War and Peace situation from happening.
In Falling Kingdoms, Rhodes employs the latter, and it's this decision that is responsible for some of both the strengths and weaknesses of the novel. While an "And then..." series delivers immediate gratification at the end of book one, series like Falling Kingdoms play the long game, sacrificing a neatly-wrapped book one conclusion for a gripping, suspenseful setup with the power and pace of a runaway train. Falling Kingdoms spends much of its time planting and cultivating seeds, the benefits of which the reader does not fully reap by the time the final page is turned, but which set the stage for what has the potential to be an immensely more satisfying sequel than an "And then..." series opener would likely have. On the other hand, while Falling Kingdoms hints at lucrative future dividends for its readers' investment, it reads a lot like a prequel, merely priming the pump for the main event.
That's not to say that the novel is lacking in the action department. On the contrary, Rhodes creates a superb pacing, a crescendo of sorts as the reader is eased into the richly-backgrounded kingdoms of Mytica through three differing perspectives (technically four, although insofar as the plot is concerned, Lucia and Magnus are essentially just two characters within the same POV), building up to an exhilarating battle much akin to those of Tolkien or Lewis. These contrasting perspectives are very reminiscent of the similarly-named Fall of a Kingdom novel by Hilari Bell, one of my personal fantasy favourites, and so the resulting effect is definitely a treat. Reading about a character from another character's perspective is, for some reason, so deeply satisfying (particularly when that perspective is unflattering); perhaps this is due to the general appeal of dramatic irony, or perhaps it is because it allows for a more profound characterization. I've written before on the problematic subject of YA and children's authors tending to equate protagonists with heroes, and that provides another rationale for the appeal of stories told from perspectives of characters who aren't on the same side. Through these multifaceted perspectives, we are given insight into not just the character's rationalizations of their actions, but also into their flaws and failings. 'Good' versus 'bad' isn't necessarily so clear cut; 'protagonist' and 'antagonist' do not equal 'hero' and 'bad guy' as the antagonist from one perspective is the protagonist of another. Coupled with the fact that, despite the swords and magic, the societies of the titular falling kingdoms are uncomfortably reminiscent of those of the real-world, and these perspectives encourage the reader to explore certain issues from an angle different from that with which they'd be accustomed. While by the end of the novel the reader will clearly side morally with certain characters moreso than others, Falling Kingdoms accomplishes the admirable feat of not characterizing a conflict in black and white, but in shades of grey.
Falling Kingdoms (or more accurately, the novel's publicists) stylizes itself as "Game of Thrones for teens." I'm typically quite hesitant about this kind of reader-bait; whatever is popular at the moment always gets name-dropped on the blurbs of books - 'it's the most gripping book since X'... 'fans of Y will absolutely love'... The Selection comes to mind, stylized as "The Hunger Games meets The Bachelor." However, this is one monicker I can back 100%. Falling Kingdoms has got incest. It's got merciless character deaths. It's got action and intrigue and a world that you'd love to visit, but you sure as hell would not want to live there. It's not Game of Thrones, but any fan of that series, teen or not, could do a lot worse than immerse themselves in Rhodes' thrilling world to get their next fantasy fix. My summer reading stack is still towering on my night stand, but I can't help but slip in Rebel Spring, the second book in the series, somewhere near the top of the pile.
Sunday, 25 May 2014
18. Fire and Ice
The book: Frozen (Heart of Dread #1)
The author: Melissa de la Cruz & Michael Johnston
The rating: 4 stars
It's been a while since my last review, and IB exams have been to blame. In any case, I am now a high school graduate, and I've got a lengthy summer reading list to help get me back on track for my 100-book goal. Now, without further ado, Frozen (no relation to the Disney musical):
Frozen and I didn't start off on the best foot. I found it difficult to immerse myself in the authors' prose... sentences were uniform and choppy, and action seemed to begin and end so rapidly that there was no time to build up suspense. This might seem to be an odd criticism to levy against a book, but it truly felt as if I was only reading about events; they weren't actually occurring. A good novel needs immersion, needs to pull its reader out of the real world and into theirs, and for a good while, Frozen failed to deliver. While that aspect did improve over the course of the novel, problems with pacing continued to plague Frozen from cover to cover.
Betrayals, character deaths (and resurrections), various tribulations and crises... none lasted long enough for me to truly become emotionally invested. When an important character dies, for example, my default position is a solid belief that they're not really dead. Give it a couple chapters, though, and I'll begin to doubt... maybe the author did kill off little Susie Soandso for real. For a twist to work, the author needs to instill that doubt, or else the fake-out death will have no impact on the reader; he or she never had the chance to become invested in the implications of the death. That's where Frozen's pacing really acts as a drag: each crisis is resolved, each emotional trauma assuaged before it can truly impact the reader, and a tale will often veer into the realm of bland when it is unable to pull on the reader's heartstrings.
However, Frozen did have some saving graces. For one, it's not your classic YA dystopian cookie-cutter. In fact, it is an incredibly unique fusion of different genres. It bridges science fiction and fantasy in a way that Whispers in Autumn tried and failed, it has the military charm, intrigue, and romance of the Legend trilogy (without that series' over-the-top thematic statements), it's full of the swashbuckling, sea-faring escapades of Pirates of the Caribbean along with a hearty helping of Graceling-style adventure and fantasy. Fans of Graceling (a 2008 novel by Kristin Cashore) will actually find a great number of similarities: individuals who are gifted with magic have strangely-coloured eyes, they're societal pariahs, our heroine has a murderous gift that makes her a monster... while these similarities may serve to undermine my claims of Frozen's uniqueness, these elements are just one small part of a wonderful genre mismatch that creates a surprisingly complementary, well-seasoned dish.
The result of these genres are the setting and the adventure, the two respects in which Frozen truly shines. The tale takes place in a fantastical, futuristic Las Vegas, redefined after a frozen apocalypse and full of magic à la urban fantasy. This fusion of old and new creates a setting that is at once familiar and rife for exploration, something that is extremely significant to story that, at its essence, follows a traditional quest plot structure. New Vegas, Garbage Country, the deadly, trash-filled Pacific... each segment of the journey is vividly imagined and subtly insightful, creating an unspoken commentary on present-day consumer culture with a finesse that would seemingly go over the head of Legend writer Marie Lu. Despite its fantastical elements, Frozen's future is an undeniable reflection of the present day, and the way in which the authors integrate this vision into their story is admirable.
As previously mentioned, the adventure itself is a classic quest, and there's something so readable about this type of storyline. Unlike many of its YA fellows, Frozen's plot does not get bogged down by teenage angst or love triangles. Admittedly, Nat is a fairly angsty protagonist, but her fears of being a monster are fairly substantiated, and the romance between her and Wes is rather tolerable. Significantly, the romance runs congruently with getting our heroes to their destination, not oppositely, and therefore instead of dragging on the plot, their 'will they/won't they' serves to push the action along.
All in all, Frozen is a solid, immensely-readable tale, even if the writing itself sometimes gets in the way of the story. (As a side note, a special mention must be made to the novel's epigraphs, all of which were particularly well-chosen.) I'll definitely be giving the novel's sequel, Stolen, a look once it comes out later this year, but for now I'll keep my expectations for the rest of the series as a blank slate.
The author: Melissa de la Cruz & Michael Johnston
The rating: 4 stars
It's been a while since my last review, and IB exams have been to blame. In any case, I am now a high school graduate, and I've got a lengthy summer reading list to help get me back on track for my 100-book goal. Now, without further ado, Frozen (no relation to the Disney musical):
Frozen and I didn't start off on the best foot. I found it difficult to immerse myself in the authors' prose... sentences were uniform and choppy, and action seemed to begin and end so rapidly that there was no time to build up suspense. This might seem to be an odd criticism to levy against a book, but it truly felt as if I was only reading about events; they weren't actually occurring. A good novel needs immersion, needs to pull its reader out of the real world and into theirs, and for a good while, Frozen failed to deliver. While that aspect did improve over the course of the novel, problems with pacing continued to plague Frozen from cover to cover.
Betrayals, character deaths (and resurrections), various tribulations and crises... none lasted long enough for me to truly become emotionally invested. When an important character dies, for example, my default position is a solid belief that they're not really dead. Give it a couple chapters, though, and I'll begin to doubt... maybe the author did kill off little Susie Soandso for real. For a twist to work, the author needs to instill that doubt, or else the fake-out death will have no impact on the reader; he or she never had the chance to become invested in the implications of the death. That's where Frozen's pacing really acts as a drag: each crisis is resolved, each emotional trauma assuaged before it can truly impact the reader, and a tale will often veer into the realm of bland when it is unable to pull on the reader's heartstrings.
However, Frozen did have some saving graces. For one, it's not your classic YA dystopian cookie-cutter. In fact, it is an incredibly unique fusion of different genres. It bridges science fiction and fantasy in a way that Whispers in Autumn tried and failed, it has the military charm, intrigue, and romance of the Legend trilogy (without that series' over-the-top thematic statements), it's full of the swashbuckling, sea-faring escapades of Pirates of the Caribbean along with a hearty helping of Graceling-style adventure and fantasy. Fans of Graceling (a 2008 novel by Kristin Cashore) will actually find a great number of similarities: individuals who are gifted with magic have strangely-coloured eyes, they're societal pariahs, our heroine has a murderous gift that makes her a monster... while these similarities may serve to undermine my claims of Frozen's uniqueness, these elements are just one small part of a wonderful genre mismatch that creates a surprisingly complementary, well-seasoned dish.
The result of these genres are the setting and the adventure, the two respects in which Frozen truly shines. The tale takes place in a fantastical, futuristic Las Vegas, redefined after a frozen apocalypse and full of magic à la urban fantasy. This fusion of old and new creates a setting that is at once familiar and rife for exploration, something that is extremely significant to story that, at its essence, follows a traditional quest plot structure. New Vegas, Garbage Country, the deadly, trash-filled Pacific... each segment of the journey is vividly imagined and subtly insightful, creating an unspoken commentary on present-day consumer culture with a finesse that would seemingly go over the head of Legend writer Marie Lu. Despite its fantastical elements, Frozen's future is an undeniable reflection of the present day, and the way in which the authors integrate this vision into their story is admirable.
As previously mentioned, the adventure itself is a classic quest, and there's something so readable about this type of storyline. Unlike many of its YA fellows, Frozen's plot does not get bogged down by teenage angst or love triangles. Admittedly, Nat is a fairly angsty protagonist, but her fears of being a monster are fairly substantiated, and the romance between her and Wes is rather tolerable. Significantly, the romance runs congruently with getting our heroes to their destination, not oppositely, and therefore instead of dragging on the plot, their 'will they/won't they' serves to push the action along.
All in all, Frozen is a solid, immensely-readable tale, even if the writing itself sometimes gets in the way of the story. (As a side note, a special mention must be made to the novel's epigraphs, all of which were particularly well-chosen.) I'll definitely be giving the novel's sequel, Stolen, a look once it comes out later this year, but for now I'll keep my expectations for the rest of the series as a blank slate.
Saturday, 19 April 2014
17. Fair is Foul
The book: Macbeth
The author: William Shakespeare
The rating: 3 stars
As I've lamented about other classic yarns, I have little unique to say about Macbeth. I suppose the strongest of my opinions is that I do not have any strong opinions one way or another.
While I'm not necessarily a Shakespeare fanatic, I do consider myself a fan of the bard, both written and performed. I count plays such as Hamlet, Twelfth Night, Much Ado About Nothing, and A Comedy of Errors amongst some of my favourites in theatre, but I wasn't really drawn in by Macbeth. Perhaps this is due to its twists being so ingrained in popular culture so as to render them unimaginative; I've heard the 'none of woman born' riddle and its answer before, not knowing its original context, and this lack of intrigue may have been the source of my apathy.
I was also ambivalent regarding the characterization. In Hamlet, for example, I found almost the entire cast compelling - Hamlet, of course, as well as Ophelia, Gertrude, Claudius, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and so on and so forth. In Macbeth, the only character who engaged me in such a way was Banquo, and by prophetic necessity he was obviously not long for this world. As a tragic hero, I much prefer Hamlet to Macbeth. Hamlet's slower descent made his peripeteia far more poignant, in my opinion. Macbeth was a sympathetic protagonist for mere pages before he made his turn, far too little time for me as a reader to build up any sympathy for him and his cold-blooded wife.
