A library is not a place to store books. That might be one of the functions it is called upon to perform, but that is not what a library is in the same way that I'm not a cook, but I can still put together a pretty good meal when I choose to (i.e. when I'm hungry). But my identity is not "cook." And a library's identity is not "place where books are when they are not being read."
A library is an open door. When you walk in, all you can see is possibility.
A library is a maze with no wrong turns.
A library is a skeleton key.
A library is a home for ideas and for people. If you are smart enough to go to one, it will invite you in with open arms.
A library is the first stop on the road to knowledge.
More than anything else, a library is the kind stranger to whom I entrust my mind, my heart and my sense of self. By the time I'm ready to take it all back, I am a better person and the library has become my friend.
The Elmer J. Bobst Building at NYU, which is referred to by the great and glorious term library, is not my friend. It stands imposingly high, like a tall and distinguished gentleman in white tie and top hat who has just realized that he is hopelessly overdressed for the occasion, and glares down at you as you enter quietly into its domain in your simple yet elegant suit. Its features are angular and cold; grey eyes watching amid the stark black and white of evening dress. Those are the only three colors to be found in Bobst itself; all the hues in between are brought in by the books and those trying to read them. There are nine floors in total and, when you walk in and gaze up at the dizzying heights afforded by the floor to rooftop view in the atrium, you can see each separate story, the staircases connecting them and the pinstripe black bars in front of the stairs. The books are all hidden behind this prison-like edifice and woe-betide the poor student who has to actually venture inside to find a book.
University libraries are, much to my disappointment, rarely like public libraries. I have very little faith in any institution that requires you to know exactly what you are looking for before you find it. Public libraries are ideal for browsing. University libraries require a bit more effort but, with the help of proper signage, decent layout and the occasional lounge with armchairs, it is possible to go in and, while looking for one book, come out with another four that you did not even know you wanted to read until you saw them on the shelves.
Bobst requires an exact call number and a very detailed map of the building before you even have a chance of finding the book you were looking for, much less anything else. And if you get lost, heaven help you because the signs in the stacks most certainly will not. And the worst part of all is that there is nothing of interest to look at on the way. When I first got lost in Bobst, I was a bit perplexed, but not unduly annoyed. After all, it would just give me a chance to browse around and see if I could find an interesting collection of works along the way. I could not. It is quite possible that I walked by any number of them as they shrank away from the garish fluorescent lights and the warehouse style "decor," for lack of a better term. After turning around twice, ending up in one restricted area and generally tripping over my own feet, I finally found the book I was looking for in its hiding place about two feet above my head.
A library is a place that has the occasional step stool so that books on the upper shelves are not entirely neglected.
I finally coaxed the recalcitrant creature down with the help of Leon Edel's biography of Henry James, which extended my reach by six inches and allowed me to hit at the book I wanted until it gave in and fell over. I didn't like treating a book that way - it wasn't its fault.
Architects of the world, if anyone ever calls on you to design a library, please try and remember that a library is a wonderful little place where readers and books can unite to become something greater than either could possibly be on their own. It should be warm and friendly, like the embrace of a loved one. It should, in short, look absolutely nothing like Bobst.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Childhood Memories and a Horseshoe Crab
When my husband and I first moved into our new apartment, we would give the following directions to people who wished to find us:
"Walk most of the way down the block and stop when you see the two windows with the Horseshoe crab shell in front. That's us. If you yell up, we'll hear you and let you in."
Now that it's getting dark earlier, we've decided that it might be more useful to simply give the address and apartment number.
But the horseshoe crab shell is still there, along with another, smaller crab shell and three clam shells that sit wistfully on the window ledge like the echo of a long ago trip to the beach. The clam shells have been bleached almost white by the sun while the larger of the two crab shells has a few distinctive white patches that seem to have gotten there by means of pigeon. The smaller (and more intact) crab shell looks out at the street below and I half expect that, one day, it will finally get bored with the view from my window ledge and wander off.
Granted, if they ever left, I would be even more puzzled by where they went than by how they got there in the first place. I'd always assumed that the tenants who occupied this apartment before us had at least one small child and, one summer day, they took this child all the way out to the beaches on the Long Island Sound. And this child probably spent a little while building sand mounds and calling them castles, then finally built up the courage to dip a toe into the ever-freezing waves of the Atlantic. Half an hour of shrieking and running to and fro later, he or she would actually be far enough in the water that it would cover a pair of chubby knees.
Assuming, of course, that this child was anything like me the first time I went to the beach. And I'm assuming he or she was...because of the clam shells; three large, unchipped, almost pure white clam shells of the sort that I (and my sister and my friends) would spend hour after hour combing the beaches to find. We usually discovered about two really fine ones per week. The rest were either broken or tiny or stained black.
We used to paint the shells too, with our little watercolor sets that, like play-doh, started out as a rainbow of colors and ended up varying shades of mud. We painted stars and butterflies and suns and anything else that required very little in the way of artistic ability and then begged our parents to be allowed to sell them on the boardwalk. Our parents, wise as they are, recognized that our work had much in the way of sentimental value, though little of any other sort, and so offered to buy the biggest and prettiest ones themselves for the princely sum of an ice cream cone or a few quarters to spend in the arcade playing foos-ball with as much energy and skill as we had devoted to painting shells.
I wonder what happened to all those badly painted butterflies.
I wonder what happened to the shells outside my window to have brought them here. Were they the biggest and nicest of all the shells found that day, the special three allowed to come home as mementos of an exciting excursion and left out on the window ledge to keep sand and seawater out of the house?
How long have they been out there? Clearly long enough for them to have been forgotten and given to a new owner, along with the apartment. I'm tempted to leave them out there when we move, assuming they survive that long, but what if the next tenants don't appreciate having a horseshoe colony at their window? What if they don't understand how important the size and purity of the shells are?
