thelonelyrdr-blog

[thelonelyrdr-blog]

Thoughts on One Dark Throne

Disclaimer: This review contains mild spoilers, but mainly for Three Dark Crowns.                 The reason that I can't quite hate "Look What You Made Me Do" is the same reason that I love this book: the aesthetic. One peek at the cover persuaded me that I should be reading the book in a dimly lit room by fire- and candlelight, with wind howling, branches scratching against the window, and a grandfather clock chiming the midnight hour somewhere in the distance. I'm so ready for Halloween, y'all, and One Dark Throne is the ideal book to set the mood for it. Judging from her online presence and book signing persona, Kendare Blake the person is the sweetest human being alive, but Kendare Blake the author has a deliciously dark and twisted mind. Apart from the fact that the plot of the series revolves around three sister queens who must fight to the death for the crown,  the voice and imagery, particularly in Katharine's chapters, perfectly evoke the empathic thrills and chills that all of the best horror does. For some reason, I didn't find this book as dark as the first, which had an opening chapter that so shocked and horrified me that I gushed about it in a job interview - if you haven't guessed, I'm a big fan of the macabre - but I'd still deem it a worthy sequel and addition to any fall/Halloween reading list. Although, in retrospect, a lot happened in One Dark Throne, it felt a bit slower and quieter than the first book, though it still left me craving more at the end. I really hope that the next book reveals more of the lore surrounding the queens and the childhood of these particular queens. Objectively, Blake's world-building needs no improvement, but Fennbirn's matriarchal religion, culture, and sociopolitical structure fascinate me, especially because they coexist peacefully with their more traditional mainland counterpoints. Selfishly, I want a Silmarillion-length and -style tome delving into Fennbirn's history and myths more even than I want the next book - and for the record, I didn't even want the actual Silmarillion (fight me, Tolkien worshipers) - though I'd settle for some further exploration woven into the narrative. On a related note, I like that Arsinoe's and Mirabella's actions in this book have serious political ramifications, because it adds to the realism of Blake's world. Perhaps what surprised me most about One Dark Throne was that the deaths were not restricted to minor characters. Although I'm a rare fantasy reader who'd prefer few to no character deaths, I still appreciated how all of the character deaths in this novel served the plot and did not appear to be included solely for shock value. Only one disappointed me, and it was because I felt that the character's relationship with another character wanted for more development, but maybe the living character's reaction to the dead one's death will compensate for this small oversight.   A few other elements could have used more development too - Arsinoe's guilt about the mishap with her suitors, Arsinoe's and Mirabella's growing sympathy toward one another - but again, it's a four-book series, so there's still time.  My last comment is aimed at my shipping readers: Arsinoe and Billy are my favorite couple in a YA series in a long time. I first fell in love with them when Billy stood for Arsinoe at the Quickening in Three Dark Crowns, and I'm happy to report that their relationship undergoes a sweet and natural progression in One Dark Throne. It tickles me how uncomplicated their affection for one another is, and, in particular, how resigned Billy is to loving Arsinoe despite the fact that his feelings may be unrequited and the fact that they run contrary to his instincts of self-preservation. After all, even after her bear attacks Mirabella at the Quickening, Arsinoe remains the least likely to be crowned, making Billy's decision to ally himself with her at best politically unwise and at worst dangerous and potentially fatal. But he loves her, so there is no other choice, is there?  The hopeless romantic in me swoons.  If you're looking for a YA fantasy horror novel with a cast of complex female characters driving its plot; a unique, richly imagined world; and a tone that will put even the holiday buzzkills among us in the mood for Halloween, then get thee to a bookstore right now and read One Dark Throne tonight while wearing your Wednesday Addams costume. (Note that I didn't specify "Halloween" costume: Wednesday has an enviable sense of style every day of the year.)   

[thelonelyrdr-blog]

Thoughts on Once and for All

Before beginning my review of this book, I feel compelled to confess the extent of my bias where Sarah Dessen is concerned. I’ve been reading her books since I was ten, maybe eleven, years old. I reread my favorite, This Lullaby, every summer of my teenage years. All of my close girlfriends in high school received one of her books as a birthday or Christmas gift at least once, prompting my mom to joke that I was singlehandedly funding her children’s college educations. Even now, as a twenty-five-too-soon-to-be-twenty-six-year-old woman, I remain a devoted Dessen fan. Though I won’t claim to have read all of her newer books, I’ve read a good number of them, and I continue to revisit old favorites. Hers were the books that made me love the YA genre, that cemented the idea I’d already formed of summer as a season of new beginnings. Never mind that my own teen years included summers spent single, overweight, and obsessively reading and writing Harry Potter fanfiction in front of my computer. I will forever associate summer with fun, romance, and a Sarah Dessen novel. And with being between the ages of sixteen and seventeen, because seriously, that’s when the lives of all YA protagonists - not just those in Sarah Dessen novels and not just those in novels - seem to get more interesting. Now, with that long, gushing disclaimer out of the way, I can proceed with my totally fair and impartial review of the undisputed queen of YA’s - I mean, Sarah Dessen’s - Once and for All. With this latest Dessen novel, before you even open it, I recommend that you take a moment to appreciate the gorgeous simplicity of the cover. The cover reminds me of the classic covers of her older novels, such as, yes, This Lullaby and The Truth About Forever. Not that the newer style is bad, exactly, but in my opinion, pastels and soft lines better complement Dessen’s writing. But let’s move on to the book’s content, which I loved every bit as much as its cover. Like the cover, the book itself reminded me of This Lullaby, which, I’m sure you’ll be shocked to learn, immediately endeared me to it. Both books begin with a wedding, and, less superficially, both books feature a) a somewhat childish, hyperactive love interest who pals around with his dog and initially annoys the female protagonist and b) a female protagonist who has a stubbornly cynical view of love, imparted to her by her mother but also informed by her own romantic disappointments. However, Dessen gives all of these elements a refreshing tweak, so that the novel can be interpreted as a homage to, but not a copy of, its predecessor. I’d be doing a disservice to this fabulous book if I didn’t praise it based on its own merits though. Louna’s character and her romance with Ambrose develop flawlessly. Appropriate pacing and an established chemistry between characters are the keys to writing a believable fictional romance, and Dessen succeeds beautifully in both regards. It also helps if the characters have appeal beyond their status as one-half of a couple: as individuals, Louna and Ambrose are distinct and memorable, as are the supporting characters. I’ve never met a Dessen character I didn’t like, but this time around, I especially liked Louna’s unconventional family, comprised of her mom and her mom’s gay business partner slash best friend.  Her interactions with both “parents” were uncomplicatedly sweet and tender. The whole setup, with Ambrose as the unruly son and brother, respectively, of two clients, whom Louna is forced to work with to prevent him from causing his sister undue stress before her wedding, is brilliant. I could read another hundred books with Louna and Ambrose as assistant wedding planners. Their bet undoubtedly draws on a romantic cliché, but one that I never mind seeing, and my only complaint is that more attention wasn’t given to it. And oh my gosh, the twist with Phone Lady? Not only did I not see it coming, but it depressed me more than I think it should’ve, considering what a minor character she was, which testifies to Dessen’s superior character-rendering abilities. Now come my two small nit-picks, which contain SPOILERS (so be warned if you haven’t read the book), and which I hope Sarah Dessen will not hold against me if she ever happens across this review. Although I appreciated Dessen’s authentic portrayal of how it feels to be in a long-distance relationship, in particular because most media gets it wrong (Going the Distance (2010), I’m throwing my hands in the air in response to your wasted potential), I kind of wish that Louna’s failed relationship had been with someone she was in a long-term relationship with rather than with someone she spent one night with and a few months texting and calling. Less original though it would’ve been, I would’ve preferred it if Ambrose’s assumption that Louna had gone through a bad breakup had been correct, both because I personally would’ve found it more relatable and because I think her cynicism would’ve made more sense in that instance. To be clear, I’m not arguing that a first boyfriend being killed in a school shooting wouldn’t be traumatic for a teenager, but rather, that I don’t know if it would instill in her a fervent disbelief in true love and happy endings when it was life, not love, that took Ethan from Louna. Feelings don’t have to be rational, of course, and Louna’s feelings about Ethan’s death were well-explained, but again, that would’ve been my personal preference. I will say, though, that I’m impressed with how Dessen handled the school shooting, managing to relegate it to Louna’s memories, where it belonged, without it losing its emotional resonance. Not once did I feel like I was reading an “issue” book. I was also pleasantly surprised that Ethan and Louna had sex on their first date, but that neither the narrative nor Jilly, Louna’s best friend and the only other character who likely knew about it, made a big deal of it. Rather, the sex was presented as just another detail about the start of Louna’s normal, healthy relationship with Ethan. For the record, it was safe sex, too, and kudos to Dessen for writing teenagers who are both comfortable with their sexuality and have the intelligence and presence of mind to use condoms.   Coincidentally, my other minor issue with the book involves Ambrose, Ethan’s successor as male lead, in a sense. Yes, I have a problem with Ambrose, my favorite love interest in a Sarah Dessen novel since Dexter and Wes (and okay, I guess we can throw Owen and Eli in there, too). The problem is that Louna emphasizes how kind Ambrose is, even citing his kindness as the reason he appeals to her and to girls in general, yet his habit of leading girls on directly contradicts this assessment of his character. Furthermore, why does Louna all of a sudden have faith in Ambrose’s ability to commit to her, when she previously doubted his ability to commit to anyone? Her observations about his relationship patterns were, after all, the catalyst for their bet.  Believe me, I adore Ambrose, especially considering how lackluster some of the more recent Dessen love interests have been, but I still think that Louna should’ve called him out on his shit at least once more before putting on those rose-tinted glasses. One conversation mid-way through the novel was not enough. However, note that the ending was perfect in every other respect, so I feel silly even complaining.   Long-time Sarah Dessen fans, rejoice: Once and for All is all (ha!) that you’ve come to expect from her and more. For my part, lame-o that I am, I’m already looking forward to these characters making cameos in future books.