While I've said rather little, I don't think I have much else to say. I'd buy a ticket to see it performed, as I would with essentially any Shakespeare play, but that aside, I don't prophesize I will be re-experiencing Macbeth again anytime soon.
The author: William Shakespeare
The rating: 3 stars
As I've lamented about other classic yarns, I have little unique to say about Macbeth. I suppose the strongest of my opinions is that I do not have any strong opinions one way or another.
While I'm not necessarily a Shakespeare fanatic, I do consider myself a fan of the bard, both written and performed. I count plays such as Hamlet, Twelfth Night, Much Ado About Nothing, and A Comedy of Errors amongst some of my favourites in theatre, but I wasn't really drawn in by Macbeth. Perhaps this is due to its twists being so ingrained in popular culture so as to render them unimaginative; I've heard the 'none of woman born' riddle and its answer before, not knowing its original context, and this lack of intrigue may have been the source of my apathy.
I was also ambivalent regarding the characterization. In Hamlet, for example, I found almost the entire cast compelling - Hamlet, of course, as well as Ophelia, Gertrude, Claudius, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and so on and so forth. In Macbeth, the only character who engaged me in such a way was Banquo, and by prophetic necessity he was obviously not long for this world. As a tragic hero, I much prefer Hamlet to Macbeth. Hamlet's slower descent made his peripeteia far more poignant, in my opinion. Macbeth was a sympathetic protagonist for mere pages before he made his turn, far too little time for me as a reader to build up any sympathy for him and his cold-blooded wife.
While I've said rather little, I don't think I have much else to say. I'd buy a ticket to see it performed, as I would with essentially any Shakespeare play, but that aside, I don't prophesize I will be re-experiencing Macbeth again anytime soon.
Wednesday, 9 April 2014
16. Sugar Rush
The book: Rush (The Game #1)
The author: Eve Silver
The rating: 4 stars
Despite Rush's health-nut protagonist, if I were asked to sum up the novel when I was half-way through, my answer would have been 'empty calories.'
For a long while, Rush felt like nothing but fluff. It was little more than genre stereotype after genre stereotype; just in terms of the fifteen novels I've reviewed so far on this blog, if you mashed Whispers in Autumn with Relativity you'd probably get something close to Rush. You've got Miki, an angsty teen protagonist (she's still mourning the loss of her mother), a stereotypical love triangle between Miki, Luka, and Jackson (the cute, friendly, open childhood friend versus the aloof, sexy, mysterious stranger), a 'normal teen life' complete with drama that would make any real teenager cringe (and, like Relativity, a completely embarrassing texting sequence), underdeveloped throwaway secondary characters, not to mention that our protagonist is SuperSpecial™. Even the whole 'incredibly original' aliens plot seems to be Ender's Game with a slight coat of paint.
Then it all began to change. I'm not the kind of girl who falls for the aloof, sexy, mysterious boy. Never. Not Ky in Matched, or Edward in Twilight, or Gabriel in Dark Visions. I'm the kind of girl who rolls her eyes when the heroine falls in love with the bad boy yet again, just another cliched conclusion to a cliched love triangle.
I fell for Jackson Tate.
Because, gradually, so many of the cliches that Rush presents are subverted. The love triangle fades away like a breath of fresh reality. When Jackson's aloof, sexy, mysterious facade begins to chip, it's not a cardboard cutout the reader finds beneath, but an intriguing, unique character. For the first time in quite a long while, I've read a love story that I can buy into. So many times while reading YA novels I bemoan the artificial taste of the romance, that the characters lack chemistry, that the couple fell too quickly for their love to feel real. But not Rush. The pacing, the chemistry, everything was perfect, a wonderful complement to the novel's primary plot.
By the novel's end, Rush had broken almost completely from its chrysalis of cliches, coming tentatively into its own. Miki's growth as a character is clear, and her shifting personality and view of her world allows for some intriguing contrast. As for the end... well, I'm glad June is only a couple months away, because I don't think I could wait longer to get my hands on the sequel, Push (although if Silver pulls an Ender's Game-style twist on me, I'll just have to take back all those compliments about shedding cliche).
The author: Eve Silver
The rating: 4 stars
Despite Rush's health-nut protagonist, if I were asked to sum up the novel when I was half-way through, my answer would have been 'empty calories.'
For a long while, Rush felt like nothing but fluff. It was little more than genre stereotype after genre stereotype; just in terms of the fifteen novels I've reviewed so far on this blog, if you mashed Whispers in Autumn with Relativity you'd probably get something close to Rush. You've got Miki, an angsty teen protagonist (she's still mourning the loss of her mother), a stereotypical love triangle between Miki, Luka, and Jackson (the cute, friendly, open childhood friend versus the aloof, sexy, mysterious stranger), a 'normal teen life' complete with drama that would make any real teenager cringe (and, like Relativity, a completely embarrassing texting sequence), underdeveloped throwaway secondary characters, not to mention that our protagonist is SuperSpecial™. Even the whole 'incredibly original' aliens plot seems to be Ender's Game with a slight coat of paint.
Then it all began to change. I'm not the kind of girl who falls for the aloof, sexy, mysterious boy. Never. Not Ky in Matched, or Edward in Twilight, or Gabriel in Dark Visions. I'm the kind of girl who rolls her eyes when the heroine falls in love with the bad boy yet again, just another cliched conclusion to a cliched love triangle.
I fell for Jackson Tate.
Because, gradually, so many of the cliches that Rush presents are subverted. The love triangle fades away like a breath of fresh reality. When Jackson's aloof, sexy, mysterious facade begins to chip, it's not a cardboard cutout the reader finds beneath, but an intriguing, unique character. For the first time in quite a long while, I've read a love story that I can buy into. So many times while reading YA novels I bemoan the artificial taste of the romance, that the characters lack chemistry, that the couple fell too quickly for their love to feel real. But not Rush. The pacing, the chemistry, everything was perfect, a wonderful complement to the novel's primary plot.
By the novel's end, Rush had broken almost completely from its chrysalis of cliches, coming tentatively into its own. Miki's growth as a character is clear, and her shifting personality and view of her world allows for some intriguing contrast. As for the end... well, I'm glad June is only a couple months away, because I don't think I could wait longer to get my hands on the sequel, Push (although if Silver pulls an Ender's Game-style twist on me, I'll just have to take back all those compliments about shedding cliche).
Saturday, 29 March 2014
15. Big Dreams
The book: Death of a Salesman
The author: Arthur Miller
The rating: 4.5 stars
Finally, some concrete evidence that I'm not just a philistine who can't appreciate literary genius. Unlike Streetcar and Master Harold, I found Salesman to be a fantastic piece of work, not just full of some esoteric literary merit, but also extremely readable, relatable, and poignant. It's always difficult to review a classic, seeing as anything one might think to say has doubtlessly been said many times before, so I'll try to be brief in describing just what makes Salesman a champion amongst heavyweights.
Salesman is a play to which I'd buy a ticket with no hesitation. Even with only stage directions as guides, the setting has a remarkable whimsy and surrealness to it; the characters walk through walls in Willy's dream sequences yet pay heed to the rules of the set in the real world, tying his character's mind to the setting itself. It would be a treat to see, to say the least. It creates an intriguing atmosphere of deception and misconception, something similarly explored in Streetcar, but I personally found Salesman to capture this mood with far greater success. And of course, such mood ties in with foreshadowing as well... everything in Salesman interconnects, set to characters to tone to theme to plot to reveal, and these interconnections create what can only be considered a literary masterpiece.
But, as I've been apt to say in reviews of classic pieces, this 'literary merit' isn't everything when it comes to a book or play being satisfying. Despite their objective merits, some are unbearably dry (I'm still looking at you, A Tale of Two Cities). That said, Salesman is also an incredibly enjoyable tale. It's not an edge-of-your-seat ride by any means, but it is gripping nonetheless, casually reversing the reader's perceptions of the lives of the story's protagonists as he or she traverses its two acts and requiem. As the smoke clears, we begin to see the truth in the lives of the Lomans, and that truth carries a powerful message. In a society that's always striving for bigger and better, it's essential that we realize that we don't have to be the best, the most powerful, the most well liked. What we consider success doesn't have to be being number one, and Salesman is the poignant account of one man's realization of this fact and two others' failure to do so.
In today's world of participation trophies, helicopter parents, and assurances we can be president someday, Salesman is uncomfortably relatable. Success isn't some objective state; we don't need to be chasing the American dream. All that counts is that we chase our own. Perhaps it is for this reason that I find Salesman to be such a remarkable book. It's message is just as relevant today - if not more - than it was in 1949, and a book that remains that powerful can't possibly be dry.
The author: Arthur Miller
The rating: 4.5 stars
Finally, some concrete evidence that I'm not just a philistine who can't appreciate literary genius. Unlike Streetcar and Master Harold, I found Salesman to be a fantastic piece of work, not just full of some esoteric literary merit, but also extremely readable, relatable, and poignant. It's always difficult to review a classic, seeing as anything one might think to say has doubtlessly been said many times before, so I'll try to be brief in describing just what makes Salesman a champion amongst heavyweights.
Salesman is a play to which I'd buy a ticket with no hesitation. Even with only stage directions as guides, the setting has a remarkable whimsy and surrealness to it; the characters walk through walls in Willy's dream sequences yet pay heed to the rules of the set in the real world, tying his character's mind to the setting itself. It would be a treat to see, to say the least. It creates an intriguing atmosphere of deception and misconception, something similarly explored in Streetcar, but I personally found Salesman to capture this mood with far greater success. And of course, such mood ties in with foreshadowing as well... everything in Salesman interconnects, set to characters to tone to theme to plot to reveal, and these interconnections create what can only be considered a literary masterpiece.
But, as I've been apt to say in reviews of classic pieces, this 'literary merit' isn't everything when it comes to a book or play being satisfying. Despite their objective merits, some are unbearably dry (I'm still looking at you, A Tale of Two Cities). That said, Salesman is also an incredibly enjoyable tale. It's not an edge-of-your-seat ride by any means, but it is gripping nonetheless, casually reversing the reader's perceptions of the lives of the story's protagonists as he or she traverses its two acts and requiem. As the smoke clears, we begin to see the truth in the lives of the Lomans, and that truth carries a powerful message. In a society that's always striving for bigger and better, it's essential that we realize that we don't have to be the best, the most powerful, the most well liked. What we consider success doesn't have to be being number one, and Salesman is the poignant account of one man's realization of this fact and two others' failure to do so.
In today's world of participation trophies, helicopter parents, and assurances we can be president someday, Salesman is uncomfortably relatable. Success isn't some objective state; we don't need to be chasing the American dream. All that counts is that we chase our own. Perhaps it is for this reason that I find Salesman to be such a remarkable book. It's message is just as relevant today - if not more - than it was in 1949, and a book that remains that powerful can't possibly be dry.
Monday, 17 March 2014
14. Somebody to Love
The book: Eleanor & Park
The author: Rainbow Rowell
The rating: 3.5 stars
My mother always has had one rule for love, and it's this: never be in a relationship that you need to be in. If they can't live without you, it's not love. Love is not wanting to live without them.
I'll admit, my expectations for Eleanor & Park were a mixed bag. On one hand, I've heard such rave reviews, the novel has been lauded by all sorts of critics and won all sorts of awards.... on the other, I've always found contemporary fiction romances, with few exceptions, to be infinitely more formulaic than any dystopia. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall deeply and profusely in love. Tragedy strikes, but there has never been any love stronger than that of boy and girl, even though they are teenagers and have only known each other for months/weeks/days.
In a way, Eleanor & Park proved all my expectations true, despite their contradictory nature. Eleanor & Park has a plot that runs deeper than the romance, and Eleanor's situation and struggle is harsh, poignant, and real. The juxtaposition of the lives of Park and Eleanor is the novel's greatest strength, bringing light to that which simmers beneath the surface of the people who surround us in our own lives. In addition, the choice of a 1986 setting is inspired, and it creates a world that is the same but different, just a twist away from today. Walkmen and music, fashion and communication... 1986 is the perfect distance into the past to create something unique.