There is, however, an alternative. A Michael's Craft Store just opened down the street from me and I rather think that the time has come for me to have a new set of watercolors.
"Walk most of the way down the block and stop when you see the two windows with the Horseshoe crab shell in front. That's us. If you yell up, we'll hear you and let you in."
Now that it's getting dark earlier, we've decided that it might be more useful to simply give the address and apartment number.
But the horseshoe crab shell is still there, along with another, smaller crab shell and three clam shells that sit wistfully on the window ledge like the echo of a long ago trip to the beach. The clam shells have been bleached almost white by the sun while the larger of the two crab shells has a few distinctive white patches that seem to have gotten there by means of pigeon. The smaller (and more intact) crab shell looks out at the street below and I half expect that, one day, it will finally get bored with the view from my window ledge and wander off.
Granted, if they ever left, I would be even more puzzled by where they went than by how they got there in the first place. I'd always assumed that the tenants who occupied this apartment before us had at least one small child and, one summer day, they took this child all the way out to the beaches on the Long Island Sound. And this child probably spent a little while building sand mounds and calling them castles, then finally built up the courage to dip a toe into the ever-freezing waves of the Atlantic. Half an hour of shrieking and running to and fro later, he or she would actually be far enough in the water that it would cover a pair of chubby knees.
Assuming, of course, that this child was anything like me the first time I went to the beach. And I'm assuming he or she was...because of the clam shells; three large, unchipped, almost pure white clam shells of the sort that I (and my sister and my friends) would spend hour after hour combing the beaches to find. We usually discovered about two really fine ones per week. The rest were either broken or tiny or stained black.
We used to paint the shells too, with our little watercolor sets that, like play-doh, started out as a rainbow of colors and ended up varying shades of mud. We painted stars and butterflies and suns and anything else that required very little in the way of artistic ability and then begged our parents to be allowed to sell them on the boardwalk. Our parents, wise as they are, recognized that our work had much in the way of sentimental value, though little of any other sort, and so offered to buy the biggest and prettiest ones themselves for the princely sum of an ice cream cone or a few quarters to spend in the arcade playing foos-ball with as much energy and skill as we had devoted to painting shells.
I wonder what happened to all those badly painted butterflies.
I wonder what happened to the shells outside my window to have brought them here. Were they the biggest and nicest of all the shells found that day, the special three allowed to come home as mementos of an exciting excursion and left out on the window ledge to keep sand and seawater out of the house?
How long have they been out there? Clearly long enough for them to have been forgotten and given to a new owner, along with the apartment. I'm tempted to leave them out there when we move, assuming they survive that long, but what if the next tenants don't appreciate having a horseshoe colony at their window? What if they don't understand how important the size and purity of the shells are?
There is, however, an alternative. A Michael's Craft Store just opened down the street from me and I rather think that the time has come for me to have a new set of watercolors.
Umm, New Directions
A few weeks after starting this blog the first time, I learned of two distinct websites - Goodreads and Shelfari. Both of them are excellent ways to keep track of what you've read, rate the books and review them. Basically, they're this blog with many more people, a much easier interface and I'm not the only one doing it.
So there has to be some other use for this thing, now that I've ignored it for so long.
For now, I think I will use this to post bits of my writing. This is not for my novels or anything, but just for short little...things that come to me and demand to be written down. I might as well have them here as anywhere else.
So there has to be some other use for this thing, now that I've ignored it for so long.
For now, I think I will use this to post bits of my writing. This is not for my novels or anything, but just for short little...things that come to me and demand to be written down. I might as well have them here as anywhere else.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
B-log: The Hero and the Crown
Every year, it seems, I find another author with whose corpus I feel the need to reaquaint myself. Last year it was Diana Wynne Jones, this year it is Robin McKinley.
The Hero and the Crown is her second book in the Damar series (however long that will be), though it is the prequel to The Blue Sword. I like this one just a bit better. Aerin is first sol (which roughly translates to Princess) of Damar and, unlike the rest of her family, seems entirely devoid of a magical gift. So she is searching for some way to prove herself and, due to a well aimed taunt and some interesting recipes, becomes a dragon slayer. Of course, that means the dragons start showing up in full force, the kingdom of Damar is under threat from the Northern Demons and Aerin is the only one who can do anything about it. After nearly getting herself killed, twice, Aerin fulfilled her role and finds out that her life is far more complicated and magical than she could have known.
As I've said before, McKinley's strength lies in her characters. Damar is one of the few places where she sets her stories that has its own history and existence and such; usually they're just in a kingdom somewhere. But Aerin is a marvelous heroine, with whom it is impossible not to identify. She is a twist on the usual princess, not just because she is an outcast, but because she is proactive. Women were never proactive in fantasy novels until McKinley and Tamora Pierce started writing. Aerin, in particular, is so lovable because her problems are real. I could actually sympathize with her position as first sol, which is a change from my usual scoff of "I wish I had your problems".
McKinley also does her readers the great service of making the romantic aspect of the story surprising. Having a painfully obvious romantic trajectory is acceptable for Jane Austen, but it is nice to see a bit of creativity in the more modern folk and McKinley provides just that. I thought I knew how the romance was going to turn out, but I was pleasantly surprised (especially as this was not the first time I had read this book. The first time in about seven years, though.) And the bittersweetness of Aerin's life is pretty much encapsulated in that.
I am, I'll admit, biased when reviewing my favorite authors. I've always been a littls suspicious of McKinley's heroines as the same sort keep popping up in vastly different stories. Still, they are excellent heroines and we could use more like them.
This is definitely my favorite of the two Damar books and it comes highly recommended, especially for any girl (such as myself) who spent her childhood searching for female leads who were not pathetic. As you might note, that search means that said female leads take up a disproportionate numer of entries in this blog.