[thelonelyrdr-blog]

Thoughts on Alexander Hamilton: The Graphic History of an American Founding Father

(Spoiler-free review, because it's impossible to "spoil" historical events.) Since Lin-Manuel Miranda shaped him into a pop culture icon last year, many have come to sympathize with Hamilton, but reading the graphic history of his life has made me realize that I identify with the man, and, considering how his story ends - and his reputation as an arrogant, authoritarian asshole (ah, the alliteration) - I'm not sure whether to view that fact as a positive or a negative. In case you're curious, or would like to weigh in on the validity of my self-comparison with Hamilton, here are the similarities I noticed: 1. Let's get the most superficial comparison out of the way first: we're both bastards. In the literal sense. (I dare you to judge me, either for airing my family business on the internet or for being born out of wedlock.)

2. We're both poor, despite having New York City jobs. 3. According to Jonathan Hennessey, the author of this graphic history, Hamilton was not the most talented of his peers, but he did have "an exceptional talent to make an impression on superiors." Judging from the praise I've received throughout my academic and actual careers, I have that same talent. Although I won't deny that I'm intelligent and hard-working, I don't believe that I possess these qualities in greater abundance than others who have inhabited the roles that I have, yet I nearly always earn the distinction from my superiors of being "one of the best."  4. On a related note, aside from making a strong impression on our superiors, my and Hamilton's most prominent talents appear to be writing and ambition. I bet that if Hamilton were to take the Pottermore Sorting Hat quiz, he'd be assigned to Slytherin, too. Surprised as I was by the result initially, I've since warmed to it.    5. I, like Hamilton, believe that most people are terrible - i.e.  "[will] always act in their own interests. Seflishly"  - and are therefore incapable of governing themselves. Sorry, guys. Putting my possibly disconcerting spiritual kinship with Hamilton aside for the moment, I really enjoyed Hennessey's account of his life. Contrary to what I expected, the comic book is more history than narrative history, more academic than literary. If you're looking for a dramatization of Hamilton's life à la the musical, look elsewhere. However, I love history, even more as I get older, so not only did the academic tone not bother me, but it also represented a welcome change from the fiction that I usually read. I learned so much that I didn't know about the Revolutionary War, particularly concerning the Caribbean islands' and foreign countries' involvement in it. (Why doesn't that appear on the curriculum, by the way, at least one of the half-dozen times that Americans are taught about the Revolutionary War in school?) Would I read Ron Chernow's famous biography of Hamilton, or another non-fiction book about him? Perhaps not, but I'm glad I read Hennessey's graphic history. Although I confess that I paid little attention to Justin Greenwood's illustrations, I remember them as detailed and striking, with just enough color to pop. The art made the history easier to envision, and what readers can envision, they can comprehend. My only complaint would be the weird, unexplained blue man who kept intruding in the history. I'm all for subtlety, but I need to know what the hell that thing was supposed to be. I know he was a symbol - for humankind, I'm guessing, although I could also argue for interpreting him as a dead Hamilton or the spirit of the United States - but it's unclear for what, and regardless, the use of symbolism just doesn't match the realistic style of the rest of the comic. I don't have much else in the way of a review, but here are some random thoughts I had while reading that I hope you'll find humorous: *Seriously? You can get a personal letter recounting the events following a hurricane published in a local paper? And not only that, but a letter that, I'm sorry, wasn't even that impressively written. I want to live in this time period. And not be a woman. Or die of malaria or yellow fever. Actually, never mind. *I know I'm not the first to pose this question, but why, of all of the founding fathers, did Lin-Manuel Miranda choose Hamilton as the subject of his musical, and why has the public response to the musical so incontrovertibly justified his decision? Is it because Hamilton started as a poor orphan and Americans, in particular, have a fondness for underdog stories? *In the interest of privacy, I won't specify the city, but Hamilton lived and studied in my hometown! More importantly, I never knew that and was never taught that in public school either. (On a related note, when Aaron Burr mentioned that he was an alumnus of "the College of New Jersey," I got excited, until I recalled that Princeton once used that moniker.) *Hennessey writes that Boston Harbor "stank for days" after the Boston Tea Party. Not so notable nowadays, when all harbors stink always. *I love General Charles Lee's gentlemanly insult toward Washington prior to dueling with Colonel John Laurens: "It is true I have shared with my friends and acquaintances my opinion of General Washington's inferior military character. And I attest that I shall perhaps do so again." Um, oh no he didn't? *I'm sad, though not surprised, that Hamilton's and Laurens's belief that "negroes' natural faculties are probably as good as [white people's]" was progressive compared to their peers'. “PROBABLY”??? *Is it bad that, in addition to identifying with Hamilton's pessimistic view of humanity, I relate to the sentiment in Hamilton's letter to Laurens? "I hate the army. I hate the world. I hate myself. The whole is a mass of fools and knaves." Man, do I know that feel. I googled the quote and it concludes with, "I could almost except you and Meade," which is even more appropriate, because we all have that one friend whom we assure that we don't hate when we're venting to them about how much we hate everyone and everything. *Hennessey notes that, in un-seating Hamilton's father-in-law in the New York Senate, Aaron Burr "earned a permanent spot on Hamilton's to-do list." Perhaps I'm immature, but my immediate thought was, “OH, BABY!” and even though, weeks after finishing this comic, I can finally read that line without tittering, I still think it's unnecessarily homoerotic. (But if anyone can recommend any good HamiltonxBurr stories - pre-duel, of course, and I wouldn’t consider them fanfics, as they focus on real people - you'll have a permanent spot on my to-do list. I'll stop.) *Learning more about the Revolutionary War has only further validated my belief that, patriotism be damned, the war amounted to a lot of drama over inconsequential grievances. Representation or not, the taxes weren't that high or that unreasonable - in fact, taxes rose post-war, under the US national government, because the US accrued so much debt during the war - but because some colonists resented being told what to do, they had to declare independence. Really, had the Founding Fathers not been a bunch of stubborn, entitled babies, we might still be under the rule of Parliament and the Queen. An understandably scary thought for most Americans, considering that we’ve been indoctrinated since birth to value independence above all else, but keep in mind that we wouldn’t have Trump as president if we were still under British rule. ...On that depressing note, if you're looking for a thought-provoking read midway between history and fiction that both educates and entertains, I'd highly recommend Hennessey's and Greenwood's Alexander Hamilton: The Graphic History of an American Founding Father. It may not be a substitute for the musical, but books are more affordable than Broadway tickets.         