But the romance... as much as Eleanor & Park tries to play with and mock the 'love at first sight' trope, disparaging Romeo and Juliet as too-quick lust, when it comes down to it, Eleanor & Park takes the same route. Maybe its my mother's well-intentioned advice that has spoiled romance novels for me, but what Eleanor and Park have does not feel like love. It feels like fear and desperation. I don't like you, says Park. I need you. Eleanor doesn't like him, she thinks she lives for him. This isn't healthy... this isn't love, and honestly, it left me more creeped out than swooning over their star-crossed relationship.
I suppose an old pattern has been proven true once more: only John Green can make me fall in love with a contemporary romance. Eleanor & Park was enjoyable enough, but I doubt I'll be picking up other of Rowell's efforts in the future.
The author: Rainbow Rowell
The rating: 3.5 stars
My mother always has had one rule for love, and it's this: never be in a relationship that you need to be in. If they can't live without you, it's not love. Love is not wanting to live without them.
I'll admit, my expectations for Eleanor & Park were a mixed bag. On one hand, I've heard such rave reviews, the novel has been lauded by all sorts of critics and won all sorts of awards.... on the other, I've always found contemporary fiction romances, with few exceptions, to be infinitely more formulaic than any dystopia. Boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall deeply and profusely in love. Tragedy strikes, but there has never been any love stronger than that of boy and girl, even though they are teenagers and have only known each other for months/weeks/days.
In a way, Eleanor & Park proved all my expectations true, despite their contradictory nature. Eleanor & Park has a plot that runs deeper than the romance, and Eleanor's situation and struggle is harsh, poignant, and real. The juxtaposition of the lives of Park and Eleanor is the novel's greatest strength, bringing light to that which simmers beneath the surface of the people who surround us in our own lives. In addition, the choice of a 1986 setting is inspired, and it creates a world that is the same but different, just a twist away from today. Walkmen and music, fashion and communication... 1986 is the perfect distance into the past to create something unique.
But the romance... as much as Eleanor & Park tries to play with and mock the 'love at first sight' trope, disparaging Romeo and Juliet as too-quick lust, when it comes down to it, Eleanor & Park takes the same route. Maybe its my mother's well-intentioned advice that has spoiled romance novels for me, but what Eleanor and Park have does not feel like love. It feels like fear and desperation. I don't like you, says Park. I need you. Eleanor doesn't like him, she thinks she lives for him. This isn't healthy... this isn't love, and honestly, it left me more creeped out than swooning over their star-crossed relationship.
I suppose an old pattern has been proven true once more: only John Green can make me fall in love with a contemporary romance. Eleanor & Park was enjoyable enough, but I doubt I'll be picking up other of Rowell's efforts in the future.
Saturday, 15 March 2014
13. Class and Classics
The book: Landry Park (Landry Park #1)
The author: Bethany Hagen
The rating: 4 stars
Landry Park left me with mismatched thoughts. Overall, the novel was enjoyable. I was definitely enthralled by its Austen-like premise, but I had a love/hate relationship with protagonist Madeline, and if it makes any sense at all, I felt put off by the world building while simultaneously loving the atmosphere.
As I mentioned back in my review of Legend, I've noticed that an outrageous number of dystopias build the same world... there must be a subconscious undercurrent of today's society that is certain we're gearing up for a war between China and the United States, because that's the story all these authors weave. Hagen does the same in Landry Park, and after reading down this road countless times before, I was less than impressed with the encroachment of the Eastern Empire onto the American west coast. I mean, Hagen slates some of these events to begin as early as 2022... for anyone who has taken an international history or international affairs class in the last decade or so, the proposed future!history is a bit difficult to swallow.
In creating a society of futuristic gentry, there's a number of plot holes. Why is everyone smoking again? Sure, they didn't know any better in Austen's time, the time period Landry Park is trying to emulate, but what part of a war with China and an energy revolution got rid of the toxic effects of cigarettes? How did class becoming 'the most important delineator in society' bring whist back from obscurity? Landry Park is clearly a period piece set in the future, and although the rationale for why some things have reverted to their 18th/19th century form isn't always clear, I immensely enjoyed the atmosphere it created. Fancy dresses, aristocracy, family intrigue, balls and romance... there's something so incredibly readable about a period piece, and Landry Park uses this atmosphere to its fullest potential.
Now, Madeline. There were times when I was rather found of her. The wallflower debutante, the girl who would prefer reading about King Arthur to engaging in frivolous ballroom chatter, the one with dreams of getting an education and being something more than just an heiress... the one with a conscience. Despite the promise she showed, in the end, I was rather ambivalent. I was never really convinced of her love for David; their first dozen interactions seemed little more than her being an aloof jerk, almost as if she was a student at the Edward Cullen school of romance, and he returned the favour by being the king of mixed messages. She lacked agency, and while that lack was an important part of her character and the conflict she had to overcome, it pushed her into the position of being an annoying drag to the plot, rarely concerned with the issues with which the reader was, therefore spinning the narrative in pointless loops away from the parts of the story that were truly interesting.
When it comes to dystopic versions of period pieces, Diana Peterfreund's For Darkness Shows the Stars will always take the cake, but Landry Park is an admirable addition to the genre. Despite its flaws, the novel truly captures the spirit of such fiction, imbued with the je ne sais quoi that makes readers love Pride and Prejudice and all those other classic tales of romance, marriage, and estates. In terms of dystopias, Landry Park's world may leave something to be desired, but the other half of its coin makes it a novel well worth reading, and definitely a series opener to keep an eye on.
The author: Bethany Hagen
The rating: 4 stars
Landry Park left me with mismatched thoughts. Overall, the novel was enjoyable. I was definitely enthralled by its Austen-like premise, but I had a love/hate relationship with protagonist Madeline, and if it makes any sense at all, I felt put off by the world building while simultaneously loving the atmosphere.
As I mentioned back in my review of Legend, I've noticed that an outrageous number of dystopias build the same world... there must be a subconscious undercurrent of today's society that is certain we're gearing up for a war between China and the United States, because that's the story all these authors weave. Hagen does the same in Landry Park, and after reading down this road countless times before, I was less than impressed with the encroachment of the Eastern Empire onto the American west coast. I mean, Hagen slates some of these events to begin as early as 2022... for anyone who has taken an international history or international affairs class in the last decade or so, the proposed future!history is a bit difficult to swallow.
In creating a society of futuristic gentry, there's a number of plot holes. Why is everyone smoking again? Sure, they didn't know any better in Austen's time, the time period Landry Park is trying to emulate, but what part of a war with China and an energy revolution got rid of the toxic effects of cigarettes? How did class becoming 'the most important delineator in society' bring whist back from obscurity? Landry Park is clearly a period piece set in the future, and although the rationale for why some things have reverted to their 18th/19th century form isn't always clear, I immensely enjoyed the atmosphere it created. Fancy dresses, aristocracy, family intrigue, balls and romance... there's something so incredibly readable about a period piece, and Landry Park uses this atmosphere to its fullest potential.
Now, Madeline. There were times when I was rather found of her. The wallflower debutante, the girl who would prefer reading about King Arthur to engaging in frivolous ballroom chatter, the one with dreams of getting an education and being something more than just an heiress... the one with a conscience. Despite the promise she showed, in the end, I was rather ambivalent. I was never really convinced of her love for David; their first dozen interactions seemed little more than her being an aloof jerk, almost as if she was a student at the Edward Cullen school of romance, and he returned the favour by being the king of mixed messages. She lacked agency, and while that lack was an important part of her character and the conflict she had to overcome, it pushed her into the position of being an annoying drag to the plot, rarely concerned with the issues with which the reader was, therefore spinning the narrative in pointless loops away from the parts of the story that were truly interesting.
When it comes to dystopic versions of period pieces, Diana Peterfreund's For Darkness Shows the Stars will always take the cake, but Landry Park is an admirable addition to the genre. Despite its flaws, the novel truly captures the spirit of such fiction, imbued with the je ne sais quoi that makes readers love Pride and Prejudice and all those other classic tales of romance, marriage, and estates. In terms of dystopias, Landry Park's world may leave something to be desired, but the other half of its coin makes it a novel well worth reading, and definitely a series opener to keep an eye on.
Wednesday, 12 March 2014
12. A Rose for Everafter
The book: A Long, Long Sleep
The author: Anna Sheehan
The rating: 5 stars
Like Cress, A Long, Long Sleep is a futuristic retelling of a classic fairy tale (Sleeping Beauty, if the title wasn't indication enough). Unlike Cress, Sleep strays more from the source material, creating a wonderfully subversive tale in an incredibly well-built world that I was, quite literally, unable to put down.
Two things really make Sleep the wonderful novel it is: its characters and its worldbuilding. Sheehan's world is incredibly well-imagined with dark, realistic undertones. In the future, a corporation has its fingers in every facet of life, something that's not too hard for the modern reader to imagine. Rose was already in a future world before she began her sixty-two year period of stasis; both settings being futuristic from the reader's perspective allows natural exposition that never feels shoehorned, gradually building a believable world and establishing a compelling history that brings society to where it is in the narrative.
In addition, Rose is truly an intriguing heroine. Throughout the novel, she's incredibly passive. Awful things happen to her and she keeps them to herself like the college girl who is about to be murdered in a horror flick; the reader is constantly yelling at her through the pages, demanding to know how she can be so stupid. It seems like sloppy writing at first, an unbelievable protagonist. At first.
"You just let atrocious things happen to you and don't tell a soul."
That's what Bren tells Rose towards the latter half of the novel, echoing the thoughts in the reader's mind. These flaws in character aren't blunders on the author's part; they're purposeful, carefully crafted, creating a depth to the storyline and to Rose's past. Sleep is as far from sloppy writing as you can get. Everything is so meticulous planned, so carefully construed... when it all comes together, it really is literary magic.
The interpersonal relations between the characters also make Sleep a standout. It's a fairy tale retelling; the blurb itself promised me wakeup-kissing and princely analogs. I'm a bit rustier on my Sleeping Beauty than on my other fairy tales, but I was pretty sure there was something about the prince who saves her being someone she was supposed to marry in childhood. At least in the Disney version, maybe? Yeah, it's been a long time since I saw Sleeping Beauty, but it was something like that. Throughout the book I was expecting Rose and Bren to fall hopelessly in love, or for Xander to somehow return and for them to fall hopelessly in love, or for Otto and Rose to fall hopelessly in love. No matter the couple, I anticipated some hopelessly-in-loveness going on. Sleep defied my every expectation. It's a love story, but not a hopelessly-in-love story. It's about lost love and unrequited love, familial love, false love, and beginnings of love.
All in all, Sleep is a very subversive novel; it's not your typical fairy tale, and that's not just because of its stass tubes and Europan aliens. It sets itself apart from the genre in terms of characters, themes, and relationships, and if the promised sequel ever hits shelves, the continuation of Rose's adventures will also be hitting the top of my reading list.
The author: Anna Sheehan
The rating: 5 stars
Like Cress, A Long, Long Sleep is a futuristic retelling of a classic fairy tale (Sleeping Beauty, if the title wasn't indication enough). Unlike Cress, Sleep strays more from the source material, creating a wonderfully subversive tale in an incredibly well-built world that I was, quite literally, unable to put down.
Two things really make Sleep the wonderful novel it is: its characters and its worldbuilding. Sheehan's world is incredibly well-imagined with dark, realistic undertones. In the future, a corporation has its fingers in every facet of life, something that's not too hard for the modern reader to imagine. Rose was already in a future world before she began her sixty-two year period of stasis; both settings being futuristic from the reader's perspective allows natural exposition that never feels shoehorned, gradually building a believable world and establishing a compelling history that brings society to where it is in the narrative.
In addition, Rose is truly an intriguing heroine. Throughout the novel, she's incredibly passive. Awful things happen to her and she keeps them to herself like the college girl who is about to be murdered in a horror flick; the reader is constantly yelling at her through the pages, demanding to know how she can be so stupid. It seems like sloppy writing at first, an unbelievable protagonist. At first.