The Hero and the Crown is her second book in the Damar series (however long that will be), though it is the prequel to The Blue Sword. I like this one just a bit better. Aerin is first sol (which roughly translates to Princess) of Damar and, unlike the rest of her family, seems entirely devoid of a magical gift. So she is searching for some way to prove herself and, due to a well aimed taunt and some interesting recipes, becomes a dragon slayer. Of course, that means the dragons start showing up in full force, the kingdom of Damar is under threat from the Northern Demons and Aerin is the only one who can do anything about it. After nearly getting herself killed, twice, Aerin fulfilled her role and finds out that her life is far more complicated and magical than she could have known.
As I've said before, McKinley's strength lies in her characters. Damar is one of the few places where she sets her stories that has its own history and existence and such; usually they're just in a kingdom somewhere. But Aerin is a marvelous heroine, with whom it is impossible not to identify. She is a twist on the usual princess, not just because she is an outcast, but because she is proactive. Women were never proactive in fantasy novels until McKinley and Tamora Pierce started writing. Aerin, in particular, is so lovable because her problems are real. I could actually sympathize with her position as first sol, which is a change from my usual scoff of "I wish I had your problems".
McKinley also does her readers the great service of making the romantic aspect of the story surprising. Having a painfully obvious romantic trajectory is acceptable for Jane Austen, but it is nice to see a bit of creativity in the more modern folk and McKinley provides just that. I thought I knew how the romance was going to turn out, but I was pleasantly surprised (especially as this was not the first time I had read this book. The first time in about seven years, though.) And the bittersweetness of Aerin's life is pretty much encapsulated in that.
I am, I'll admit, biased when reviewing my favorite authors. I've always been a littls suspicious of McKinley's heroines as the same sort keep popping up in vastly different stories. Still, they are excellent heroines and we could use more like them.
This is definitely my favorite of the two Damar books and it comes highly recommended, especially for any girl (such as myself) who spent her childhood searching for female leads who were not pathetic. As you might note, that search means that said female leads take up a disproportionate numer of entries in this blog.
Monday, May 26, 2008
B-log: Angel Isle
So yesterday was spent at a movie marathon and, as such, left me no time to blog. So we'll let the laxness slide and pretend it never happened. Right, anyway, the most recent book I've finished is Angel Isle, by Peter Dickinson. It is a sequel of sorts to The Ropemaker, in the sense that it is the continuation of that story, if not the lives of those characters.
I picked up Dickinson because he married Robin McKinley, which I thought said a lot about the man. One of these days, I will devote a full post to McKinley and explain my love for her work, my grudging respect bordering on annoyance with her personality and my adoration of her dogs. For those in need of more details, her blog. Somewhere on there is the story of how they met, which I really enjoyed reading. So it made sense, as far as I was concerned, to read Dickinson's work because his wife wrote well. I do like being right about things.
Maja and Saranja come from a family in charge of "Singing to the Unicorns" who protect the Southern border of their valley, while Ribek speaks to water and, through his gift, protects the Northern border. For two hundred generations (ever since the events chronicled in The Ropemaker) these protections have stood strong. But the magic's time is up and now they have set forth, some rather reluctantly, to find the Ropemaker and ask him to renew the spell. The Empire into which they venture is a dangerous place, ruled by Watchers who zealously guard all magic and who are displeased, to say the least, when they catch anyone using it. Which means that, naturally, our heroes team up with a mage, Benayu, and his inter-dimensional lizard, Jex. To complicate matters, Maja discovers that she has a special sense for magic and, when too much of it is used around her, she blacks out. Between the five of them, they need to reach the Ropemaker without bringing destruction down on themselves and hope that he has the power to do something before the Watchers drag the world down into total chaos.
Dickinson, first of all, is a delightful author. Despite writing for children, he never talks down to his readers, nor does he ever do them the disservice of assuming they are too young for complex material. Like L'Engel, he merely searches for a way to present it so that his audience can understand his topic of choice. Angel Isle is a rare find, for it combines fantasy and science fiction in a way I have never run into before. Dickinson creates a typical fantasy world, but instead of throwing up his hands and saying "It's magic, suspend your disbelief", he takes the lawful relationships and equations that we use to understand our universe and applies it to his. I was eagerly awaiting his description of a Universe different than our own and he did not disappoint me.
Having finished the book, I'm still not entirely sure who the main character was. I think it was Maja, who certainly got the plurality of the spotlight and who grew the most, but I found myself equally drawn to everyone in the book...which is to say not very much. I enjoyed reading about them and the book kept me hooked from the first word to the last, but I never really identified with the characters. I felt as though I was exploring someone else's world and following along as they told me about it, but the adventure was never really mine. Still, that might just be a testament to Dickinson's ability to create very real characters, who are so well defined on their own that they don't need my input. Either way, I was more than happy to hear about what happens to them, even though they has to share the spotlight.
Dickinson's world building abilities are truly stunning - his Empire and the universe it inhabits is incredibly well delineated even for a young adult book (and certainly for an adult novel) and he manages to capture the long journey taken by the characters without adding in the tedium they, no doubt, felt. I have no problem with the characters feeling the effects of a long journey, but reading a book should not replicate the experience (which is one of several reasons why I no longer read Goodkind or Jordan). Dickinson strikes the right balance between realism and entertaining the reader and if they ate liver-kebab a few more times than I thought necessary...well, there are worse sins.
As noted earlier, this book is a wonderful specimen of genre-defying fantasy, both in its insertion of "real" science and in its ability to suprise me with the ending. Having slowly read my way through an appreciable amount of YA fantasy, I tend to assume that a certain number of events are possible as methods of resolution and so it's always nice to see an unexpected one handled well. Despite five hundred pages, Angel Isle never dragged, and my only regret, at the end, was that it did not continue. One can always hope for another sequel.