[thelonelyrdr-blog]

Thoughts on Tuesday Nights in 1980

As is the case for most readers, I assume, the cover of a book draws me in, but the cover copy decides whether or not I'll read the book. Thus, as soon as Tuesday Nights in 1980's cover copy compared it to Jennifer Egan’s A Visit from the Goon Squad, I inwardly groaned, and, had I not received my copy free through YPG's Little Big Mouth program, I would have put the book down right then. I can’t stand stories where the POV characters' narratives are removed from one another only to intersect due to the contrivances of "fate" (i.e. the author). Which is why, although I know that it's among many people's favorite Christmas movies, I really disliked Love Actually, even more so than A Visit from the Goon Squad. However, as previously mentioned (here and here), with free books, I'm not picky. So I dove in, and considering how much I ended up loving this book - it may be one of my favorites of the year, if not of all-time - I'm thinking that in the future I shouldn't judge a book by its cover or by its cover copy. (But then how will I choose which books to read, you ask? Solution: just read everything.) I can best convey the experience of reading this book as follows: Eyes: Glazing over every time this motif recurred. Tearing up when the characters were at their most desperate. Ears: Distantly aware of the praise that will undoubtedly be heaped upon this debut novel and its author for her experimental writing techniques. Mouth: Opening in awe of the author's talent at times and yawning at others. Silently screaming at Lucy, whom I found insufferable for all of the reasons that Engales ultimately did, even if it is believable for the youngest character to be naive and idealistic and dependent on others to define her:   Face: Turning the pages frantically, sometimes prematurely, to find out what would happen next. Then, as I neared the end, turning pages more slowly to prolong reading the book. Heart: The same one beating in the chests of all of the POV characters. The same one bleeding onto the page through the author's pen. Kind of a cool method of reviewing a book, right? Now imagine that I used this technique three or four more times during this review. Would it still be cool? Then again, if Prentiss intended her writing itself to imitate art, then her repeated anatomical deconstruction of scenes is appropriate regardless of its subjective appeal: like art, these passages are, at their worst, obtuse and pretentious, but at their best, they're evocative and alive with meaning and sensation. Most of the time, I adored the writing in this book, pausing to savor lines and mark their pages for later reference. Other times, the writing struck me as tedious and trying too hard. But the former instances surpassed the latter in frequency, and even when Prentiss's writing frustrated me, I always, always admired the effort and artistic ingenuity it displayed. Aside from the writing, my favorite aspect of this story was its characters, as they read not so much as characters as they did people with lives and histories. The interview with Prentiss included in the back of the book revealed that it took her seven years to write Tuesday Nights in 1980, and that in that time, each character underwent several evolutions. I might've guessed the length of Prentiss's writing journey by how intimately she seems to know her characters. I might've guessed it by how well she portrays their sadness too. Authors - and lowly writers like me - like to joke about the cruelty we inflict on our characters, but often I come away from a book with a sense that its author has tortured the characters merely because tragedy is more realistic and yet more literary than happiness. Not Prentiss though: she breaks her characters to great effect. I reveled in their brokenness. Had she made less bleak narrative choices, the book would not have been as powerful. (What's with everyone in this book not feeling like eating when they're sad though? Could there not have been at least one character who gained rather than lost weight due to depression and loneliness? Or perhaps that's not how "beautiful" people grieve.) Of all of the characters, none is more miserable than the setting, which, yes, is itself a character. Through her sensuous, affecting descriptions of New York City, Prentiss captures everything I love and hate about the place. If sometimes these descriptions tire or overwhelm, then this mirrors the sensory overload characteristic of the city. The below line, in particular, resonates with my image of New York City: It was then, on his very first day, that he knew he had found his place in New York, a place for the deranged and wrecked and bold, a place where pity couldn't exist if it wanted to because there would have to be too much of it. That is exactly how I feel when, every morning as I'm trekking to work from Penn Station, I avert my eyes from the numerous homeless people lining the sidewalks. I wonder, then, if I'm the only one purposefully ignoring them (and my conscience), if my fellow pedestrians no longer notice them at all. Each time I swallow my pity, choke it down until it settles uncomfortably yet harmlessly in the pit of my stomach, I think, "I couldn't give change to all of them, even if I wanted to." The same is true of emotional currency: there is a limit to how much sadness, how much sympathy, a person can feel and still have it be useful to the people to whom it's extended.   Don't misunderstand me: I'm not sharing this experience because I want anyone to feel sorry for me. I'm merely trying to illustrate, through this example, how profoundly I connected with Prentiss's portrayal of New York City and its inhabitants.  Perhaps that's the root of why this novel was more enjoyable for me than the structurally similar A Visit from the Goon Squad: unlike the latter, Tuesday Nights in 1980 is about poor, hopeless people. My people. The people I am and am surrounded by every day. People who have earned their sadness and thus can wear it more credibly than Egan’s white middle- and upper-class characters .       How much I liked it aside, this book has also helped me begin to overcome my writer's block. I probably sound like I'm full of crap, especially because I'm posting this review a week late, but hear me out. When, toward the end of the novel, James decides that it's worth writing merely because he can and Engales can no longer paint, I lingered on that sentiment for a long time. Strangely, I'd never thought of the act of creating from the perspective of someone who'd lost the ability to create. The tragedy of Engales's accident persuaded me like no other purely intellectual argument ever had that I should write as much as I can while I can, even if what I'm writing is complete and utter garbage, as I often deem it. Not only is there inherent value in the act of creating, but hey, I might be dead tomorrow! Barring my sudden and untimely death, I might grow old and get dementia; I might be young and get dementia. I might go blind, develop arthritis, lose a hand, and in any of these instances, how I wrote, if I still managed to write, would irrevocably change. Thus, I want to take full advantage of being able-minded and -bodied, because writing time is not infinite. (And to address the late blog post, despite what fiction would have us believe, revelations don't inspire immediate change: overcoming writer's block in order to write more consistently will be a slow process for me, for sure, but it's one that I'm committed to undergoing in a way that I wasn't before.)   Reading time isn't infinite either, which is why I rarely reread books anymore, but Tuesday Nights in 1980 is one book that I strongly believe would improve upon rereading. I mentioned in a previous blog post that I dislike it when I can visualize an author's notes while reading, but Prentiss is such a master at concealing hers that I think it might be fun to go back and try to reconstruct them with the novel’s resolution in mind. Aspects of the plot are somewhat predictable, but they didn't feel predictable while I was reading, which is what matters. In conclusion, read this book, and, if you're both a reader and a writer like me, cry because you can never write anything as true or as beautiful as just one line from this novel. Then be like me and James and try anyway.  

[thelonelyrdr-blog]

Thoughts on the Heroes of Olympus series (Part 3)