"You just let atrocious things happen to you and don't tell a soul."
That's what Bren tells Rose towards the latter half of the novel, echoing the thoughts in the reader's mind. These flaws in character aren't blunders on the author's part; they're purposeful, carefully crafted, creating a depth to the storyline and to Rose's past. Sleep is as far from sloppy writing as you can get. Everything is so meticulous planned, so carefully construed... when it all comes together, it really is literary magic.
The interpersonal relations between the characters also make Sleep a standout. It's a fairy tale retelling; the blurb itself promised me wakeup-kissing and princely analogs. I'm a bit rustier on my Sleeping Beauty than on my other fairy tales, but I was pretty sure there was something about the prince who saves her being someone she was supposed to marry in childhood. At least in the Disney version, maybe? Yeah, it's been a long time since I saw Sleeping Beauty, but it was something like that. Throughout the book I was expecting Rose and Bren to fall hopelessly in love, or for Xander to somehow return and for them to fall hopelessly in love, or for Otto and Rose to fall hopelessly in love. No matter the couple, I anticipated some hopelessly-in-loveness going on. Sleep defied my every expectation. It's a love story, but not a hopelessly-in-love story. It's about lost love and unrequited love, familial love, false love, and beginnings of love.
All in all, Sleep is a very subversive novel; it's not your typical fairy tale, and that's not just because of its stass tubes and Europan aliens. It sets itself apart from the genre in terms of characters, themes, and relationships, and if the promised sequel ever hits shelves, the continuation of Rose's adventures will also be hitting the top of my reading list.
Monday, 10 March 2014
11. Science and Faith
The book: Relativity
The author: Cristin Bishara
The rating: 4 stars
I should have felt a strong connection with Relativity's science-geek protagonist, Ruby Wright. I'm the girl who got weird looks in tenth grade writing class for spending silent reading pouring over Brian Greene's The Hidden Reality; I'm the girl whose best friend refused to go anywhere with her for weeks after she dragged her to a university lecture on the Casimir effect in grade eleven. I'd be a tremendous hypocrite to say that teenagers can't know the things that Ruby knows or like the things that Ruby likes. But despite our parallels, I didn't feel that connection. Throughout Relativity, the thought that Ruby was just a caricature of a teenager niggled at the back of my mind, and it was an idea that proved impossible to shake. I felt an immense sense of secondhand embarrassment during all text-messaging scenes, the kind you get when your grandmother tells you she got an account on The Facebook, but even discounting those, so much of Ruby seems to be lifted from an extremely unimaginative stereotype of what a teenager is. Angsty, lusty, rebellious, precocious, self-centered... our intelligent protagonist hates pink and all things girly, while her evil stepsister is well-dressed and vain. Also, for someone who's so into math and science, you'd think that Ruby would be more cognisant of the distinction between a theory and a hypothesis, that she would know that the 'law of averages' does not exist, and that she'd be the slightest bit familiar with a Caesar cipher.
Honestly, I'm being far too critical. I'm thrilled that a YA author chose to make a science-loving protagonist, and my standards are probably just too high since it hits so close to home. So lets stop dwelling on the negatives and let me get to the parts of Relativity that I loved.
First off: the premise. Science fiction is not written enough for the young adult market (aside from dystopians, but I can't complain about those), and so Bishara definitely brings something fresh to the table with Relativity. While its definitely a difficult plot to pitch -- I consistently was treated to raised eyebrows when I responded to "what's that book about?" with "a girl who is traveling through parallel universes" -- I loved the incorporation of science into the setting. Sure, the end result of allowing Ruby to explore the 'what-ifs' of her existence could have been done just as easily by some magic MacGuffin or faery sidekick, but the use of sci-fi instead of fantasy is a welcome change.
The settings themselves are also superb, the slight (or drastic) shifts between the universes, impeccable. Bishara works in some wonderful juxtaposition between the homes in which the other Rubies and her other families live; between the high schools; between Ennis and O Direain as wholes. While the plotline itself isn't exactly novel (as I wrote before I started reading, "If this book ends with the 'twist' that her original life was best all along, I will have just wasted 288 pages of my life"), the setting and premise make the familiar trek well worth the journey. For those familiar with Christopher Booker's idea of the seven plots of fiction, Relativity fits the "Voyage and Return" plot to a T. To quote for those unfamiliar:
The author: Cristin Bishara
The rating: 4 stars
I should have felt a strong connection with Relativity's science-geek protagonist, Ruby Wright. I'm the girl who got weird looks in tenth grade writing class for spending silent reading pouring over Brian Greene's The Hidden Reality; I'm the girl whose best friend refused to go anywhere with her for weeks after she dragged her to a university lecture on the Casimir effect in grade eleven. I'd be a tremendous hypocrite to say that teenagers can't know the things that Ruby knows or like the things that Ruby likes. But despite our parallels, I didn't feel that connection. Throughout Relativity, the thought that Ruby was just a caricature of a teenager niggled at the back of my mind, and it was an idea that proved impossible to shake. I felt an immense sense of secondhand embarrassment during all text-messaging scenes, the kind you get when your grandmother tells you she got an account on The Facebook, but even discounting those, so much of Ruby seems to be lifted from an extremely unimaginative stereotype of what a teenager is. Angsty, lusty, rebellious, precocious, self-centered... our intelligent protagonist hates pink and all things girly, while her evil stepsister is well-dressed and vain. Also, for someone who's so into math and science, you'd think that Ruby would be more cognisant of the distinction between a theory and a hypothesis, that she would know that the 'law of averages' does not exist, and that she'd be the slightest bit familiar with a Caesar cipher.
Honestly, I'm being far too critical. I'm thrilled that a YA author chose to make a science-loving protagonist, and my standards are probably just too high since it hits so close to home. So lets stop dwelling on the negatives and let me get to the parts of Relativity that I loved.
First off: the premise. Science fiction is not written enough for the young adult market (aside from dystopians, but I can't complain about those), and so Bishara definitely brings something fresh to the table with Relativity. While its definitely a difficult plot to pitch -- I consistently was treated to raised eyebrows when I responded to "what's that book about?" with "a girl who is traveling through parallel universes" -- I loved the incorporation of science into the setting. Sure, the end result of allowing Ruby to explore the 'what-ifs' of her existence could have been done just as easily by some magic MacGuffin or faery sidekick, but the use of sci-fi instead of fantasy is a welcome change.
The settings themselves are also superb, the slight (or drastic) shifts between the universes, impeccable. Bishara works in some wonderful juxtaposition between the homes in which the other Rubies and her other families live; between the high schools; between Ennis and O Direain as wholes. While the plotline itself isn't exactly novel (as I wrote before I started reading, "If this book ends with the 'twist' that her original life was best all along, I will have just wasted 288 pages of my life"), the setting and premise make the familiar trek well worth the journey. For those familiar with Christopher Booker's idea of the seven plots of fiction, Relativity fits the "Voyage and Return" plot to a T. To quote for those unfamiliar:
...hero or heroine... travel out of their familiar, everyday 'normal' surroundings into another world completely cut off from the first, where everything seems disconcertingly abnormal. At first the strangeness of this new world, with its freaks and marvels, may seem diverting, even exhilarating, if also highly perplexing. But gradually a shadow intrudes. The hero or heroine feels increasingly threatened, even trapped: until eventually (usually by way of a 'thrilling escape') they are released from the abnormal world, and can return to the safety of the familiar world where they began.So yes, just by the little blurb on the dust jacket you may know how Relativity will turn out, but the interesting premise and engaging adventure make the journey much more important than the destination. I'll definitely be checking out Bishara's future efforts, in this universe and in all others.
Saturday, 8 March 2014
10. Crescendo
The book: Cress (The Lunar Chronicles #3)
The author: Marissa Meyer
The rating: 5 stars
Sometimes, I feel as if reading has lost its luster for me. Every book I read is pretty okay, but none are as amazing as the ones I've read in the past, and I wonder if it's not the books that are changed, but me. Then I read a book like Cress, and my faith in literature is restored. Books haven't changed--I just haven't been reading the right books--and Cress is most definitely one of the greats.
Rave reviews tend to be a bit dull, so I'll try to keep my praise brief. Cress ties POV to pacing in a unique and effective way, with not one, not two, but with at least eight alternating perspectives. It's not a big cycle, though--Cinder, Kai, Cress, Cinder, Kai, Cress, Cinder--or anything like that. The reader never knows from whose perspective the next chapter will come, and this keeps the reader engaged and enthralled. I'm particularly partial to ensemble casts, and Cress embraced this concept with bells on. Each novel in the Lunar Chronicles series adds a few protagonists to their growing roster, but still keeps our heroes from the books of yore. This results in a diverse cast that never overwhelms the reader. It's like that picnic game that elementary school kids like to play: the first person is bringing an aardvark, the second is bringing an aardvark and a banana, the third is bringing an aardvark, a banana, and a crystal ball... while you're unlikely to be able to remember a list of 26 items from the get-go, after going through the entire game, you will probably still be able to recite the list days later. We became well acquainted with Cinder, Kai, and Iko in Cinder, as well as a slew of supporting characters, and then with Scarlet and Wolf in Scarlet, and Cress raises Thorne, Cress, and Dr. Erland to prominence. I've never read A Game of Thrones, but it's kind of how I imagine the A Song of Ice and Fire series to be (except without copious amounts of death).
My other literary weakness is retellings; I adore them. I feel that it can create an even richer world, drawing on the reader's knowledge of the source material, and playing off it or subverting it in a new environment. Each novel in the Lunar Chronicles is a sci-fi retelling of a classic fairy tale, and Cress, as you might have guessed by the title, is based loosely upon the story of Rapunzel (if you're like my dad and don't understand the connection, cress and rapunzel are both types of leafy greens). I'll admit, each time I caught a parallel between Cress and Rapunzel I felt a bit proud of myself (and I couldn't resist comparing Thorne to Tangled's Flynn Ryder). Cress struck a great balance between old and new, never dwelling too much in Rapunzel or too little to make the premise pointless.
The setting was also phenomenal. Meyer's worldbuilding is among the best in the business, and I'd love to spend a day wandering her future Earth with its cyborgs and androids, cultures and countries, even with Luna shining up above. The Eastern Commonwealth is a delightful smorgasbord of culture, although it's arguably less prominent in Cress than it was in early installments, as Cinder and her gang are now on the run. I'd say the most standout setting is the Sahara and the African cities, with their mix of old and new technologies and their intermingling of Lunar and Earthen traditions. The world is so incredibly engrossing; the only shadow on the horizon as I read Cress was that the trilogy would soon be over, and I'd be forced out of Meyer's remarkable world forever.
Over the entire time it took me to read Cress, I was positive it was the series finale. I'm not sure why I had it in my head that the series was a trilogy, perhaps just because so many are, but I had no doubt in my mind that this would be the end of the line for Cinder and the gang. When I was at 91% complete, I was getting a bit miffed; after all this, the conclusion's going to be a disappointment; there's no way Meyer can wrap all this up in the last 9%. And then the reader gets their first glimpse of Princess Winter, and I think: Hey, it's Snow White! Too bad she's not going to get her own book, and really, what is Meyer doing introducing new characters so late in the game? We're not going to get the chance to get to know them.
And then I turned the last page, and my paradigm shifted in the best of ways. Cress wasn't the end--it was just the crescendo--and I absolutely cannot wait to see what Meyer has in store in Winter, what might be the last book in the series? Maybe? I guess we'll see in February 2015.
The author: Marissa Meyer
The rating: 5 stars
Sometimes, I feel as if reading has lost its luster for me. Every book I read is pretty okay, but none are as amazing as the ones I've read in the past, and I wonder if it's not the books that are changed, but me. Then I read a book like Cress, and my faith in literature is restored. Books haven't changed--I just haven't been reading the right books--and Cress is most definitely one of the greats.