I picked up Dickinson because he married Robin McKinley, which I thought said a lot about the man. One of these days, I will devote a full post to McKinley and explain my love for her work, my grudging respect bordering on annoyance with her personality and my adoration of her dogs. For those in need of more details, her blog. Somewhere on there is the story of how they met, which I really enjoyed reading. So it made sense, as far as I was concerned, to read Dickinson's work because his wife wrote well. I do like being right about things.
Maja and Saranja come from a family in charge of "Singing to the Unicorns" who protect the Southern border of their valley, while Ribek speaks to water and, through his gift, protects the Northern border. For two hundred generations (ever since the events chronicled in The Ropemaker) these protections have stood strong. But the magic's time is up and now they have set forth, some rather reluctantly, to find the Ropemaker and ask him to renew the spell. The Empire into which they venture is a dangerous place, ruled by Watchers who zealously guard all magic and who are displeased, to say the least, when they catch anyone using it. Which means that, naturally, our heroes team up with a mage, Benayu, and his inter-dimensional lizard, Jex. To complicate matters, Maja discovers that she has a special sense for magic and, when too much of it is used around her, she blacks out. Between the five of them, they need to reach the Ropemaker without bringing destruction down on themselves and hope that he has the power to do something before the Watchers drag the world down into total chaos.
Dickinson, first of all, is a delightful author. Despite writing for children, he never talks down to his readers, nor does he ever do them the disservice of assuming they are too young for complex material. Like L'Engel, he merely searches for a way to present it so that his audience can understand his topic of choice. Angel Isle is a rare find, for it combines fantasy and science fiction in a way I have never run into before. Dickinson creates a typical fantasy world, but instead of throwing up his hands and saying "It's magic, suspend your disbelief", he takes the lawful relationships and equations that we use to understand our universe and applies it to his. I was eagerly awaiting his description of a Universe different than our own and he did not disappoint me.
Having finished the book, I'm still not entirely sure who the main character was. I think it was Maja, who certainly got the plurality of the spotlight and who grew the most, but I found myself equally drawn to everyone in the book...which is to say not very much. I enjoyed reading about them and the book kept me hooked from the first word to the last, but I never really identified with the characters. I felt as though I was exploring someone else's world and following along as they told me about it, but the adventure was never really mine. Still, that might just be a testament to Dickinson's ability to create very real characters, who are so well defined on their own that they don't need my input. Either way, I was more than happy to hear about what happens to them, even though they has to share the spotlight.
Dickinson's world building abilities are truly stunning - his Empire and the universe it inhabits is incredibly well delineated even for a young adult book (and certainly for an adult novel) and he manages to capture the long journey taken by the characters without adding in the tedium they, no doubt, felt. I have no problem with the characters feeling the effects of a long journey, but reading a book should not replicate the experience (which is one of several reasons why I no longer read Goodkind or Jordan). Dickinson strikes the right balance between realism and entertaining the reader and if they ate liver-kebab a few more times than I thought necessary...well, there are worse sins.
As noted earlier, this book is a wonderful specimen of genre-defying fantasy, both in its insertion of "real" science and in its ability to suprise me with the ending. Having slowly read my way through an appreciable amount of YA fantasy, I tend to assume that a certain number of events are possible as methods of resolution and so it's always nice to see an unexpected one handled well. Despite five hundred pages, Angel Isle never dragged, and my only regret, at the end, was that it did not continue. One can always hope for another sequel.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
B-log: Faces Under Water
I have a particular fondness for authors who are talented enough to attempt to retell fairy tales (in no small part because the majority of my stories, both finished and incomplete, are right along those lines). So when I journey to my local library, I have a list of certain authors whose work tends to fall into that category and for whom I look. True to form, my library tends not to have those authors' works and, on the rare occasions it does, I tend to find their books from different genres.
Faces Under Water, by Tanith Lee, was one of those books: picked up because I knew the author's name and figured "well, why not?" Having read the book, I can now answer that question. Lee's storytelling style, while gorgeous, lacks a sense of clarity and comprehensibility. Which is all well and good, except rumor has it that something might have been happening in the plot and it would have been nice to have been able to follow along. That, however, is the least of the book's flaws.
The story, once I figured it out, was not all that bad. Furian, a young lordling who abandoned his family for reasons unknown, is working around the canals of Venus (Venice) when he comes upon a mask under the water, presumably still attached to the body last wearing it. He takes it to his doctor friend and proceeds to forget all about it, at least until a couple of hitmen start hunting him and he falls for a lovely maiden in a butterfly mask. Thing "get weirder" as Furian finds himself enveloped in a giant conspiracy run by some fairly prominent members of Venus
and it is only with the help of Doctor Shaachen's magic and his newly found love that he has the smallest chance of survival.
I was particularly unimpressed with Furian as a hero. His motives are never clear and, while Lee clearly wants him to be the archetypal lord's son with a heart of gold, you get the feeling that Furian's behavior is because his author is directly forcing him to be this way and he's cooperating rather sullenly. His love for the butterfly lady is completely unbelievable and feels much more like fleeting lust cemented by sex with a wooden doll. And then he has his clichéd moment of doubt in order to add to the angst. That just killed it for me. I have no problem with creating situations in which the hero/ine is unsure of a lover's fidelity and behaves accordingly. But in order for me to believe that Furian actually doubted her, then he would have to be an utter moron. To be fair, though, his behavior in the rest of the book does not suggest any differently, but I'm incapable of rooting for a hero with a total of two brain cells to rub together who is supposed to be intelligent.