(The ending is somewhat spoiled in this one, so if that bugs you, read with caution.)                      Apparently, yesterday was Percy Jackson's birthday. So he's a Leo. Makes sense, I thought, and set to integrating this piece of trivia with my mental image of Percy, but then I realized that I already knew it from the following exchange in The Blood of Olympus: "Like the zodiac sign?" Percy asked. "I'm a Leo." "No, stupid," Leo said, "I'm a Leo. You're a Percy." The bad puns in this series are so real, guys. Anyway, given that it was Percy's birthday, it would've been neat if I could've posted this review yesterday, but alas, I just didn't have the energy after work. But hey, my lateness won't stop me from tagging this post with #happybirthdaypercy in a shameless attempt to increase my readership. Happy Birthday, Percy! I know you won't mind my using your birthday as a marketing tool.   The Blood of Olympus  Reyna and Nico are by far my favorite parts of this book, both separately and as a pair, but especially as a pair. Both are characters with deeply traumatic pasts who feel a respect and kinship for one another that eventually evolve into familial affection. Hazel may be Nico’s sister in name, but Reyna seems closer to filling Bianca’s role as big sister to Nico: whereas, historically, Nico has had to protect and guide Hazel, Reyna is someone who will not only do the same for him, but who will also worry for him. She has the magical ability to literally empathize with his need, as a boy who has lost a mother and an older sister, to feel cared for and considered, and is therefore uniquely qualified to respond to it. Nico’s bonds with both Reyna and Hazel, though, are beautiful.  As for Reyna herself, as much as I love all of the female characters in both this series and the original, in my estimation, she's the best, simply by virtue of being the most complex. Riordan's skill with developing characters through their internal struggles shines in Reyna's chapters. Let's not kid ourselves like the other characters do: she killed her father, even if it was in self-defense and even if he'd degenerated into a mania, giving her what is certainly the darkest backstory of any character in this series and probably of any character in any middle-grade series ever. I'm surprised that the publisher didn't insist on cutting the murder, though Riordan does gloss over its moral ambiguity somewhat. Nico's pretty terrifying in that one scene, too, and in his case, Reyna and Coach Hedge fully acknowledge the immorality of his actions. You all know the scene I'm referring to, or will if and when you read this book. Can I get some Dark!PercyxDark!Nico fanfics in addition to the Dark!Percy ones I already tried to commission in my previous blog post? (Oh, and if you're wondering about my thoughts on Reyna's sexuality, as I know many have imagined her as gay or bisexual, I personally ship her with herself regardless of her sexual preferences. To be clear, I have nothing against either interpretation of her character, but I got a little disenchanted with every character being or wanting to be in a serious romantic relationship as the series progressed. There are single teenagers, you know. I was one of them.) Before I conclude my discussion of Nico and Reyna, though, I have to mention the scene where Nico finally confesses to Percy that he once had a crush on him. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one cheering for him and wishing that I could be that cool while simultaneously laughing at Percy’s confusion and Annabeth’s amusement. And oh man, that high five between Annabeth and Nico. Perfect.  But it's time that I commented on Leo’s happy ending, in which he fulfills his role in the prophecy by dying (but not really) and keeping his oath to Calypso to free her from Ogygia.  Their whole relationship is comprised of moments of subtle tenderness, but the line in the last chapter that struck me most was:  “Leo Valdez,” she said. Nothing else - just his name, as if it were something magical.  I fangirled when I read that line, and the entire last chapter, for two reasons. The first is that, no matter how I try to deny the tendency in myself, I’m a hopeless romantic (yes, I’m a hopeless romantic who doesn’t read straight romance and who wants to see more single characters in middle-grade and YA novels. Everyone has their contradictions) who was invested in this couple from the start. However, the second reason pertains to Leo’s character. He’s the “seventh” wheel of the group, who’s spent the whole series doubting his own merits and developing crushes on girls who either take no interest in him or take no interest in him and seem interested in one of his friends instead. To be fair, one of these girls is a villain anyway, but her rejection still validates Leo’s insecurities. Even Calypso herself has a history with another of the Seven (Percy) and initially reacts to Leo's arrival on Ogygia as though it were a cruel joke of the gods'. The fact that the other characters largely disregard Leo - even I've ignored him until now, ironically, despite how hilarious I found his dialogue and narration - is what makes Riordan’s positioning him as the hero of the series so emotionally and narratively satisfying. He forms a plan to defeat Gaea without even consulting the others (might it be said that his inherited tendency to work independently and in isolation, which he and dad Hephaestus both perceive as a flaw, is what enables him to save the world?); he breaks Calypso's curse without leaning on the gods or on Percy's bargain with them. He goes from being the most overlooked of the Seven to someone whose very name inspires awe (and you can't tell me that Calypso's awe results solely from romantic feeling - I'm sure that, when she utters that line, she's also thinking of how Leo is the first and only person to manage to free her, to even remember her after leaving Ogygia). His is an underdog story done right. Overall As I hope you've gathered from my individual comments on each book, there's a lot to appreciate in this series: it's by turns light and funny and dark and morally ambiguous; it's smart and subtly overturns stereotypes and prejudices; and, perhaps most importantly, it's full of likable, relatable characters who feel distinct and real. It's self-aware too: as in the original series, Riordan raises the question - here, most notably in Arachne's version of her myth - of whether the gods are truly good or merely better than the alternatives of Gaea and the Titans; whether theirs is the side the demi-gods would willingly choose or merely the one they happen to be on because of their parentage. It's not often in children's adventure stories that the heroes consider that the villains may have a valid moral point, and beyond that, one that invalidates theirs. Even the last two Harry Potter books don't go as far with humanizing and demonizing Voldemort and Dumbledore, respectively. Unfortunately, the narrative does not adequately answer this question or many of the others that it raises. Take, as another example, Percy's "fatal flaw," loyalty, which I noted in Part 1 of my review never seems to result in negative consequences for either the Seven or the quest, despite being talked up by both gods and monsters throughout the series. Were the repeated warnings about it supposed to be foreshadowing Percy's decision to fall into Tartatus with Annabeth? If so, that makes no sense, as at least one demi-god was needed on each side of the Doors of Death, anyway, and Percy and Annabeth were obviously more successful as a team than either would've been alone. Or, as is more likely, was Percy's "fatal flaw" part of a larger plot thread that was dropped due to time and space constraints? But if that's the case, then why couldn't the first two books in the series have been condensed into one, or the series extended to include six or seven books? Surprisingly, considering how tightly plotted the original series was, the plot in this series fizzles to near nonexistence by the end of The Blood of Olympus, the tension building inconsistently as the climax approaches. Compared to the final battle in The Last Olympian, which engrossed me even more than the Battle of Hogwarts did (fellow Harry Potter fans, you don't have to call me a traitor; I assure you, I already feel like one), the stakes in the battle against Gaea and her army seemed the equivalent height of those in a fight involving elementary school children wielding sticks. Riordan's failure to deliver in this respect was especially glaring considering that he'd promised readers not one major battle in The Blood of Olympus, but two. Instead we get a one-on-one fight between Reyna and Orion that feels more internally than externally resonant and forestalls Major Battle #1, the Roman attack on the Greeks, before it even begins; a fight with the earthborn during which no one but Jason is really needed, as he's shown to be tremendously overpowered; and a fight between Leo and Gaea, which should've been Major Battle #2 but which is over within a page or two. The characters reiterate throughout the series how powerful Gaea is and how much more substantial of a threat she is than the Titans, but even the lowest monster in Tartarus was scarier and took longer to defeat. Hell, the Minotaur in The Lightning Thief would've been a worthier opponent for our heroes. The only explanation I can think of for the disappointing finish to this series is, again, that Riordan must have run out of time or space to give readers a proper final battle (though he hinted at two, I would've settled for one). Or possibly steam.   Still, although the series as a whole has a rushed and sloppy quality to it, I would still highly recommend it, both for the reasons listed above and for its resemblance to fanfiction. Yes, sadly, only in fanfiction would I expect to read a continuation of Percy Jackson's story with as many minority as white demi-god protagonists, whose cultures, used respectfully by Riordan, inform rather than define their identities; a gay character who is revealed to be in love with the protagonist of the first series; and an emphasis on female empowerment and the glorification of the feminine. There’s even a character -  arguably the most physically attractive of the Seven, might I add - who discovers that he needs glasses! I was shocked, albeit pleasantly so, to find a published series containing all of these elements, and I'm not even gay or a minority. If you pick up these books for the representation alone, you won't regret it.     But that won’t be necessary: there are a multitude of other fun reasons. 

[thelonelyrdr-blog]

Thoughts on the Heroes of Olympus series (Part 2)

As promised, see below (God, I’ve written way too many work emails) for the continuation of my review of Rick Riordan’s Heroes of Olympus series! (Look out for big, bad SPOILERS!) The House of Hades Ah, the revelation of Nico’s crush on Percy, which was half the reason I wanted to read this series, to be honest, comes at last!  What I enjoyed most about it was Jason’s reaction. Part of the reason that Nico keeps his distance from other people is that he fears that they won’t accept him. As a son of Hades, he has already experienced being ostracized because his differences make others uncomfortable, so why wouldn't he expect the same response to his homosexuality, especially because, as Riodan later points out, he was born in the more socially conservative 1930s?  During Nico's encounter with Cupid, though, Riordan demonstrates both the strength of the young heroes' loyalty to one another and the principle that “love is love" without having to preach. The latter, in particular, becomes evident when Cupid gives Jason the opportunity to feel the agony of Nico's unrequited love for Percy and he immediately understands and empathizes with his pain. Nico's love isn't some foreign emotion merely because he's a teenage boy in love with another boy instead of a girl; Jason gets it, and he gets Nico in a way that he didn't before, leading him to develop an almost big-brother-like protectiveness of him that persists throughout the remainder of the series.   Brilliant, as is Riordan's portrayal of Cupid - and therefore love - as more unfair and unkind even than death. I love (ha) that a character depicted as infantile in our culture is such a harsh adversary here.   Which relates to another point I'd like to make about the characterization of Piper and the other Aphrodite kids.  I want to give so many kudos to Riordan for addressing the monsters' and other demigods' dismissal of the Aphrodite kids in this book. To me, devaluing love and beauty equates with devaluing the feminine, as love and beauty are typically considered feminine. The same can be said of acting according to instinct rather than logic. But Piper saves the day using nothing but heart in not one, but three epic scenes: the one with Jason and Percy in the Nymphaeum in Rome; the one with the Boreads on the Argo II; and, finally, the one with Annabeth at the shrine of Phobos and Deimos in Sparta. The first two gave me chills (the chills may also have been caused by the air conditioning on my train, but I choose to attribute them to Riordan's writing). Even without these scenes, though, Piper proves so incredibly useful to the quest even before Hazel teaches her to fight - hello, her charmspeak, similar to feminine empathy in how it operates - that her contributions completely invalidate any symbolically sexist prejudices against Aphrodite kids. As with Nico's homosexuality, Riordan shows rather than tells the ridiculousness of these prejudices; and, as with Nico's homosexuality, it is suggested that the other characters' mockery of Piper stems from their fear of her uniqueness, because it makes her powerful. The implication being, of course, that our differences make us unique and therefore powerful. Talk about an inspiring message for kids. Aphrodite makes this suggestion, by the way, and with the exception of maybe Hades, she's the best damn parent of all of the gods. Just saying.         On a related note, I also appreciated the friendships between the girls in this series, particularly the one between Piper and Annabeth. In addition to the fact that there is a dearth of well-executed female friendships in children's (hell, all) literature - both the Harry Potter series and the original Percy Jackson series suffer from this flaw - their friendship is important because it illustrates that both emotion and logic can be vital to decision-making and the successful completion of a task. The above ties in with Riordan’s defense of Aphrodite and the feminine too.   Wrapping up, I feel the need to comment a bit on Percy and Annabeth's journey through Tartarus because 1) I alluded to the fact that I would in my previous blog post and 2) it comprises a significant portion of the book. First, I loved the oppressiveness of the place, and the sense that Percy and Annabeth had that every part of it was designed to kill them and working hard to do so. I wasn't scared for them - the plot armor in this series is impenetrable - but at times I did feel...uncomfortable? Tense or anxious, maybe? My anxiousness was never more intense, though, than when Percy (SPOILERS ahead, for Avatar: The Last Airbender too - not as random as it sounds, I promise) tries to drown Akhlys in her own tears. I'm a huge fan of the dark and gritty in children's media, and this scene delivered. It almost reminded me of the bloodbending episode of Avatar: The Last Airbender, which I consider one of the best, except that unlike Percy, Katara does not feel a rush of pleasure and power while bloodbending. Though she is forced to bloodbend to protect Sokka and Aang from Hama, the act repulses her. Percy, on the other hand, doesn't stop his attack on Akhlys until he perceives Annabeth's terror, and even then, it’s only reluctantly. He doesn't seem all that remorseful for his behavior either. I never fully realized, until this scene, how fragile Percy's status as a hero is, to what extent his goodness hinges on his connection to his friends - Annabeth, most of all - and the impulse control that it affords him. I understood, when I finished reading it, why Percy makes other demigods wary.   As an aside, if anyone knows of any good Dark!Percy fanfics, please feel free to recommend them to me. I'm sick, guys, I know.   So that you don't think the darkness inside of me rivals Percy's, note that my favorite characters in Tartarus were Bob (not Iapetus; they're different) and Damasen. I have a soft spot for redeemed villains, or, in this case, villains who don't want to be villains. They have to be logically written though (Once Upon a Time writers, if you insist on keeping the show on the air, take several notebooks' worth of notes).   I'll conclude here, because I wrote "too much" (i.e. too much for maximum reader engagement, I'm assuming) again. Oops? Stay tuned for The Blood of Olympus and (hopefully) my closing remarks next time!