Rave reviews tend to be a bit dull, so I'll try to keep my praise brief. Cress ties POV to pacing in a unique and effective way, with not one, not two, but with at least eight alternating perspectives. It's not a big cycle, though--Cinder, Kai, Cress, Cinder, Kai, Cress, Cinder--or anything like that. The reader never knows from whose perspective the next chapter will come, and this keeps the reader engaged and enthralled. I'm particularly partial to ensemble casts, and Cress embraced this concept with bells on. Each novel in the Lunar Chronicles series adds a few protagonists to their growing roster, but still keeps our heroes from the books of yore. This results in a diverse cast that never overwhelms the reader. It's like that picnic game that elementary school kids like to play: the first person is bringing an aardvark, the second is bringing an aardvark and a banana, the third is bringing an aardvark, a banana, and a crystal ball... while you're unlikely to be able to remember a list of 26 items from the get-go, after going through the entire game, you will probably still be able to recite the list days later. We became well acquainted with Cinder, Kai, and Iko in Cinder, as well as a slew of supporting characters, and then with Scarlet and Wolf in Scarlet, and Cress raises Thorne, Cress, and Dr. Erland to prominence. I've never read A Game of Thrones, but it's kind of how I imagine the A Song of Ice and Fire series to be (except without copious amounts of death).
My other literary weakness is retellings; I adore them. I feel that it can create an even richer world, drawing on the reader's knowledge of the source material, and playing off it or subverting it in a new environment. Each novel in the Lunar Chronicles is a sci-fi retelling of a classic fairy tale, and Cress, as you might have guessed by the title, is based loosely upon the story of Rapunzel (if you're like my dad and don't understand the connection, cress and rapunzel are both types of leafy greens). I'll admit, each time I caught a parallel between Cress and Rapunzel I felt a bit proud of myself (and I couldn't resist comparing Thorne to Tangled's Flynn Ryder). Cress struck a great balance between old and new, never dwelling too much in Rapunzel or too little to make the premise pointless.
The setting was also phenomenal. Meyer's worldbuilding is among the best in the business, and I'd love to spend a day wandering her future Earth with its cyborgs and androids, cultures and countries, even with Luna shining up above. The Eastern Commonwealth is a delightful smorgasbord of culture, although it's arguably less prominent in Cress than it was in early installments, as Cinder and her gang are now on the run. I'd say the most standout setting is the Sahara and the African cities, with their mix of old and new technologies and their intermingling of Lunar and Earthen traditions. The world is so incredibly engrossing; the only shadow on the horizon as I read Cress was that the trilogy would soon be over, and I'd be forced out of Meyer's remarkable world forever.
Over the entire time it took me to read Cress, I was positive it was the series finale. I'm not sure why I had it in my head that the series was a trilogy, perhaps just because so many are, but I had no doubt in my mind that this would be the end of the line for Cinder and the gang. When I was at 91% complete, I was getting a bit miffed; after all this, the conclusion's going to be a disappointment; there's no way Meyer can wrap all this up in the last 9%. And then the reader gets their first glimpse of Princess Winter, and I think: Hey, it's Snow White! Too bad she's not going to get her own book, and really, what is Meyer doing introducing new characters so late in the game? We're not going to get the chance to get to know them.
And then I turned the last page, and my paradigm shifted in the best of ways. Cress wasn't the end--it was just the crescendo--and I absolutely cannot wait to see what Meyer has in store in Winter, what might be the last book in the series? Maybe? I guess we'll see in February 2015.
Friday, 28 February 2014
9. Short and Sour
The book: "Master Harold" ...and the Boys
The author: Athol Fugard
The rating: 2 stars
Master Harold shares a few similarities with Streetcar: it's not what I typically read; it's a play, not a novel; I was assigned to read it for English class... It's also one of those 'literary merit'-type of books, full of sophisticated themes and poignant social commentary, and unbearably dry. As I mentioned in my Streetcar review, I love a large number of works of classic fiction, but I always prefer genre pieces to literary ones. Plays like Master Harold feel more like a thinly-veiled essay than a story, and I've never been a fan of that.
While others are frequently referenced and hold great importance to the plot, only three characters appear in the 60-page play: seventeen-year-old Hally (the titular Master Harold), and older black men Willie and Sam (the boys) who work for Hally's mother at her tea house. I have noticed that one of the biggest differences between adult and YA/children's fiction is the role of the protagonist. In stories for the younger crowd, protagonist = hero, almost without exception. In works for adults, this equivalency does not exist, as is the case in Master Harold. From the beginning, Hally made me want to scratch out my eyeballs. The play may be set in 1950, but Hally was eerily like some insufferable seventeen-year-olds I know. You'd recognize the type: almost a hipster, pretentious and condescending; an atheist not because of well-considered philosophical beliefs, but because believing in things is for stupid people. The world revolves around them and their struggles are paramount; nobody could possibly understand what they are going through, and nobody has ever suffered anything worse. Add in some intense racism towards the boys and a disgust towards his father, not due to his unsavoury personality, but because he is a cripple, and suffice to say Hally's not the type of boy I'd want to ask to Senior Prom.
As I mentioned, the play often reads more like an essay than anything else. Hally and Sam debate about men of greatness; the impact of racism in South Africa is explored; Hally is a complete and utter asshat to every person in his life. And yeah. That's it. That's the play. It's definitely not my cup of tea, but for what it is--a statement about the South African apartheid--it is interesting enough.
Next week: Back to our regularly scheduled programming.
The author: Athol Fugard
The rating: 2 stars
Master Harold shares a few similarities with Streetcar: it's not what I typically read; it's a play, not a novel; I was assigned to read it for English class... It's also one of those 'literary merit'-type of books, full of sophisticated themes and poignant social commentary, and unbearably dry. As I mentioned in my Streetcar review, I love a large number of works of classic fiction, but I always prefer genre pieces to literary ones. Plays like Master Harold feel more like a thinly-veiled essay than a story, and I've never been a fan of that.
While others are frequently referenced and hold great importance to the plot, only three characters appear in the 60-page play: seventeen-year-old Hally (the titular Master Harold), and older black men Willie and Sam (the boys) who work for Hally's mother at her tea house. I have noticed that one of the biggest differences between adult and YA/children's fiction is the role of the protagonist. In stories for the younger crowd, protagonist = hero, almost without exception. In works for adults, this equivalency does not exist, as is the case in Master Harold. From the beginning, Hally made me want to scratch out my eyeballs. The play may be set in 1950, but Hally was eerily like some insufferable seventeen-year-olds I know. You'd recognize the type: almost a hipster, pretentious and condescending; an atheist not because of well-considered philosophical beliefs, but because believing in things is for stupid people. The world revolves around them and their struggles are paramount; nobody could possibly understand what they are going through, and nobody has ever suffered anything worse. Add in some intense racism towards the boys and a disgust towards his father, not due to his unsavoury personality, but because he is a cripple, and suffice to say Hally's not the type of boy I'd want to ask to Senior Prom.
As I mentioned, the play often reads more like an essay than anything else. Hally and Sam debate about men of greatness; the impact of racism in South Africa is explored; Hally is a complete and utter asshat to every person in his life. And yeah. That's it. That's the play. It's definitely not my cup of tea, but for what it is--a statement about the South African apartheid--it is interesting enough.
Next week: Back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Monday, 24 February 2014
8. Identity Crisis
The book: The Lost Girl
The author: Sangu Mandanna
The rating: 4 stars
"Come on," I say, "let's go be star-crossed lovers and court disaster."
Premise, setting, characters. These are the three things I loved about The Lost Girl, a book that is refreshingly unique in all three ways. Mandanna's writing is very tongue-in-cheek, poking fun at the cliches of the genre (the phrase 'make like a tortured vampire' is used), while spinning a thoughtful, intriguing world. Mandanna's Weavers, Loom, and echoes strongly reminded me of Joss Whedon's Dollhouse, and like that series, The Lost Girl is a fascinating exploration of what makes someone human and the meaning of identity.
A sense of adventure stirs in my chest. I imagine sailing into open seas, seizing my fate in both hands. I imagine swashbuckling battles, swords and cutlasses and battle scars. I imagine desire, the raw passion of falling into bed after a long reckless day and kissing somebody.
The Lost Girl is split between two settings: small-town England and big-city India. For a reader like me, following Eva on her journey from a world on the opposite side of the Atlantic ocean, both of the settings are filled with a novelty and colour that most American-set novels of the genre lack. I've never been to India (or England, for that matter), so I can't say how accurate The Lost Girl is in its depictions, but the same adventure was stirred in me as was stirred in Eva. Tastes, sights, smells... the description in The Lost Girl is glorious, creating a world that seems almost fantastical.
He can see what move I'm planning to make in chess and counters before I can do it. He always knows who the killer is in a detective story. I think he could make a career out of detecting, but he wants to write plays for theater. Maybe he could be a Shakespeare instead of a Sherlock. He could be anything. Anything he wants to be.
That description pretty much sums up Sean, Eva's principal love interest. Suffice to say, I was head over heels by chapter three. Agency in novels is a balancing act, and their relationship had the perfect balance; neither was ever a puppet on a string, bowing meekly to the whims of the plot, despite the restraints and expectations of the lives they lead. I think I've made my views on love triangles abundantly clear in the past, and The Lost Girl did not disappoint in that regard. There is a second boy in the picture, Ray, but it's not what you'd think; he was Amarra's boyfriend, the girl that Eva was born to replace, and the choice he represents is not whether he is the one Eva loves more. Rather, he is symbolic of identity, duty, free will... the central themes of the novel. It is always clear that Sean is the one Eva loves, and this makes Ray's presence not tawdry, but poignant.
"I am not kind. Handsome, certainly. And undoubtedly brilliant. But not kind."
A good novel needs good antagonists, and The Lost Girl has the Weavers. Again, their presence sets the novel a cut above most stories you see in this genre. Their evilness is ambiguous; the Loom seems dark and twisted, particular as we follow the story from Eva's perspective. A sinister underground organization... corrupt people with the power over life and death. But the Loom is more than your typical Evil Inc., and that depth kept me interested, what with the juxtaposition of Ophelia's loving viewpoint, Elsa's gentleness, the flashes of the green nursery... With regards to the above quote in particular, Matthew very much reminded me of the BBC version of Sherlock Holmes. Throughout the novel, I was constantly struck by the thought that the Weavers could be the antihero of another story (a la Dollhouse), and given that authors tend to force the reader into the myopic perspective of their hero or heroine, I found this presentation to be quite enjoyable. Frankenstein is a constant motif, and its pertinence is relayed through the antagonists as well: what makes a monster, and what makes a monster maker?
"I'll give in gracefully when the time's right. But until then, I'm not going gently into any good night, thank you very much."
And finally, Eva. Our protagonist. In terms of characters, I would actually dub her the weak link. She's your typical "doesn't-play-by-the-rules" protagonist, the one with the temper, the sharp tongue, and the tendency to start whining. She's not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, making some really jarring blunders in service to the plot. She's the type that sends her friends away at the climax to face the Big Bad alone so that she doesn't hurt the ones she loves, but ends up doing so anyway... in a book that bucks cliches, she is a surprisingly textbook archetype. I didn't exactly hate her, but I can't say I was particularly fond of the girl (other than her impeccable taste in poetry and prose).
Overall, I'd have to say The Lost Girl was a pretty solid book. It was intriguing; it was thrilling; it made me think and it made me feel. Still, it's not the kind of book that pulls you in and doesn't let you go until the last page has been flipped. The Lost Girl is more of a reflective type of novel, the kind best suited for reading a chapter or two on a train or waiting at the dentist's office. It also makes for a wonderful stand-alone story; I have the utmost respect for authors who can tell a tale from start to finish in one tome without the need to stretch it out over a trilogy or a saga. Whenever Mandanna pens her next novel, I will without a doubt be eager to delve into whatever new world or new idea she has concocted.
The author: Sangu Mandanna
The rating: 4 stars
"Come on," I say, "let's go be star-crossed lovers and court disaster."
Premise, setting, characters. These are the three things I loved about The Lost Girl, a book that is refreshingly unique in all three ways. Mandanna's writing is very tongue-in-cheek, poking fun at the cliches of the genre (the phrase 'make like a tortured vampire' is used), while spinning a thoughtful, intriguing world. Mandanna's Weavers, Loom, and echoes strongly reminded me of Joss Whedon's Dollhouse, and like that series, The Lost Girl is a fascinating exploration of what makes someone human and the meaning of identity.