If you can get past the first one hundred pages, which are tedious beyond all measure, there is a reasonably interesting mystery behind it all. What is happening is clear (err, except to Furian the idiot) from the beginning, but the how is what kept me reading and the way Lee ties everyone together is extremely satisfying. The book's high point is definitely Doctor Shaachen and his magic; everything was much more entertaining when he was around.
Lee does have a lovely way with words and the images she can evoke are almost better suited to poetry than to fantasy. Her descriptions of Venus are deliciously full and inviting. Despite the strange and dreamy quality of her words, the place she creates comes through with all the vividness of a surrealist painting. It is disappointing to find that the material does not remotely do justice to the language.
Faces Under Water, by Tanith Lee, was one of those books: picked up because I knew the author's name and figured "well, why not?" Having read the book, I can now answer that question. Lee's storytelling style, while gorgeous, lacks a sense of clarity and comprehensibility. Which is all well and good, except rumor has it that something might have been happening in the plot and it would have been nice to have been able to follow along. That, however, is the least of the book's flaws.
The story, once I figured it out, was not all that bad. Furian, a young lordling who abandoned his family for reasons unknown, is working around the canals of Venus (Venice) when he comes upon a mask under the water, presumably still attached to the body last wearing it. He takes it to his doctor friend and proceeds to forget all about it, at least until a couple of hitmen start hunting him and he falls for a lovely maiden in a butterfly mask. Thing "get weirder" as Furian finds himself enveloped in a giant conspiracy run by some fairly prominent members of Venus
and it is only with the help of Doctor Shaachen's magic and his newly found love that he has the smallest chance of survival.
I was particularly unimpressed with Furian as a hero. His motives are never clear and, while Lee clearly wants him to be the archetypal lord's son with a heart of gold, you get the feeling that Furian's behavior is because his author is directly forcing him to be this way and he's cooperating rather sullenly. His love for the butterfly lady is completely unbelievable and feels much more like fleeting lust cemented by sex with a wooden doll. And then he has his clichéd moment of doubt in order to add to the angst. That just killed it for me. I have no problem with creating situations in which the hero/ine is unsure of a lover's fidelity and behaves accordingly. But in order for me to believe that Furian actually doubted her, then he would have to be an utter moron. To be fair, though, his behavior in the rest of the book does not suggest any differently, but I'm incapable of rooting for a hero with a total of two brain cells to rub together who is supposed to be intelligent.
If you can get past the first one hundred pages, which are tedious beyond all measure, there is a reasonably interesting mystery behind it all. What is happening is clear (err, except to Furian the idiot) from the beginning, but the how is what kept me reading and the way Lee ties everyone together is extremely satisfying. The book's high point is definitely Doctor Shaachen and his magic; everything was much more entertaining when he was around.
Lee does have a lovely way with words and the images she can evoke are almost better suited to poetry than to fantasy. Her descriptions of Venus are deliciously full and inviting. Despite the strange and dreamy quality of her words, the place she creates comes through with all the vividness of a surrealist painting. It is disappointing to find that the material does not remotely do justice to the language.
Friday, May 23, 2008
B-log: Daughter of the Blood
Moving on in the realm of my ever so sophisticated literary taste, I recently reread Daughter of the Blood, by Anne Bishop. Something that is very clearly not children's literature. I would certainly not recommend it for anyone under sixteen (though I'm sure a select few precocious and gruesome thirteen year old girls would get a kick out of it). The plot is nothing new - the chosen one is born and must be helped to achieve HER destiny by a supporting cast including aged (50,000 years, give or take) mentor, snarky friends and gorgeous love interest. What makes this book so special, at least in my eyes, is a combination of two things. Firstly, it is a very well handled reversal of the fantasy norms. And secondly, it is unpretentious.
Daughter of the Blood is the first book in the Black Jewels Trilogy, which already sets the tone for the rest of the series. Bishop has created a world with the usual roles of light and dark are reversed, where darkness implies more power and, as we all know, with great power comes great responsibility. The magic users, called "The Blood" have been misusing their power and unbalancing the semi-precarious relationship between the genders; using men to dis-empower women and women to keep men on a tight leash.
Into this world is born "Witch", the most powerful of all the Blood. It is up to her to save the realms, assuming she lives long enough. This first book is our introduction to the ways of the blood and to some of the main characters, including Daemon Sadi, who is destined to be witch's lover; Lucivar Yaslana, Daemon's half brother and Saetan SaDiablo, the High Lord of Hell. I'm sure you're groaning by now, but don't be fooled by the names. These men are deadly, but follow a code of honor as strict as any knight. And they are, without a doubt, drop dead gorgeous.
Bishop is not trying to create a realistic cast of characters and, if that is something that bothers you. don't read the book. However, if you're willing to acknowledge her characters as some sort of (specifically male) ideal, then you're good to go. And the story itself is quite creative and fun to follow, especially for those of us who enjoy a good fantasy, but have had our fill and then some of the Richard Rahls, Rand al Thors, Aragorns and even Harry Potters that populate the literature. The Black Jewels trilogy is high fantasy geared towards women, with the goal of providing enjoyment. As a professor of mine once said, Romance Novels are pornography for women. We'll call this softcore for geek girls, then.
Part of the appeal of this book is how Bishop deliberately twists her Universe to make women the dominant sex. This is another lovely genre reversal and much of the book seems to be based on the premise of men deferring to women. Women have a higher caste and queens rule the territory, not kings. However, it is made clear that men, being the physically stronger sex, are there to protect and serve the women. So these blood males are bred to have all the qualities that females instinctively look for in a mate: good genes, commitment, protection, etc. Bishop might not have originally had this in mind, but she created the perfect male...from an evolutionary perspective. And, while that certainly goes a long way in explaining Lucivar and Daemon's appeal, the complex world she creates from the simple reversal of one gender role and the rule of light and dark is astounding.