[thelonelyrdr-blog]

Thoughts on the Heroes of Olympus series (Part 1)

(Warning: The below review is brimming with spoilers.) Before I begin my review of the Heroes of Olympus series, I feel the urge to wax poetic about how gorgeous the covers of Percy Jackson books always are. I’m not an artist, so I can’t get too specific with my reasoning, but the colors and amount of detail in the book jackets above create an outstanding effect. (The artistry doesn’t surprise me, considering that the series is published by Disney Hyperion.)  As for the series itself, I’ve forgotten more thoughts and feelings about it than I’ve had about other books. Therefore, in an attempt at cohesion, I’m going to review the series first by book and then as a whole.  The Lost Hero The Lost Hero serves its purpose of establishing the villain and principal heroes of the series, but it didn’t grip me. I had to force myself to continue reading at some points, which I never had to do with the original series.  However, the book still contains Riordan’s trademark humor, which I always enjoy(ed), as well as a novel approach to a frustratingly overused trope. In any other book, children’s or adult, when Piper revealed to Jason and Leo that she had been grappling with whether or not to betray them to save her father, they would’ve responded to her confession with anger and distrust. Here, though, they’re...sympathetic? An idealistic reaction, maybe, but also less cliché than the alternative, and what’s so wrong with idealism, anyway, particularly in a children’s adventure story? Their show of support to Piper, their friend, fellow hero, and companion on their quest, is, aside from being damn refreshing, consistent with the emphasis placed on friendship both in this book and throughout the series.  The Son of Neptune I have the least to comment on in The Son of Neptune. Of the five books in the series, it is the least memorable to me, perhaps because it is, admittedly by necessity, a rehash of The Lost Hero, but with Percy in the role of amnesiac instead of Jason. It introduces Camp Jupiter and two more POV characters, Frank and Hazel, but that’s about all that’s significant about it. The Mark of Athena I’ve always appreciated Annabeth’s character for the fact that she’s neither the archetypal intelligent female nor the archetypal female hero. Not only do her interests lie in architecture rather than in the humanities, but her physical strength also certainly does not equal her cerebral strength: although she fights with her dagger occasionally, her wits are her primary weapon, and in The Mark of Athena, perhaps to an even greater extent than in the original series, they prove as effective as, if not more effective than, the other heroes’ more traditional methods of defeating villains. Then, of course, there’s her physical appearance. Annabeth is not a mousy brunette insecure about her looks, like most brainy female characters: she is, in fact, blonde and pretty, which, in addition to challenging the typical media depiction of teenage blondes as vapid, allows her to use it to her advantage in a squeal-inducing scene with Octavian by the dock in South Carolina. I’m sorry, but, spoiler or no, I have to share it: Very slowly, using only two fingers, Annabeth drew her dagger. Instead of dropping it, she tossed it as far as she could into the water. Octavian made a squeaking sound. "What was that for? I didn't say toss it! That could've been evidence. Or spoils of war!" Annabeth tried for a dumb-blonde smile, like: Oh, silly me. Nobody who knew her would have been fooled. But Octavian seemed to buy it. He huffed in exasperation. "You other two..." He pointed his blade at Hazel and Piper. "Put your weapons on the dock. No funny bus--" All around the Romans, Charleston Harbor erupted like a Las Vegas fountain putting on a show. When the wall of seawater subsided, the three Romans were in the bay, spluttering and frantically trying to stay afloat in their armor. Percy stood on the dock, holding Annabeth's dagger. "You dropped this," he said, totally poker-faced.  Annabeth threw her arms around him. “I love you!”  Earlier, we get an equally amazing interpretation of her character, this time from Leo’s POV:  He had no idea where the stereotype of dumb giggly blondes came from. Ever since he'd met Annabeth at the Grand Canyon last winter, when she'd marched toward him with that Give me Percy Jackson or I’ll kill you expression, Leo had thought of blondes as much too smart and much too dangerous.   All I can say is, YES! FINALLY. I literally grinned when I read the above two passages, which is worth mentioning because normally I - like most people who read on their commute, I’d wager - have no visible reaction to what I’m reading. It may have taken until 2012 for someone to challenge the “dumb blonde” stereotype in a meaningful way in children’s literature, but at least it’s been done at last.  The Charleston scene also constitutes one of my favorite interactions between Percy and Annabeth, because it showcases how well they’ve learned to read each other and work as a team, and hints at the reasons why they’re well-matched as a couple. There is some discussion, in this series, of how Percy needs Annabeth to keep him balanced: without her influence, the other characters argue, Percy’s raw, awesome power and tendency toward impulsiveness would become dangerous both to him and to others. I never perceived Percy as needing to be reigned in before, perhaps because the original series was written entirely from his perspective, but this view of his character and his relationship with Annabeth makes sense, given how powerful he really is: remember, Percy is a son of one of the Big Three, who so impressed the gods in The Last Olympian that they offered him a place among them. (Aside from being logical and adding depth to his character and his relationship with Annabeth, the other characters’ concerns about Percy also serve to lightly foreshadow a rather dark scene in The House of Hades. More on that scene later.)  The last comment I have about this book is: oh man, that cliffhanger! It takes a lot for a book, movie, or TV show to surprise me - ask my ex-boyfriend: I predicted most of the plot twists in Gravity Falls with only minor hints and without even actively trying - but this one surprised me for some reason. I’m not sure why, what with Percy and Annabeth constantly vowing not to be separated again and Percy’s “fatal flaw” (which never ends up being fatal, either to a hero or a quest, but I digress) of being unwilling to abandon his friends even when it would be the more practical choice, but I just never would’ve expected Percy and Annabeth to fall into Tartatus together. I expected Annabeth to succeed in convincing Percy to let her fall, which would lead to him spending the next book annoying the rest of the group with his determination to rescue her even in instances where his goal conflicted with the main quest. Though, in retrospect, the above outcome is inconsistent with his character, it would have happened that way in most other stories. I liked the alternative much, much better. Reading over what I’ve written, it occurs to me that this review is already my longest yet and it’s only half-finished. With that in mind, I’m going to stop here and resume with The House of Hades in my next blog post.  Stay tuned! 