A sense of adventure stirs in my chest. I imagine sailing into open seas, seizing my fate in both hands. I imagine swashbuckling battles, swords and cutlasses and battle scars. I imagine desire, the raw passion of falling into bed after a long reckless day and kissing somebody.
The Lost Girl is split between two settings: small-town England and big-city India. For a reader like me, following Eva on her journey from a world on the opposite side of the Atlantic ocean, both of the settings are filled with a novelty and colour that most American-set novels of the genre lack. I've never been to India (or England, for that matter), so I can't say how accurate The Lost Girl is in its depictions, but the same adventure was stirred in me as was stirred in Eva. Tastes, sights, smells... the description in The Lost Girl is glorious, creating a world that seems almost fantastical.
He can see what move I'm planning to make in chess and counters before I can do it. He always knows who the killer is in a detective story. I think he could make a career out of detecting, but he wants to write plays for theater. Maybe he could be a Shakespeare instead of a Sherlock. He could be anything. Anything he wants to be.
That description pretty much sums up Sean, Eva's principal love interest. Suffice to say, I was head over heels by chapter three. Agency in novels is a balancing act, and their relationship had the perfect balance; neither was ever a puppet on a string, bowing meekly to the whims of the plot, despite the restraints and expectations of the lives they lead. I think I've made my views on love triangles abundantly clear in the past, and The Lost Girl did not disappoint in that regard. There is a second boy in the picture, Ray, but it's not what you'd think; he was Amarra's boyfriend, the girl that Eva was born to replace, and the choice he represents is not whether he is the one Eva loves more. Rather, he is symbolic of identity, duty, free will... the central themes of the novel. It is always clear that Sean is the one Eva loves, and this makes Ray's presence not tawdry, but poignant.
"I am not kind. Handsome, certainly. And undoubtedly brilliant. But not kind."
A good novel needs good antagonists, and The Lost Girl has the Weavers. Again, their presence sets the novel a cut above most stories you see in this genre. Their evilness is ambiguous; the Loom seems dark and twisted, particular as we follow the story from Eva's perspective. A sinister underground organization... corrupt people with the power over life and death. But the Loom is more than your typical Evil Inc., and that depth kept me interested, what with the juxtaposition of Ophelia's loving viewpoint, Elsa's gentleness, the flashes of the green nursery... With regards to the above quote in particular, Matthew very much reminded me of the BBC version of Sherlock Holmes. Throughout the novel, I was constantly struck by the thought that the Weavers could be the antihero of another story (a la Dollhouse), and given that authors tend to force the reader into the myopic perspective of their hero or heroine, I found this presentation to be quite enjoyable. Frankenstein is a constant motif, and its pertinence is relayed through the antagonists as well: what makes a monster, and what makes a monster maker?
"I'll give in gracefully when the time's right. But until then, I'm not going gently into any good night, thank you very much."
And finally, Eva. Our protagonist. In terms of characters, I would actually dub her the weak link. She's your typical "doesn't-play-by-the-rules" protagonist, the one with the temper, the sharp tongue, and the tendency to start whining. She's not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, making some really jarring blunders in service to the plot. She's the type that sends her friends away at the climax to face the Big Bad alone so that she doesn't hurt the ones she loves, but ends up doing so anyway... in a book that bucks cliches, she is a surprisingly textbook archetype. I didn't exactly hate her, but I can't say I was particularly fond of the girl (other than her impeccable taste in poetry and prose).
Overall, I'd have to say The Lost Girl was a pretty solid book. It was intriguing; it was thrilling; it made me think and it made me feel. Still, it's not the kind of book that pulls you in and doesn't let you go until the last page has been flipped. The Lost Girl is more of a reflective type of novel, the kind best suited for reading a chapter or two on a train or waiting at the dentist's office. It also makes for a wonderful stand-alone story; I have the utmost respect for authors who can tell a tale from start to finish in one tome without the need to stretch it out over a trilogy or a saga. Whenever Mandanna pens her next novel, I will without a doubt be eager to delve into whatever new world or new idea she has concocted.
Monday, 10 February 2014
7. Fighting 'Til the End
The book: Champion (Legend #3)
The author: Marie Lu
The rating: 3.5 stars
"Billions of people will come and go in this world," he says softly, "but there will never be another like you."
So, here we are. The end of an era, the conclusion of a trilogy, the final page in the story of Day and June. I chose that epigraph with a touch of irony; as has been the problem for the entire series, my biggest issue with Champion is that there will always be plenty more like it. It's not that I'm expecting the Earth and the stars, but in every novel, I hope to find something fresh. A unique idea. A unique voice. A twist. A spark. Champion and the Legend series as a whole are everything you expect from the dystopian genre; they follow all the steps, but they're missing the breath of life to take them from cookie-cutter story to true adventure.
More so than either of its predecessors, Champion feels like it is just going through the motions. I was constantly struck by how little had happened in such a large number of pages; the premise may be the invasion of the Republic, but aside from that frame, there is little-to-no plot. We get to visit another country in Lu's futuristic world, Antarctic, itself replete with a ridiculous government system heavy-handedly engineered to give readers their daily dose of Diet Theme. We see the continuation of Day's soap-opera storyline, and... I'm at a loss to list much else that happened until we reach the 3/4 mark. June goes to a senate meeting. We spend copious amounts of time in a hospital setting. There's a sex scene. I'm actually kind of impressed by how much space Lu manages to fill with so little. The plot coasts off the events of the previous two books; there's no wild adventures, no intriguing ideas, no exciting premises. Lu's just killing time until we get to the conclusion.
The conclusion. Based upon what I've written thus far, it seems a bit weird for me to be giving the novel a higher rating than Prodigy. I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about the conclusion, but it's Champion's saving grace. It's fresh. It's well-written. More happens in the epilogue than in the novel's entirety. For once, Lu brings something fresh to the table, something beyond the cliched happy ever after or textbook bittersweet ending. Upon inspection, the ending did have some considerable flaws: I'm not a neuroscientist, but I don't think people work that way; that relocation seems to go against our daily theme injection; does the future-Internet magically disappear or something? These sort of flaws don't bother me much, though. This may seem hard to believe, especially considering the ratings I've been doling out, but I'm not really a harsh critic. If a book's enjoyable, so what if there are a few plot holes along the way? It's a story, an adventure; if you're too caught up in the hard science of it, you're not going to enjoy the ride.
While Champion was not all that it could have been, the ending was. It was distinct, mature... it had that sense of both realism and magic that had enchanted me in Legend but had been missing from the series since. Plus, Day gets a haircut; it's everything I'd wanted all along. I'm not sure if I'll be willing to pick up any of Lu's future efforts, but all in all I'm glad to have taken the chance on the Legend series.
The author: Marie Lu
The rating: 3.5 stars
"Billions of people will come and go in this world," he says softly, "but there will never be another like you."
So, here we are. The end of an era, the conclusion of a trilogy, the final page in the story of Day and June. I chose that epigraph with a touch of irony; as has been the problem for the entire series, my biggest issue with Champion is that there will always be plenty more like it. It's not that I'm expecting the Earth and the stars, but in every novel, I hope to find something fresh. A unique idea. A unique voice. A twist. A spark. Champion and the Legend series as a whole are everything you expect from the dystopian genre; they follow all the steps, but they're missing the breath of life to take them from cookie-cutter story to true adventure.
More so than either of its predecessors, Champion feels like it is just going through the motions. I was constantly struck by how little had happened in such a large number of pages; the premise may be the invasion of the Republic, but aside from that frame, there is little-to-no plot. We get to visit another country in Lu's futuristic world, Antarctic, itself replete with a ridiculous government system heavy-handedly engineered to give readers their daily dose of Diet Theme. We see the continuation of Day's soap-opera storyline, and... I'm at a loss to list much else that happened until we reach the 3/4 mark. June goes to a senate meeting. We spend copious amounts of time in a hospital setting. There's a sex scene. I'm actually kind of impressed by how much space Lu manages to fill with so little. The plot coasts off the events of the previous two books; there's no wild adventures, no intriguing ideas, no exciting premises. Lu's just killing time until we get to the conclusion.
The conclusion. Based upon what I've written thus far, it seems a bit weird for me to be giving the novel a higher rating than Prodigy. I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about the conclusion, but it's Champion's saving grace. It's fresh. It's well-written. More happens in the epilogue than in the novel's entirety. For once, Lu brings something fresh to the table, something beyond the cliched happy ever after or textbook bittersweet ending. Upon inspection, the ending did have some considerable flaws: I'm not a neuroscientist, but I don't think people work that way; that relocation seems to go against our daily theme injection; does the future-Internet magically disappear or something? These sort of flaws don't bother me much, though. This may seem hard to believe, especially considering the ratings I've been doling out, but I'm not really a harsh critic. If a book's enjoyable, so what if there are a few plot holes along the way? It's a story, an adventure; if you're too caught up in the hard science of it, you're not going to enjoy the ride.
While Champion was not all that it could have been, the ending was. It was distinct, mature... it had that sense of both realism and magic that had enchanted me in Legend but had been missing from the series since. Plus, Day gets a haircut; it's everything I'd wanted all along. I'm not sure if I'll be willing to pick up any of Lu's future efforts, but all in all I'm glad to have taken the chance on the Legend series.
Monday, 3 February 2014
6. Heart and Soul
The book: Infinite (Newsoul #3)
The author: Jodi Meadows
The rating: 4 stars
Infinite marks the conclusion to the Newsoul trilogy, bringing the adventures of Ana and Sam that began in Incarnate and Asunder to a perhaps rocky conclusion, but we'll get to that later. I don't typically spend much of my reviews going over plot summary (that's why they put a blurb on the back, isn't it?) but considering that Infinite is a series conclusion, it seems wise to make an exception to that rule.
The land of Range is plagued by all sorts of mythical beasts: dragons roam the north, spewing acid and wreaking havoc; sylphs dance in the shadows, their lightest touch a burn; rocs dive from the skies; centaurs roam the forests; trolls lumber along ragged paths; phoenixes reincarnate, shedding their past selves in rebirth. And in this wild, mystical land, there is a glistening, white-stone city of a million human souls: Heart. For five millennia, the people of Heart have reincarnated like phoenixes; when they die, their souls are soon born again and they continue their lives' adventures. Sometimes they're tall, sometimes short, sometimes dark, sometimes fair, sometimes female, sometimes male, but there's always another life. Everything is constant. That is, until Ana. The citizens of Heart had been expecting Ciana's rebirth, but instead of their old friend, their soul scanners fail to find a match. The baby is a newsoul, or, as many call her, a nosoul.
Throughout Incarnate and Asunder, we follow the newsoul, Ana, in her coming-of-age story, unraveling the mysteries that led to her birth. She is hated by many, considered a precursor to more nosouls replacing oldsouls; fear of ending up like Ciana leads Ana to be shunned by society, raised by Li, an abusive, vitriolic mother in the countryside surrounding Range, banned from ever entering the glistening city of Heart. At the beginning of Incarnate, Li gives Ana a faulty compass and sends her off on her quest to find her way in the world, hoping she'll become hopelessly lost and die. However, after a run-in with wild sylph that ends with Ana almost drowning in a lake, she is rescued by a boy named Sam, someone who, over the course of the series, manages to convince Ana that she is not a nosoul, but a newsoul.
Two paragraphs of plot summary already, and I don't think I'm even out of chapter four of the first novel... see, there's a reason why I don't do this often. Throughout the series, Ana struggles to find answers to the mystery surrounding her birth - why was she born instead of Ciana? Will she reincarnate? As her mystery begins to unravel, we discover that reincarnation is caused by a being called Janan, someone who many consider to be a god, but who actually is tied to the truth of what really happened five millennia ago. I don't want to get too into the overall plot so as not to spoil the series; truly, the premise is the most delightful part, and I would hate to ruin it for a prospective reader.