Daughter of the Blood is only the first book and much of it is really focused on building this universe and examining how things can go terribly wrong with the system, in a manner reminiscent of some of the gender problems in our own. The next two focus on how "Witch" needs to set things right. This book receives such a high recommendation from me because I do find myself going back to it and rereading it. Is it great literature? No. But it sets out to accomplish a certain task and it does so masterfully, if in a little bit more gory detail that I could write with a straight face. Oh, and once again, rated R for the amount of sex, violence and combinations of the two.
Daughter of the Blood is the first book in the Black Jewels Trilogy, which already sets the tone for the rest of the series. Bishop has created a world with the usual roles of light and dark are reversed, where darkness implies more power and, as we all know, with great power comes great responsibility. The magic users, called "The Blood" have been misusing their power and unbalancing the semi-precarious relationship between the genders; using men to dis-empower women and women to keep men on a tight leash.
Into this world is born "Witch", the most powerful of all the Blood. It is up to her to save the realms, assuming she lives long enough. This first book is our introduction to the ways of the blood and to some of the main characters, including Daemon Sadi, who is destined to be witch's lover; Lucivar Yaslana, Daemon's half brother and Saetan SaDiablo, the High Lord of Hell. I'm sure you're groaning by now, but don't be fooled by the names. These men are deadly, but follow a code of honor as strict as any knight. And they are, without a doubt, drop dead gorgeous.
Bishop is not trying to create a realistic cast of characters and, if that is something that bothers you. don't read the book. However, if you're willing to acknowledge her characters as some sort of (specifically male) ideal, then you're good to go. And the story itself is quite creative and fun to follow, especially for those of us who enjoy a good fantasy, but have had our fill and then some of the Richard Rahls, Rand al Thors, Aragorns and even Harry Potters that populate the literature. The Black Jewels trilogy is high fantasy geared towards women, with the goal of providing enjoyment. As a professor of mine once said, Romance Novels are pornography for women. We'll call this softcore for geek girls, then.
Part of the appeal of this book is how Bishop deliberately twists her Universe to make women the dominant sex. This is another lovely genre reversal and much of the book seems to be based on the premise of men deferring to women. Women have a higher caste and queens rule the territory, not kings. However, it is made clear that men, being the physically stronger sex, are there to protect and serve the women. So these blood males are bred to have all the qualities that females instinctively look for in a mate: good genes, commitment, protection, etc. Bishop might not have originally had this in mind, but she created the perfect male...from an evolutionary perspective. And, while that certainly goes a long way in explaining Lucivar and Daemon's appeal, the complex world she creates from the simple reversal of one gender role and the rule of light and dark is astounding.
Daughter of the Blood is only the first book and much of it is really focused on building this universe and examining how things can go terribly wrong with the system, in a manner reminiscent of some of the gender problems in our own. The next two focus on how "Witch" needs to set things right. This book receives such a high recommendation from me because I do find myself going back to it and rereading it. Is it great literature? No. But it sets out to accomplish a certain task and it does so masterfully, if in a little bit more gory detail that I could write with a straight face. Oh, and once again, rated R for the amount of sex, violence and combinations of the two.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
B-log: A Wrinkle in Time
I recently (for a given definition of the word) reread Madeleine L'Engel's A Wrinkle in Time as a sort of tribute to her passing. And to see if my friend's assertion that the book did not hold up well is, in fact, true.
Well...yes and no.
A Wrinkle in Time was one of the first books I'd ever read in the sci-fi/fantasy genre and I, at the age of 10 or so, was absolutely captivated by it. It chronicles the story of Meg, a teenaged outcast and geek who sets off to rescue her father, along with her frighteningly brilliant little brother and Calvin, the obligatory object of her affections. Like most stories of the genre (and age group), Meg's interstellar journey is more about becoming herself and proving that she has the power to save those she loves, rather than the actual doing of the deed. But I was willing to tolerate Meg in order to meet the supporting cast of characters.
This is where L'Engel really shines; her minor characters are incredibly well delineated and far more lovable than Meg. And she succeeded in creating a villain who is utterly and clearly evil without being a genre cliche. In this manner, the book is part dystopic novel and L'Engel's light touch works extremely well. Science fiction is often a vehicle for such novels, but L'Engel chooses wisely when she does not make that part the focus of the book, but allows the dystopic evil to become the fantasy villain and, most importantly, allow it to be vanquished.
The other characters, specifically the three mentoring characters, have always been my favorite part of the book. They are a little strange and one of them only speaks in quotations (a little touch that I appreciated much more this time than when I was 10), but they are the ones who really make the novel. When they speak, you listen.
L'Engel's gift lies, in part, in her skill at transmuting science into fiction. I understood her explanation of time travel and the dimensions the first time I read the book, when my comprehension of three dimensions was limited to what could be done with 3D glasses. And on rereading it, with a bit more knowledge of physics behind me, I could still appreciate the simplicity of it without feeling as though it was "dumbed down" for a young audience. The different planets and the rules of time travel held up the best, as far as I could tell.
Though the book does feel a little dogmatic at times, almost as if L'Engel is trying to brand "you are a soldier in the battle against evil" on her readers' brains, I'm willing to forgive that as a, dare I say it, necessary evil of the dystopic genre. The book's biggest problem, on this reread, is Meg. She is not a particularly impressive heroine and she takes much longer than necessary to learn her lessons and grow up. While the archetype of the bright but academically challenged character is one that many of her readers know all too well, Meg's sheer persistence in being an idiot did not endear her to me. Especially if L'Engel wants her readers to feel a kinship with Meg, the girl should have been portrayed a little more favorably. A female heroine in a science fiction novel was a rarity when this book was first published, it seems such a shame that it had to be Meg.