[thelonelyrdr-blog]

Thoughts on Little Fires Everywhere

Although I immediately adored the title, I wasn’t expecting to enjoy Little Fires Everywhere. Despite the glowing review my co-worker gave it and the fact that I’d seen Celeste Ng’s first novel, Everything I Never Told You, on bestseller lists and prominently displayed at Barnes and Noble, after reading the cover copy for this book, my initial assessment was that it wasn’t for me. Sure, I’d read and enjoyed A Casual Vacancy, but that book was written by one of my idols, J.K. Rowling, as well as being set in a town in England, which meant that, as a Harry Potter fanatic and anglophile, I forgave the novel’s insular focus more easily than I’m typically willing to with thematically similar novels. However, having received an ARC of Little Fires Everywhere free from Penguin Press through YPG’s Little Big Mouth program, I decided that it couldn’t hurt to give it a chance. So, persuaded by a poor - or shall we say, “monetarily challenged”? - girl’s desire to take full advantage of free books and the praise I’d heard directed at both the author and this particular book, I set to reading. The characters are for sure this novel’s principal strength: though not all likable, even those I identified as archetypes proved themselves nuanced, real, and accessible. Ng as omniscient narrator reiterates often that the characters fail to understand each other’s behavior because they lack the intimate knowledge of each other that she and the reader share. Far from intrusive, I thought that this was a brilliant narrative device, really intensifying the voyeuristic effect of reading any novel that explores the inner lives of its characters (or any novel, period) - and, of course, their scandalous secrets, because those abound in these novels. Hands-down my favorite scandal in this book was the one involving Mia’s Chinese co-worker, Mrs. Richardson’s white childhood friend, and the baby with two names who connected their lives briefly. (To be clear, I wrote that sentence as intentionally vague to avoid spoiling too much of the plotline.) In particular, I appreciated the author’s fair handling of the court case these characters participated in: not only did I understand both sides of the May Ling/Mirabelle argument, but I empathized with both Bebe’s and Mrs. McCullough’s positions. While I, like the other characters in the novel, had a definitive opinion about which side should win, I could see no outcome to the case that wouldn’t leave me feeling sorry for the loser, which testifies to Ng’s impressive character-rendering abilities.       Ng also uses the court case to advocate for diversity in books and toys for children. Being white, I hadn’t thought much about this issue until the Multicultural Lit course I took in college, and apparently, I’m not as sensitive to it as I try to be now, either, because it didn’t even occur to me while reading this part of the book that Celeste Ng may have been writing from her own childhood experience of not encountering dolls or characters in books that resembled her. Embarrassingly, I forgot that the author was of Chinese descent. And trust me, it was not lost on me that I have the privilege of being able to forget: that I don’t have to consider the race or ethnicity of authors I’m reading, and indeed, that I’ve never had to. Growing up, I read a lot of white female authors. In school, this wasn’t always the case, but in my leisure reading, I found role models in white women writers like Beverly Cleary, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and Ann M. Martin. Dolls looked, if not exactly like me, then at least close enough. Interestingly, though, I never found a doll with glasses, with the exception of my American Girl doll, Molly, and I remember thinking that she looked prettier without them. On top of that, characters with glasses tended to be smart, like people always insisted that I was, and as a little girl, I cared more about being pretty than smart. At times the stereotype even caused me to doubt my intelligence, because what if people only thought I was smart because I wore glasses and they associated glasses with intelligence?  So yes, representation is important, and I applaud Ng for addressing the issue in her novel. We need dolls and characters with glasses, freckles, and acne, who are fat, and who are single, and who are disabled. First, though, we need them to be black and Hispanic and Asian; LGBTQ; Muslim. The tragedy is that it’s 2017 and we’re still asking, still waiting for the request to be honored.  Moving on (but continuing to wait), the novel is expertly plotted and paced. While I will admit that it took me some time to become engaged in the plot, I’d chalk that up to my personal preferences and biases against books in this genre rather than flawed pacing. Once Ng hooked me with her smooth prose and aforementioned skillful narrative weaving, she didn’t release me. This is the kind of book that writers and aspiring writers read to admire and learn from the author’s craftsmanship. Not a single scene or line of dialogue is unnecessary or misplaced. I have but one very specific, very spoiler-y complaint. Stop reading here if even minor spoilers ruin books for you.   I found it a bit contrived that Mrs. Richardson was able to peek at the clinic’s patient list because her friend Liz was called out of her office. Although I suppose she was needed elsewhere and it wouldn’t have crossed her mind that Mrs. Richardson would go as far as to invade her privacy by using her computer, these justifications seem rather flimsy. Considering how determined Liz was to prevent Mrs. Richardson from seeing the list, I would’ve expected her to shoo Mrs. Richardson out of the office when she left (yes, I I know they had plans to go to lunch together, but Mrs. Richardson could’ve waited in the waiting room of the clinic or even in the lobby of the building!). Barring that, she could’ve at least locked her computer (could you do that in the 90s? Maybe not). I think the scene would’ve worked better and been more believable if Liz had purposely allowed Mrs. Richardson to see the list while making it seem like an accident. Is that what she did unconsciously, perhaps? Regardless, the whole scenario reminded me that I was reading a book, and I don’t like it when that happens; I don’t like it when I, a writer myself, can visualize another writer’s notes.         Really, though, I have very little to complain about with this novel. I read it and was more than satisfied with what I’d read. Will I go out of my way to read another novel centering on a small town? Probably not - I think two is enough for now - but I still enjoyed this one.   (Little Fires Everywhere is due out from Penguin Press on September 12.) 

[thelonelyrdr-blog]

Thoughts on Never Let Me Go

(Warning: This review contains spoilers.) I read this book almost a year ago, so this is going to be a slightly shorter and more fumbling review than my usual. I could have skipped reviewing it entirely, of course, but I had notes and a reader report, written when applying for a literary agency internship last summer, that I didn’t want to go to waste. Never Let Me Go can best be classified as literary dystopia, which is the genre that I’ve spent the most time with since graduating college. However, it differs from other novels in the genre in one important aspect, which I’ll explain later. First, though, here’s a brief summary of the novel (I don’t typically do summaries in these reviews, either, but the bizarre plot of the novel necessitates it): In the world of Ishiguro's novel, human clones have their organs harvested one at a time until they die. The main character, Kathy, is a clone raised and educated at Hailsham, an elite boarding school in the English countryside. Now, with an adult Kathy's time as a "donor" approaching, she reflects on the blissful ignorance that characterized her childhood and reminisces about loving and ultimately losing her school friends to their shared fate. If that description doesn’t bowl you over, I have one question for you: do you enjoy black coffee? Now, if that description does, in fact, shock and intrigue you, you might be surprised to learn how quiet this novel is. Unlike most dystopias, in which complacency in the protagonist(s) exists only as a precursor to unrest, the characters in this novel never truly rebel against the system. In fact, aside from one lapse in acceptance toward the novel’s end, all of them are more or less okay with, or at least resigned to, their role in society. Less engaging and dramatically satisfying though this approach to the dystopia genre may be, it is more realistic, and more alarming as a result: after all, for every radical throughout history who refused to submit, there were millions more who did. Quiet, though, also means that Ishiguro reveals his hook gradually, attempting to distract readers from it with...teenage drama.  And judging from reviews, people got bored: complaints abound about Kathy’s tendency to go off on tangents and pinpoint mundane details about her school days. I’m torn because although her reminiscing helps to develop her world and her character, it does stall the progression of the plot considerably. I formed a vague idea, while reading, that Ishiguro’s focus on the politics of the cliques at Hailsham may serve a similar purpose to Madame’s collecting the students’ artwork. Both Kathy’s style of narrating and the artwork testify to us, the “normal” readers and their “normal” counterparts in the novel, that these clones have souls: products of science or not, they think, speak, and behave like any other schoolchildren. Unfortunately, I never got the chance to expand on this idea or search for textual evidence to validate it, but I still think it’s a neat theory. Though I’ll admit that I found it tedious to read at times, Ishiguro's writing is atmospheric and lovely: his descriptions of Hailsham immersed me so thoroughly in Kathy's childhood that I felt as though I had lived it. Kathy's conversational tone adds to the immersive quality of the novel, as well, making her story accessible. The concept of using clones as organ factories is not only intriguing, but also topical, considering the current ethical debates surrounding cloning and stem cell research.

The lack of world-building - relating to society at large, not Hailsham - in this novel bothered me, however. Ishiguro gives almost no background on the scientific advancements that made it possible for the clones to exist and fulfill their function. Vital organs are "vital" for a reason: how a clone can live without even one of them is never explained. Although Ishiguro is clearly concerned with the morality rather than the science behind the organ donations, his failure to even attempt to ground his dystopia in scientific reality is frustrating.           As intriguing and immersive as this novel is, if you’re someone who doesn’t read much literary fiction, i would skip it. You’ll likely find it a boring, frustrating read due to its slow pace and lack of a clear focus on world-building and the dystopian elements of the plot. And really, although I did enjoy this novel overall, I wouldn’t blame you.