Now, onto my views of Infinite. As I mentioned, the premise of this series is one of my all-time favourites. The writing can be a bit threadbare at times, but Meadows' unique and well-executed concept more than compensates; the world of Range is terrifying, magical... filled with echoes of ideas all dreamers must have dreamed about. I know they're thoughts I've had before, at least. Would it be ethical to be immortal, seeing as immortality would only be practical if nobody else could be born? It's this type of lofty question that Infinite addresses, but in nowhere near the clunky way with which novels like Prodigy handle their themes. Meadows takes an intriguing question and builds a remarkable, breathtaking world around it; her message is intrinsically tied to the horrible splendour of her world, never tacked on. Furthermore, her view is never forced down the reader's throat; both the bad and the good are explored, as are the bad and good in human nature, ultimately leaving the reader to decide their own verdict. There are some potential readings of the work that might suggest Meadows is making a more forceful societal commentary... some choice lines in particular might allude to the novel taking a stance on the abortion debate, but the door of ambiguity is left open for the reader to interpret the author's true intentions.
Adding to the wonderful world and plot is the mystery with which the tale is imbued. The reader is unraveling the terrible secrets of the ancient past along with Ana and her oldsoul friends, and that mystique definitely keeps the pacing steady and the reader engaged. The romance is a little less enthralling... Ana and Sam make a wonderful, musical couple, but when the pacing falters, it's the romantic side of Infinite that is usually to blame.
I did promise to get back to my comment about the trilogy's rocky conclusion, and I suppose I'm running out of time to do so. I immensely enjoyed the first 70% or so of Infinite, but by the time our supporting characters start dropping like flies and we reach what is supposedly the climax, Infinite seems to stumble a bit, losing its polished, pensive sheen. Obviously everything can't go according to plan (since when in fiction has the big plan ever gone off without a hitch?) but the last minute mood shift screamed Deus Ex Machina, coupled with a second twist I think it's safe to say every reader would have seen coming (as soon as we're told Deborl has sent warriors away to find something, there was only one thing it could have been). The end of the end perked back up, though... hopefully it's not too much of a spoiler to say that amongst all the Pyrrhic victories in fiction today, it's nice to get a truly happy ending.
The author: Jodi Meadows
The rating: 4 stars
Infinite marks the conclusion to the Newsoul trilogy, bringing the adventures of Ana and Sam that began in Incarnate and Asunder to a perhaps rocky conclusion, but we'll get to that later. I don't typically spend much of my reviews going over plot summary (that's why they put a blurb on the back, isn't it?) but considering that Infinite is a series conclusion, it seems wise to make an exception to that rule.
The land of Range is plagued by all sorts of mythical beasts: dragons roam the north, spewing acid and wreaking havoc; sylphs dance in the shadows, their lightest touch a burn; rocs dive from the skies; centaurs roam the forests; trolls lumber along ragged paths; phoenixes reincarnate, shedding their past selves in rebirth. And in this wild, mystical land, there is a glistening, white-stone city of a million human souls: Heart. For five millennia, the people of Heart have reincarnated like phoenixes; when they die, their souls are soon born again and they continue their lives' adventures. Sometimes they're tall, sometimes short, sometimes dark, sometimes fair, sometimes female, sometimes male, but there's always another life. Everything is constant. That is, until Ana. The citizens of Heart had been expecting Ciana's rebirth, but instead of their old friend, their soul scanners fail to find a match. The baby is a newsoul, or, as many call her, a nosoul.
Throughout Incarnate and Asunder, we follow the newsoul, Ana, in her coming-of-age story, unraveling the mysteries that led to her birth. She is hated by many, considered a precursor to more nosouls replacing oldsouls; fear of ending up like Ciana leads Ana to be shunned by society, raised by Li, an abusive, vitriolic mother in the countryside surrounding Range, banned from ever entering the glistening city of Heart. At the beginning of Incarnate, Li gives Ana a faulty compass and sends her off on her quest to find her way in the world, hoping she'll become hopelessly lost and die. However, after a run-in with wild sylph that ends with Ana almost drowning in a lake, she is rescued by a boy named Sam, someone who, over the course of the series, manages to convince Ana that she is not a nosoul, but a newsoul.
Two paragraphs of plot summary already, and I don't think I'm even out of chapter four of the first novel... see, there's a reason why I don't do this often. Throughout the series, Ana struggles to find answers to the mystery surrounding her birth - why was she born instead of Ciana? Will she reincarnate? As her mystery begins to unravel, we discover that reincarnation is caused by a being called Janan, someone who many consider to be a god, but who actually is tied to the truth of what really happened five millennia ago. I don't want to get too into the overall plot so as not to spoil the series; truly, the premise is the most delightful part, and I would hate to ruin it for a prospective reader.
Now, onto my views of Infinite. As I mentioned, the premise of this series is one of my all-time favourites. The writing can be a bit threadbare at times, but Meadows' unique and well-executed concept more than compensates; the world of Range is terrifying, magical... filled with echoes of ideas all dreamers must have dreamed about. I know they're thoughts I've had before, at least. Would it be ethical to be immortal, seeing as immortality would only be practical if nobody else could be born? It's this type of lofty question that Infinite addresses, but in nowhere near the clunky way with which novels like Prodigy handle their themes. Meadows takes an intriguing question and builds a remarkable, breathtaking world around it; her message is intrinsically tied to the horrible splendour of her world, never tacked on. Furthermore, her view is never forced down the reader's throat; both the bad and the good are explored, as are the bad and good in human nature, ultimately leaving the reader to decide their own verdict. There are some potential readings of the work that might suggest Meadows is making a more forceful societal commentary... some choice lines in particular might allude to the novel taking a stance on the abortion debate, but the door of ambiguity is left open for the reader to interpret the author's true intentions.
Adding to the wonderful world and plot is the mystery with which the tale is imbued. The reader is unraveling the terrible secrets of the ancient past along with Ana and her oldsoul friends, and that mystique definitely keeps the pacing steady and the reader engaged. The romance is a little less enthralling... Ana and Sam make a wonderful, musical couple, but when the pacing falters, it's the romantic side of Infinite that is usually to blame.
I did promise to get back to my comment about the trilogy's rocky conclusion, and I suppose I'm running out of time to do so. I immensely enjoyed the first 70% or so of Infinite, but by the time our supporting characters start dropping like flies and we reach what is supposedly the climax, Infinite seems to stumble a bit, losing its polished, pensive sheen. Obviously everything can't go according to plan (since when in fiction has the big plan ever gone off without a hitch?) but the last minute mood shift screamed Deus Ex Machina, coupled with a second twist I think it's safe to say every reader would have seen coming (as soon as we're told Deborl has sent warriors away to find something, there was only one thing it could have been). The end of the end perked back up, though... hopefully it's not too much of a spoiler to say that amongst all the Pyrrhic victories in fiction today, it's nice to get a truly happy ending.
Thursday, 30 January 2014
5. The Legend Continues
The book: Prodigy (Legend #2)
The author: Marie Lu
The rating: 3 stars
Well, it's New England that gets flooded, not Canada, so I guess I'll give Lu points for originality.
Prodigy was a bit of a disappointment for me. As I mentioned oh-so-long-ago in my review of Legend, I had high hopes for the world-building, but those hopes fell flat. Social commentaries are great, or any kind of commentary - too frequently YA writers neglect to have these deeper messages in their works, as if teens can't handle interpreting profound themes - but I didn't find that Lu integrated hers well into the novel. Prodigy definitely seems as if it has something to say about classism and class culture, but instead of really doing anything meaningful with those ideas, it ends up culminating in a second-rate Romeo & Juliet star-crossed lovers shtick. Similarly, the Colonies appear as if they were intended to be an emphatically exaggerated version of today's American consumer culture, but this allegory came across clunky and without finesse. It's almost as if Prodigy is Diet Theme (TM) -- tastes pretty much like actual Theme, but with zero calories of brainpower required.
Another thing I had loved about Legend was the strong supporting characters, but Prodigy completely disregards this strength. Aside from Day and June, the cast is all either killed off, sent away from the plot, or they are simply boring cardboard cut-outs, without the depth that I had loved about Legend's characters. Throw in some artificial-tasting love triangles (yes, plural, although I guess that might just make it a love square?) and a completely cliche 'twist' ending that seems more at home on a daytime soap than in an adventure-dystopia novel, and you've got a recipe for a disappointing sequel.
With these reservations aside, the overall plot was enjoyable enough; I'd go as far as to say Prodigy was stronger than the original in the plot department. Instead of relying on old dystopian cliches, Prodigy had its own flavour and twists. Some worked and some did not, but they did succeed in making an entertaining enough story. Despite this more original plot, I wasn't as enthralled with Prodigy as I was with Legend, but that's mostly attributed to characters and pacing. We spend a lot of time watching characters sit around, worry, and do nothing; reading about your protagonists wringing their hands and whining for pages on end does neither them nor the pacing any favours.
I'm a strong proponent of the 'Middle Novel Weakness' theory, in which the second novel in a trilogy is typically the poorest; the first has the benefit of originality, the third has the thrilling conclusion, but the second is that awkward middle child that has to bridge the gap, not able to pique interest or present resolution. Therefore, my hopes for the third book in this trilogy remain unshaken: Prodigy may have had its rough spots, but perhaps Champion will finally allow the saga to reach its lofty potential.
The author: Marie Lu
The rating: 3 stars
Well, it's New England that gets flooded, not Canada, so I guess I'll give Lu points for originality.
Prodigy was a bit of a disappointment for me. As I mentioned oh-so-long-ago in my review of Legend, I had high hopes for the world-building, but those hopes fell flat. Social commentaries are great, or any kind of commentary - too frequently YA writers neglect to have these deeper messages in their works, as if teens can't handle interpreting profound themes - but I didn't find that Lu integrated hers well into the novel. Prodigy definitely seems as if it has something to say about classism and class culture, but instead of really doing anything meaningful with those ideas, it ends up culminating in a second-rate Romeo & Juliet star-crossed lovers shtick. Similarly, the Colonies appear as if they were intended to be an emphatically exaggerated version of today's American consumer culture, but this allegory came across clunky and without finesse. It's almost as if Prodigy is Diet Theme (TM) -- tastes pretty much like actual Theme, but with zero calories of brainpower required.
Another thing I had loved about Legend was the strong supporting characters, but Prodigy completely disregards this strength. Aside from Day and June, the cast is all either killed off, sent away from the plot, or they are simply boring cardboard cut-outs, without the depth that I had loved about Legend's characters. Throw in some artificial-tasting love triangles (yes, plural, although I guess that might just make it a love square?) and a completely cliche 'twist' ending that seems more at home on a daytime soap than in an adventure-dystopia novel, and you've got a recipe for a disappointing sequel.
With these reservations aside, the overall plot was enjoyable enough; I'd go as far as to say Prodigy was stronger than the original in the plot department. Instead of relying on old dystopian cliches, Prodigy had its own flavour and twists. Some worked and some did not, but they did succeed in making an entertaining enough story. Despite this more original plot, I wasn't as enthralled with Prodigy as I was with Legend, but that's mostly attributed to characters and pacing. We spend a lot of time watching characters sit around, worry, and do nothing; reading about your protagonists wringing their hands and whining for pages on end does neither them nor the pacing any favours.
I'm a strong proponent of the 'Middle Novel Weakness' theory, in which the second novel in a trilogy is typically the poorest; the first has the benefit of originality, the third has the thrilling conclusion, but the second is that awkward middle child that has to bridge the gap, not able to pique interest or present resolution. Therefore, my hopes for the third book in this trilogy remain unshaken: Prodigy may have had its rough spots, but perhaps Champion will finally allow the saga to reach its lofty potential.
Wednesday, 22 January 2014
4. Legend-ary?
The book: Legend (Legend #1)
The author: Marie Lu
The rating: 4 stars
"There are dozens of them out there," he snaps. "You'll never make it."
I just wink at him.
Legend, much like Cinder, is a book that I've walked past at the 'popular' YA section of the bookstore thousands of times, and for some reason never opted to pick up. Back before I read Cinder this summer, I thought that cyborg-Cinderella story sounded unpromising, despite the many gushing reviews I read or recommendations I received. However, a university bookstore with a meager supply of YA fiction for sale pushes a girl to her limits, and I soon found Cinder to be one of my favourite reads of this year. After having misjudged Cinder so grievously, I figured I'd do well to give Legend a shot too.