Still, I enjoyed the book very much and it certainly held up better than many other novels through which I wandered in my you
th.
Well...yes and no.
A Wrinkle in Time was one of the first books I'd ever read in the sci-fi/fantasy genre and I, at the age of 10 or so, was absolutely captivated by it. It chronicles the story of Meg, a teenaged outcast and geek who sets off to rescue her father, along with her frighteningly brilliant little brother and Calvin, the obligatory object of her affections. Like most stories of the genre (and age group), Meg's interstellar journey is more about becoming herself and proving that she has the power to save those she loves, rather than the actual doing of the deed. But I was willing to tolerate Meg in order to meet the supporting cast of characters.
This is where L'Engel really shines; her minor characters are incredibly well delineated and far more lovable than Meg. And she succeeded in creating a villain who is utterly and clearly evil without being a genre cliche. In this manner, the book is part dystopic novel and L'Engel's light touch works extremely well. Science fiction is often a vehicle for such novels, but L'Engel chooses wisely when she does not make that part the focus of the book, but allows the dystopic evil to become the fantasy villain and, most importantly, allow it to be vanquished.
The other characters, specifically the three mentoring characters, have always been my favorite part of the book. They are a little strange and one of them only speaks in quotations (a little touch that I appreciated much more this time than when I was 10), but they are the ones who really make the novel. When they speak, you listen.
L'Engel's gift lies, in part, in her skill at transmuting science into fiction. I understood her explanation of time travel and the dimensions the first time I read the book, when my comprehension of three dimensions was limited to what could be done with 3D glasses. And on rereading it, with a bit more knowledge of physics behind me, I could still appreciate the simplicity of it without feeling as though it was "dumbed down" for a young audience. The different planets and the rules of time travel held up the best, as far as I could tell.
Though the book does feel a little dogmatic at times, almost as if L'Engel is trying to brand "you are a soldier in the battle against evil" on her readers' brains, I'm willing to forgive that as a, dare I say it, necessary evil of the dystopic genre. The book's biggest problem, on this reread, is Meg. She is not a particularly impressive heroine and she takes much longer than necessary to learn her lessons and grow up. While the archetype of the bright but academically challenged character is one that many of her readers know all too well, Meg's sheer persistence in being an idiot did not endear her to me. Especially if L'Engel wants her readers to feel a kinship with Meg, the girl should have been portrayed a little more favorably. A female heroine in a science fiction novel was a rarity when this book was first published, it seems such a shame that it had to be Meg.
Still, I enjoyed the book very much and it certainly held up better than many other novels through which I wandered in my you
th.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The Scorecard
Since I am trying to review so many books, I thought it would make sense to use some sort of scoring system. And it's been a long time since I got to award gold stars. But before I do, let me state, quite clearly, that these are not objective judgements, but my subjective evaluations of a book. So good means that I enjoyed it and bad means that I did not. So, for example, there may be some works of great, classic literature that will get 1 or even 0 stars. That is because I didn't like them.
Onto the scoring system!
5 Stars - An excellent book, the sort that belongs in every library on the planet and that no one should go through life without having experienced at least once.
4 Stars - A good book, one that engages and provides a quality reading experience and, most importantly, the sort of book you want to read again after putting it down.
3 Stars - A decent book, the sort that you don't regret having read and that was not too much of a chore to get through. But not the sort that you return to time and again.
2 Stars - A mediocre book, one of those that you finish and think "thank God that's over". A book that might have its good points, but it's unclear if it was worth getting through the bad bits for them.
1 Star - A bad book. The kind you only bother finish in order to write a scathing review.
0 Stars - I couldn't even finish it to write the review.
Onto the scoring system!
5 Stars - An excellent book, the sort that belongs in every library on the planet and that no one should go through life without having experienced at least once.
4 Stars - A good book, one that engages and provides a quality reading experience and, most importantly, the sort of book you want to read again after putting it down.
3 Stars - A decent book, the sort that you don't regret having read and that was not too much of a chore to get through. But not the sort that you return to time and again.
2 Stars - A mediocre book, one of those that you finish and think "thank God that's over". A book that might have its good points, but it's unclear if it was worth getting through the bad bits for them.
1 Star - A bad book. The kind you only bother finish in order to write a scathing review.
0 Stars - I couldn't even finish it to write the review.
B-log: Outlaws of Sherwood
So, this morning (to use the term lightly), I finished reading The Outlaws of Sherwood by Robin McKinley. It is a retelling of the famous story of Robin Hood and his Merry Men, done with the fairly unusual premise of making the story plausible.
Now, leaving aside my opinion of her temperament, she is a great YA author. Her prose flows beautifully and has a stark, unembellished quality to it that I have always admired; perfect for that age when one can appreciate good writing, but cannot yet get through some of the more, erhem, prosaic authors. Her characterization is very nice and her portrayal of Robin Hood as the reluctant hero is as well done as it is different.
McKinley's main strengths, in all her books, are her characters. She's a very people-oriented author (as opposed to...Tolkien, for example) and all of her books tend to sacrifice world-building for characterization. There are worse faults, however, and The Outlaws of Sherwood is certainly one of her most realized worlds, presumably because it is set in Richard the Lionheart's England.
My personal favorite character is Little John, who tends to get short shrift in the other stories. He gets much more "screentime" in this version and, while I don't want to spoil anything, his happy ending is my favorite part of the book (I'm hopeless that way).
The book was a little slow at some point, generally while McKinley is trying to make it clear that outlawing is not all fun and games--there is rain and mud and tree roots stabbing one in the back, but I could not help but wish she would get on with it. After all, we were waiting for Robin to start robbing the rich to feed the poor.