[thelonelyrdr-blog]

Thoughts on The Map That Leads to You

Before I begin this review, I should tell you that I don’t read romance novels. Sure, I read some Nicholas Sparks when I was a teenager, but since then the only romance novels I’ve read have been research for editorial assistant jobs I’ve applied for in romance imprints. I like a good love story as much as the next person, but only if it’s relegated to a side plot: if it’s the focus of a novel, I tend to get bored.  I only read this one because 1) I got an ARC of it free through YPG’S Little Big Mouth program (free ARCs were half the reason I wanted to work in publishing, to be honest) and 2) I had just finished Rick Riordan’s five-book, three-thousand-page Heroes of Olympus series and wanted to take a break with a quick, light read, and romance novels are the quintessential quick, light read. Surprisingly, I enjoyed this one, even breaking out of my pattern of only reading during my morning commute in order to finish it faster. Although, as I expected, the ordinary-but-presented-as-extraordinary romance didn’t grip me, the exquisite descriptions of Europe did. Yup, the narrator’s accounts of her travels heightened my wanderlust - already more acute in the summer, when everyone but I seems to be departing on a vacation - in a big way. I’m glad that the map that led Heather and Jack to each other spanned the Netherlands, Germany, Poland, Switzerland, Italy, France, and Bulgaria. In fact, I wish the map to my soulmate, or to anyone or anywhere, really, would lead me through even one of those places. (So that you don’t think I’m totally devoid of romantic feeling, though, I will admit that it occurred to me, while reading, how a salt-mine-turned-work-of-art, a moonlit boat ride, and a bag of freshly baked pastries, eaten while strolling through still, quiet streets after waking from a snooze in a bed of hay, might be more enchanting when experienced with my hand folded into a lover’s and his warmth beside me.) In defense of the romance between Jack and Heather, I will say that it progressed as realistically as it could have given the constraints of the plot. They fell for each other quickly, but not immediately, their love story logically and emotionally satisfying. High praise coming from me, considering that my biggest issue with genre romances is that they lack realism and emotional authenticity. Sure, sometimes Jack and Heather talk more like characters in a Hemingway novel than they do real people - Heather does worship Hemingway, so I guess that makes sense? - but they also occasionally engage in flirty, witty banter in the same spirit as conversations I had with my ex-boyfriend during our relationship, so I’ll give the author some credit. I’m providing the below exchange as an example: J: You frozen? H: A little. J. Why are women always cold? H: Because we wear things that boys can look down. J: True. And we are grateful.          At times the excessive wit, literary allusions, and running jokes in these conversations became just a tad obnoxious for me, but anyway, they were better than the fluff, and as I’m sure you can tell, I’m also, at (all) times, extremely picky when evaluating romance novels. Hey, romance is a genre written and marketed exclusively to my gender, and if I’m going to allow myself to be manipulated into reading it, it’s gotta be worth it.  This book was good but not great, but yes, I do think it was worth the read, even if I had “Following the map that leads to you,” a line from the song “Maps” by Maroon 5, which played incessantly when I worked in retail, stuck in my head during and for days after I finished reading it. There’s a lot to appreciate in this novel: the pretty, evocative prose; the neatly structured plot; and most notably, the last third of the novel, which I think is stronger for the fact that (SPOILER, except not really, because it follows romance protocol) it doesn’t include Jack. Without Jack hogging all of the narrative space, Heather’s relationships with her two best friends and her parents have room to shine, as do their and Heather’s personalities, though Heather is still largely bland and underdeveloped, as female protagonists in romance novels are wont to be. Regardless, she seemed a little more fleshed out in Jack’s absence, and her observations about being a young, single woman in New York - who has settled into a job but is still constantly in transit, and who works hard but works even harder at taking advantage of every opportunity the city has to offer, because she’s contained all of her loneliness and self-doubt in her still moments - felt particularly poignant and relevant to me. I’ll also never look at riding the subway the same way again, thanks to this passage:  So you hustle to the nearest subway entrance, go down into the cave, a mythological creature Constance would be able to identify [...] The subway station smells like panting, you’ve always thought, like the lair of some awful creature whose breath, year after year, painted the walls until no other smell could find a purchase.  I mean, damn. Why did the author switch to second person for this chapter though? It happens a few times - within a chapter, once or twice, which I’m sure was intentional but struck me as sloppy writing anyway - and I really don’t understand the purpose.  Something else that I understood the purpose of, but still didn’t like, was Heather’s response of “Fuck my job” when one of her best friends, Amy, questioned her decision to extend her trip to Europe so that she could search for Jack at the end of the novel. I get that her out-of-character shirking of her responsibilities in order to prioritize finding Jack is supposed to be romantic, but hey, you privileged bitch, I would kill to have your salary and benefits, and it would’ve taken, what, five minutes for you to call or send an email to your boss at Bank of America stating an intention to remain in Europe longer due to unforeseen circumstances? Maybe this happens off-screen; I don’t know. If it does, though, it’s deliberately not shown to readers, and I think that’s because the author felt that it would somehow cheapen the romance. I’m not entirely sure why, although I can guess, but for me, Heather’s chasing after the man she loves is just as romantic without her stupidly and unnecessarily jeopardizing her career to do it. Then again, maybe I’m an outlier. I am definitely not the target audience for these novels, that’s for sure.  That one line - “Fuck my job” - bugged me even more because what I appreciated most about Heather was her unwillingness to let meeting Jack derail her life and her plans for the future. And Amy for some reason just allows this comment to pass, like, “Welp, she used profanity; there’s no arguing with that,” instead of slapping her, like I and all real best friends would do in her situation. What the hell? I thought Amy was the tough one in Heather’s trio of friends.  That and my other small gripes aside, I found this book a pleasant read, and it served its purpose of giving me a break after I’d completed a long series, as well as the much larger purpose that books have of providing readers with an escape.  Now added to my bucket list: taking a night train somewhere in Europe and falling in love...with the experience. I am not quitting my job, and no more long-distance relationships for me, my friend.  

[thelonelyrdr-blog]