Now for the title question: was Legend legend-ary? No, not really. It was a good read, though--one that had me shoving my other commitments aside (like studying for a certain chemistry exam) to indulge in Lu's comfortable prose and witty characters.
That was definitely a highlight for me: both of Lu's protagonists are extremely intelligent and capable, and unlike so many authors, she writes smart characters that have more of a personality than being 'the smart one'. I'll admit, June irked me for pretty much the entire first half of the book. Her 'extraordinary' intelligence seemed to amount to nothing more than an ability to perform half-baked Sherlock Holmes-style scans of the situation, but as she began to break out of the whole 'good-little-soldier' mould she grew considerably more tolerable. That said, the standout for me is definitely Day. Steetwise and savvy, his intelligence was something that was constantly shown, not told. Reading from his perspective was always a pleasure; he was someone so tactical, so deliberating, yet with such a strong sense of loyalty at odds with that calculating side of him. He's your classic loveable rogue, but Lu makes him more than just an archetype; he's truly compelling. Yes, I may just have a wee literary crush on Daniel Altan Wing, but moving on...
I was also pleasantly surprised by Legend's supporting characters. Quite often in a trilogy-opener like this everyone except the protagonist and their love interest(s) seem to be underdeveloped, but I found Lu's treatment of her supporting characters to be quite skillful, particularly with Tessa and Kaede. Sure, Day's family may be used a bit too exclusively as plot devices (don't get me started about John), but all in all I found the character roster to be happily well-rounded.
The world building... has potential. I wasn't exactly thrilled with how it's been handled so far, but as only the first in a trilogy, I'm optimistic that my opinion on this will improve over the next two installments. As a connoisseur of dystopian and science fiction, I've formulated a theory. 90% of far-flung futures have one of two histories between our present day and theirs: 1) There's been a massive conflict between superpowers China and the United States, with varying results (in Firefly they unite; in The Selection, China takes over the US; in Legend, the US apparently has taken over China) or 2) No country remains in existence except a future-version of the United States (Hunger Games, Whispers in Autumn, etc). I call this theory the "Americans Believe they are Better than Everyone" Theory; bonus points are awarded if it's mentioned that everywhere north of future-USA is now flooded (authors love flooding Canada), or has been annexed. This is going on a bit of a tangent, but the point is that I didn't find Lu's worldbuilding to be anything special. A futuristic class system that is a thinly veiled commentary on today's societal structure; your obligatory 'the government is EVIL' conspiracy that is kind of needed to put the 'dys' in 'dystopia'; the occasional injection of FutureTech; some good old 'Big Brother is Watching You'... For a dystopian fan, it's an enjoyable enough formula, but nothing that hasn't been done countless times before.
All in all, Legend was more than okay. Day was everything I look for in a good protagonist and the plot has potential, even if it is your standard government-conspiracy with the heroes on the run. The book's sequel, Prodigy may have just jumped to the top of my to-read list.
The author: Marie Lu
The rating: 4 stars
"There are dozens of them out there," he snaps. "You'll never make it."
I just wink at him.
Legend, much like Cinder, is a book that I've walked past at the 'popular' YA section of the bookstore thousands of times, and for some reason never opted to pick up. Back before I read Cinder this summer, I thought that cyborg-Cinderella story sounded unpromising, despite the many gushing reviews I read or recommendations I received. However, a university bookstore with a meager supply of YA fiction for sale pushes a girl to her limits, and I soon found Cinder to be one of my favourite reads of this year. After having misjudged Cinder so grievously, I figured I'd do well to give Legend a shot too.
Now for the title question: was Legend legend-ary? No, not really. It was a good read, though--one that had me shoving my other commitments aside (like studying for a certain chemistry exam) to indulge in Lu's comfortable prose and witty characters.
That was definitely a highlight for me: both of Lu's protagonists are extremely intelligent and capable, and unlike so many authors, she writes smart characters that have more of a personality than being 'the smart one'. I'll admit, June irked me for pretty much the entire first half of the book. Her 'extraordinary' intelligence seemed to amount to nothing more than an ability to perform half-baked Sherlock Holmes-style scans of the situation, but as she began to break out of the whole 'good-little-soldier' mould she grew considerably more tolerable. That said, the standout for me is definitely Day. Steetwise and savvy, his intelligence was something that was constantly shown, not told. Reading from his perspective was always a pleasure; he was someone so tactical, so deliberating, yet with such a strong sense of loyalty at odds with that calculating side of him. He's your classic loveable rogue, but Lu makes him more than just an archetype; he's truly compelling. Yes, I may just have a wee literary crush on Daniel Altan Wing, but moving on...
I was also pleasantly surprised by Legend's supporting characters. Quite often in a trilogy-opener like this everyone except the protagonist and their love interest(s) seem to be underdeveloped, but I found Lu's treatment of her supporting characters to be quite skillful, particularly with Tessa and Kaede. Sure, Day's family may be used a bit too exclusively as plot devices (don't get me started about John), but all in all I found the character roster to be happily well-rounded.
The world building... has potential. I wasn't exactly thrilled with how it's been handled so far, but as only the first in a trilogy, I'm optimistic that my opinion on this will improve over the next two installments. As a connoisseur of dystopian and science fiction, I've formulated a theory. 90% of far-flung futures have one of two histories between our present day and theirs: 1) There's been a massive conflict between superpowers China and the United States, with varying results (in Firefly they unite; in The Selection, China takes over the US; in Legend, the US apparently has taken over China) or 2) No country remains in existence except a future-version of the United States (Hunger Games, Whispers in Autumn, etc). I call this theory the "Americans Believe they are Better than Everyone" Theory; bonus points are awarded if it's mentioned that everywhere north of future-USA is now flooded (authors love flooding Canada), or has been annexed. This is going on a bit of a tangent, but the point is that I didn't find Lu's worldbuilding to be anything special. A futuristic class system that is a thinly veiled commentary on today's societal structure; your obligatory 'the government is EVIL' conspiracy that is kind of needed to put the 'dys' in 'dystopia'; the occasional injection of FutureTech; some good old 'Big Brother is Watching You'... For a dystopian fan, it's an enjoyable enough formula, but nothing that hasn't been done countless times before.
All in all, Legend was more than okay. Day was everything I look for in a good protagonist and the plot has potential, even if it is your standard government-conspiracy with the heroes on the run. The book's sequel, Prodigy may have just jumped to the top of my to-read list.
Sunday, 19 January 2014
3. Heart's Desire
The book: A Streetcar Named Desire
The author: Tennessee Williams
The rating: 3 stars
Humble reader, you might be looking at my entries and thinking, 'One of these things is not like the other.' And yes, you'd be correct: Streetcar is a play, not a book, so you've got me there.
In all seriousness, Streetcar is not my usual reading preference. I'm not a big fan of 'realistic' fiction; I don't read YA because I can't 'handle' the big-girl books, but because I sincerely like YA better. It's not even truly a comparison between YA and adult; I simply prefer genre to literary fiction, so tales like Streetcar don't usually do it for me. I love Shakespeare; I love Conan Doyle; I love Baroness Orczy; I hella-love Aldous Huxley (well, mostly just Brave New World, but that's a discussion for another day). Streetcar being an older book doesn't colour my judgement nor does it being a classic, but stories like Streetcar (see also A Tale of Two Cities) just feel dry. But, I was assigned to read the play for IB English, and if I want to make my 50 book goal, skipping out on reviews isn't the way to do it.
The highlight of Streetcar for me would have to be the characters. This probably isn't a news flash for anyone, but they're incredibly well-written and multifaceted. No one was truly our 'hero' and no one was completely sympathetic. Then again, there was no character that never had a moment that you couldn't complete relate to, even the terrifying, animalistic Stanley. People walk the line between good guys and bad guys; it's less clear cut than some works would have you believe. Looking at Streetcar in retrospect, it's fairly obvious to say Blanche was the protagonist and Stanley the antagonist, but reading it felt almost like being unable to see the forest for the trees; you didn't really know who was hiding what, and when the (metaphorical) curtains closed with whom you would be sympathizing.
However, I wasn't that big a fan of the plot. Yes, it was technically brilliant. You've get parallelism and symbolism and all that good stuff that we're sure to discuss on end in English class. You've got twists and turns and mystery and mystique. But despite all this technical prowess, I didn't feel anything as I turned the last page other than a vague churning of my stomach. The story was dark and depressing and violent, and all that darkness did not engage me. That makes it seem like I disliked Streetcar because it was a tragedy, but that is not true. I quite enjoyed Hamlet and Antigone, two other tragic plays, and maybe it is because I feel as if those two succeeded more in evoking pathos. Hamlet's mask of insanity drew me in, sympathizing with him even when he made some pretty godawful decisions. Perhaps the things I like and hate most about Streetcar are two sides of the same coin: I loved the depth and multifacetedness of the characters, but this ability to both relate and be isolated from each of them led me to not quite care about their fates.
So, Streetcar. I can definitely see your literary merit, but you're not the thing for me. Maybe I'd enjoy you more as a stage production as opposed to a transcription; you seem to be the type that would fare better on the stage. In any case, I'm eager to get out of the 'much, much more' section of this blog and back to my favourite lands of 'fantasy, sci-fi, dystopia, adventure.'
The author: Tennessee Williams
The rating: 3 stars
Humble reader, you might be looking at my entries and thinking, 'One of these things is not like the other.' And yes, you'd be correct: Streetcar is a play, not a book, so you've got me there.
In all seriousness, Streetcar is not my usual reading preference. I'm not a big fan of 'realistic' fiction; I don't read YA because I can't 'handle' the big-girl books, but because I sincerely like YA better. It's not even truly a comparison between YA and adult; I simply prefer genre to literary fiction, so tales like Streetcar don't usually do it for me. I love Shakespeare; I love Conan Doyle; I love Baroness Orczy; I hella-love Aldous Huxley (well, mostly just Brave New World, but that's a discussion for another day). Streetcar being an older book doesn't colour my judgement nor does it being a classic, but stories like Streetcar (see also A Tale of Two Cities) just feel dry. But, I was assigned to read the play for IB English, and if I want to make my 50 book goal, skipping out on reviews isn't the way to do it.
The highlight of Streetcar for me would have to be the characters. This probably isn't a news flash for anyone, but they're incredibly well-written and multifaceted. No one was truly our 'hero' and no one was completely sympathetic. Then again, there was no character that never had a moment that you couldn't complete relate to, even the terrifying, animalistic Stanley. People walk the line between good guys and bad guys; it's less clear cut than some works would have you believe. Looking at Streetcar in retrospect, it's fairly obvious to say Blanche was the protagonist and Stanley the antagonist, but reading it felt almost like being unable to see the forest for the trees; you didn't really know who was hiding what, and when the (metaphorical) curtains closed with whom you would be sympathizing.
However, I wasn't that big a fan of the plot. Yes, it was technically brilliant. You've get parallelism and symbolism and all that good stuff that we're sure to discuss on end in English class. You've got twists and turns and mystery and mystique. But despite all this technical prowess, I didn't feel anything as I turned the last page other than a vague churning of my stomach. The story was dark and depressing and violent, and all that darkness did not engage me. That makes it seem like I disliked Streetcar because it was a tragedy, but that is not true. I quite enjoyed Hamlet and Antigone, two other tragic plays, and maybe it is because I feel as if those two succeeded more in evoking pathos. Hamlet's mask of insanity drew me in, sympathizing with him even when he made some pretty godawful decisions. Perhaps the things I like and hate most about Streetcar are two sides of the same coin: I loved the depth and multifacetedness of the characters, but this ability to both relate and be isolated from each of them led me to not quite care about their fates.
So, Streetcar. I can definitely see your literary merit, but you're not the thing for me. Maybe I'd enjoy you more as a stage production as opposed to a transcription; you seem to be the type that would fare better on the stage. In any case, I'm eager to get out of the 'much, much more' section of this blog and back to my favourite lands of 'fantasy, sci-fi, dystopia, adventure.'
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