Thoughts on Vampires in the Lemon Grove

(Warning: The following review contains spoilers - and some mild literary analysis.) I don't usually read short stories, mostly because, despite studying short stories in one of my two college capstone courses and serving as a first-pass judge in a short story contest last summer, I don't really "get" them. To be honest, I only settled for that capstone because there were no seats left in the fairy tale capstone, much like how I settled for being a judge in Philadelphia Stories' annual short story competition when I couldn't get an internship with them. I docked points from most of the stories with ambiguous endings, declaring their resolutions "unsatisfying," when in reality I probably just didn't understand them. To my credit, though, one of the stories that I reviewed favorably, "49 Seconds in the Box," did go on to win third place in the competition. However, I wouldn't recommend reading it if you've ever had a dog, or if you've ever even met a dog in your lifetime. Consider yourself warned. Getting back on topic, although I don't usually read short stories, I bought Karen Russell's short story collection, Vampires in the Lemon Grove, because its title caught my attention amidst the seemingly endless (web) pages of "buy 2, get the 3rd free" paperbacks on bn.com. (The other two books I purchased as part of that deal were Tell the Wolves I'm Home [see previous review] and Never Let Me Go [I'm reading it now, so stay tuned for a review!].) As an afterthought, I also considered that it might be good to read outside of my comfort zone. Expand my horizons and all that. I'm glad that I did. According to author Alena Graedon's guest editorial review on Amazon, the stories in Russell's collection are linked by the theme of metamorphosis. I didn't think about that while reading, but in retrospect, I'm not sure how I could've missed it. Human-silkworm hybrids, presidents reincarnated as horses, and a bullied boy returning as a scarecrow to haunt his tormentors are just a few of my favorite examples of inhuman human characters who undergo transformations in this book. Ironically, the titular story, "Vampires in the Lemon Grove," which inspired me to read the book in the first place, is probably one of the weakest in the collection, though I appreciated Russell's unique take on vampires and marriage between immortals; in particular, I liked the incongruity of supernatural characters dealing with a mundane human problem like a slowly dissolving marriage. (Imagine the irony in being immortal and realizing that the spark has gone out of your marriage because you and your partner have grown apart as you've "aged")! I can't forget Russell's hilarious one-line parody of old horror movies either ("'Help! ' she screams to a sky full of crows. 'He's not actually from Europe!'"). Unfortunately, as cleverly as Russell used her vampires, vampires appear so often in media that nothing she did with them would've surprised me. I predicted the direction the story would take early on, and as a result, the rest of it had no narrative urgency for me. "Dougbert Shackleton's Rules for Antarctic Tailgating" suffers from a lack of narrative urgency, too, perhaps because it has no narrative: it is, as the title would suggest, a list of rules rather than a story with a plot following traditional dramatic structure. I also didn't really care for "Proving Up," but then again, I'm biased against macabre short stories. (My distaste for the macabre doesn't extend to novels, though, or to anything written by Poe. Fun fact: the other capstone course I took in college focused on gothic literature, and my final paper for that class compared the use of the literary double in Poe's "William Wilson" and  Stevenson's The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Needless to say, I love me some Poe.)  Now that I've touched on what didn't work for me in this collection, let's talk about what did. My favorite aspect of these stories was their refreshing originality. Each story had its own unique conceit, setting, and voice, which probably accounted for my not noticing any interconnecting themes while reading. The stories I liked best were the ones I cited earlier as exemplifying the metamorphosis theme. Without completely spoiling them (I hope), I'll hint at what struck me most about each of them. With "Reeling for the Empire," it was the narrator, who differed from her companions in having freely relinquished her freedom rather than having it stolen from her, exhibiting a strength that later allowed her to reclaim her life and her identity in an empowering final scene.  A murder has never made me so gleeful. The story ended with just the right level of ambiguity, too: it felt emotionally and logically satisfying while still leaving me pondering where the narrator and her comrades would go and whether there were others like them elsewhere in Japan (or in the world). "The Barn at the End of Our Term" I liked for the absurdity of its premise, its humorous dialogue, and its strangely uplifting ending. I applaud Russell for making me cheer for a president I still know nothing about other than what few details of his life she reveals in the story. Which brings me to why I was so impressed with "The Graveless Doll of Eric Mutis": it actually made me empathize with a bully, and not just any bully, but a bully whose callous actions made my heart hurt and my lips tremble for his victim. Russell sure knows how to write a complex character. Her portrayal of adolescent male friendships seemed realistic, as well, although I’m probably not the right person to make that call, considering that I’ve never been an adolescent male. As thought-provoking as it is emotionally unsettling, this story constituted the perfect conclusion to Russell’s collection, though its individual conclusion was a bit too open-ended for my literal, poetry- and short story-shunning mind. Although it was not one of my favorite stories in the collection, I must also give credit to "The Seagull Army Descends on Strong Beach, 1979"  for summarizing adolescence in one sentence: "That summer Nal was fourteen and looking for excuses to have extreme feelings about himself." ...Yeah, pretty much. In the interest of thoroughness, I suppose that I should also mention the one story that I've neglected, "The New Veterans," which is notable for suggesting that there is something selfish in the desire to help others - in particular, in the desire to empathize with others' pain. I'm not sure I agree with that viewpoint, but it's an interesting one to consider nonetheless. Yes, as a writer who struggles with coming up with viable story ideas, I was definitely impressed with Russell's versatile imagination. However, although the stories' hooks...well, hooked me, Russell's writing kept me on the line. Simply put, she writes like a woman in love with writing. Like the kind of writer I aspire to be. Her prose sings. I vaguely recall from my short story capstone that shorter forms, like poems and short stories, necessitate that writers practice what's called "economy of phrase" (at least I think that's what it's called). Short story writers don't have as much time or space as novel writers do to develop their ideas, so they have to squeeze as much as possible into every word and sentence. I wish I could give examples of economy of phrase in Vampires in the Lemon Grove, but sadly, I didn't write any down while reading, and I refuse to borrow from other reviews. Trust me, though, there were quite a few lines that I paused over to marvel at the image or emotion they evoked. English majors - and non-English majors whose love for words rivals or even surpasses that of English majors - this is the book for you. And perhaps poems and short stories are the writing forms for you. I don't know. I can only recommend what I've read, and as much as I enjoyed it, Russell's delightful hodgepodge of stories was both the first that I've read and probably the last that I'll read for a while. I'm sticking to novels, for the mere fact that I've never read a short story I wanted to live in. Still, I'm glad I read Vampires in the Lemon Grove, and I think that you should read it, too. (How is it that I liked this book less than Tell the Wolves I’m Home, yet I had more to say about it? Maybe Jane Austen was onto something with the whole “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more” thing.) 

[thelonelyrdr-blog]

Thoughts on Tell the Wolves I’m Home

(Warning: The following review contains spoilers.) The ability to make me cry is high on my list of what qualities make a truly great book. Well, Tell the Wolves I’m Home made me cry not once, but three times. In public. The novel follows a fourteen-year-old girl as she copes with the loss of her Uncle Finn to AIDs, and after that description, you're probably thinking, Of course a book about someone dying from AIDS would be able to tease a few tears out of the reader, regardless of the quality of the writing. But I assure you, you're wrong. I've never cried reading a Nicholas Sparks novel, and he kills someone in practically every book he writes. Even George R. R. Martin, notorious for ruthlessly murdering beloved characters, hasn't managed to elicit tears from me. Carol Rifka Brunt, though, she got me. I admit that part of the reason I cried so easily while reading this book was that I personally connected with the narrator's feelings for her uncle. June isn't only grieving her uncle, you see, but her gay uncle with whom she was wrongly and embarrassingly, but still very deeply, in love. Although I have (thankfully) never been in love with my uncle, I did fall in love with a gay friend when I was a teenager, so stories about one-sided romantic love between straight women and gay men tend to resonate with me. In particular, there's a passage in this book (quoted below), in which June laments the importance of sex in romantic relationships, that reminds me of a much less poetic diary entry I wrote at seventeen: Why couldn't people live together, spend their whole lives together, just because they liked each other's company? Just because they liked each other more than they liked anyone else in the whole world? If you found a person like that you wouldn't have to have sex. You could just hold them, couldn't you? You could sit close to them, nestle into them so you could hear the machine of them churning away. You could press your ear against that person's back, listening to the rhythm of them, knowing that you were both made of the same exact stuff. You could do things like that. Maybe it isn't just June and I - maybe this sentiment echoes that of all teenagers who, for various reasons, will only ever be loved platonically by the person they love romantically. But then they grow up, despite the small part of them that wishes that their ideas about love could stay as innocent and beautiful as they were when they first experienced it. I grew up, and over the course of the book, so does June. But enough about June's admittedly somewhat creepy feelings for her uncle and more about June herself. June, June, June, oh how I love her and her narration. She's insecure and oversensitive and jealous and all of the things I hated myself for being when I was a teenager. Her musings about life, even those totally unrelated to Finn or his death, are exquisitely melancholy. Take, for example, the depressing image she presents of adulthood, the most accurate and affecting since Esther's fig tree in The Bell Jar: I really wondered why people were always doing what they didn't like doing. It seemed like life was a sort of narrowing tunnel. Right when you were born, the tunnel was huge. You could be anything. Then, like, the absolute second after you were born, the tunnel narrowed down to about half that size. You were a boy, and already it was certain you wouldn't be a mother and it was likely you wouldn't become a manicurist or a kindergarten teacher. Then you started to grow up and everything you did closed the tunnel in some more. You broke your arm climbing a tree and you ruled out being a baseball pitcher. You failed every math test you ever took and you canceled any hope of being a scientist. Like that. On and on through the years until you were stuck. You'd become a baker or a librarian or a bartender. Or an accountant. And there you were. I figured that on the day you died, the tunnel would be so narrow, you'd have squeezed yourself in with so many choices, that you just got squashed. Interactions between characters, too - June and her sister Greta; June and Finn's boyfriend Toby - are achingly beautiful in their honesty. I was as engaged in the subplot about June's failing friendship with Greta as I was in the main plot about June's burgeoning friendship with Toby. Like June, I felt caught between hating and sympathizing with Greta, and eventually settled on loving her. She's my favorite kind of character: cruel but with complex motivations for her cruelty. Some of her lines really hit hard. I also feel compelled to mention that although two prominent characters in the book become victims of the 1980s AIDS epidemic, the book doesn't read like an "issue" book: Brunt conveys society's ignorance about AIDS and the gay community not through blatantly homophobic statements and acts of violence perpetrated against gay characters, but through subtly judgmental comments and stares aimed at them. Prejudice sometimes manifests itself in small, seemingly innocuous ways, and Tell the Wolves I'm Home reflects this reality. (Besides, no matter who Finn and Toby were and how they died, their deaths would’ve still broken June’s heart - and mine.)     I don't have much else to say except that everyone should read this book. I should read it, too, even though I've already read it, because when I finished it, my first thought was that I wanted to read it again. And I just might. Right after I visit the Cloisters. June really sold me on the idea.