In some ways, however, that is also the books strength. The hero is a perfectly normal person who chooses to do something extraordinary with his circumstances. We love Robin, not because he's a superhero, but because he is an ordinary man trying to fill a hero's shoes. We sympathize with his indifferent archery skills (which are a lovely touch by McKinley) and we're as torn as he is when trying to balance the safety of his men and the need to protect the people outside Sherwood. McKinley's characters pull at you and, before you know it, you're just as interested in their fates as they are. That is her gift as a writer, to bring legends to life and make the heroes of tales into real people.
My one complaint is the ending, which feels like McKinley has written herself into a corner. She has been trying to create a realistic Robin Hood, but is then caught between what the obvious punishment would be for such a man and what the tales say is his reward. Her compromise is, perhaps, the best that could be done, but it still feels...contrived. Which is true about the fate of all folk heroes. But it is incongruous, when she has done such a fabulous job in bringing the rest of the legend to life.
At any rate, it is well worth the read and yet another example of my personal pet peeve - all the good literature now being written is Young Adult
Now, leaving aside my opinion of her temperament, she is a great YA author. Her prose flows beautifully and has a stark, unembellished quality to it that I have always admired; perfect for that age when one can appreciate good writing, but cannot yet get through some of the more, erhem, prosaic authors. Her characterization is very nice and her portrayal of Robin Hood as the reluctant hero is as well done as it is different.
McKinley's main strengths, in all her books, are her characters. She's a very people-oriented author (as opposed to...Tolkien, for example) and all of her books tend to sacrifice world-building for characterization. There are worse faults, however, and The Outlaws of Sherwood is certainly one of her most realized worlds, presumably because it is set in Richard the Lionheart's England.
My personal favorite character is Little John, who tends to get short shrift in the other stories. He gets much more "screentime" in this version and, while I don't want to spoil anything, his happy ending is my favorite part of the book (I'm hopeless that way).
The book was a little slow at some point, generally while McKinley is trying to make it clear that outlawing is not all fun and games--there is rain and mud and tree roots stabbing one in the back, but I could not help but wish she would get on with it. After all, we were waiting for Robin to start robbing the rich to feed the poor.
In some ways, however, that is also the books strength. The hero is a perfectly normal person who chooses to do something extraordinary with his circumstances. We love Robin, not because he's a superhero, but because he is an ordinary man trying to fill a hero's shoes. We sympathize with his indifferent archery skills (which are a lovely touch by McKinley) and we're as torn as he is when trying to balance the safety of his men and the need to protect the people outside Sherwood. McKinley's characters pull at you and, before you know it, you're just as interested in their fates as they are. That is her gift as a writer, to bring legends to life and make the heroes of tales into real people.
My one complaint is the ending, which feels like McKinley has written herself into a corner. She has been trying to create a realistic Robin Hood, but is then caught between what the obvious punishment would be for such a man and what the tales say is his reward. Her compromise is, perhaps, the best that could be done, but it still feels...contrived. Which is true about the fate of all folk heroes. But it is incongruous, when she has done such a fabulous job in bringing the rest of the legend to life.
At any rate, it is well worth the read and yet another example of my personal pet peeve - all the good literature now being written is Young Adult
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
JKR's Little Lawsuit
So JKR is suing someone for publishing a lexicon of HP stuff.
Orson Scott Card's Take on Things
I love Orson Scott Card, first of all. It's always nice to hear someone complain in a literate and well-spoken manner. And the jibes about child-heroes are just too entertaining to pass up.
What strikes me as the real issue is that she, Rowling, wanted to have written this lexicon and someone else got there first. I'm sorry, lady, but that's your problem. As OSC says, write it yourself! And stick your name on it. And people will buy it. Except she can't. And why not? Because something tells me that she was planning on using the HP Lexicon website to write her own. And now she can't because it will be published and protected.
I don't mean to be obnoxious...that's a lie, of course I do, but it's always upsetting to listen to people for whom you would like to have respect make absolute idiots of themselves for no good reason. There are authors who I have more or less respect for based on their personalities (and should probably create an "I Love Robin McKinley's Work, but Would Like to Strangle the Woman" club, based on the number of people I've met who feel that way), but this is different. This is about how you, as an author, show respect for your own work. And I wonder, sometimes, how much respect anyone actually has for Harry Potter. Oh, people enjoy it, to be sure, but who really respects it?
Orson Scott Card's Take on Things
I love Orson Scott Card, first of all. It's always nice to hear someone complain in a literate and well-spoken manner. And the jibes about child-heroes are just too entertaining to pass up.
What strikes me as the real issue is that she, Rowling, wanted to have written this lexicon and someone else got there first. I'm sorry, lady, but that's your problem. As OSC says, write it yourself! And stick your name on it. And people will buy it. Except she can't. And why not? Because something tells me that she was planning on using the HP Lexicon website to write her own. And now she can't because it will be published and protected.
I don't mean to be obnoxious...that's a lie, of course I do, but it's always upsetting to listen to people for whom you would like to have respect make absolute idiots of themselves for no good reason. There are authors who I have more or less respect for based on their personalities (and should probably create an "I Love Robin McKinley's Work, but Would Like to Strangle the Woman" club, based on the number of people I've met who feel that way), but this is different. This is about how you, as an author, show respect for your own work. And I wonder, sometimes, how much respect anyone actually has for Harry Potter. Oh, people enjoy it, to be sure, but who really respects it?
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
First Post
I was informed I needed a blog. I was unaware of this fact, seeing as I already have a livejournal that is used primarily for sharing whatever amusing little thing occurred that day, a deviant art account for my artwork and a fanfiction.net account that I am almost willing to put here since some of the newer stories are, to borrow a phrase "hardly crap at all".
So this has to be something different. This has to be something special. An outlet for all the thoughts that cannot help but well up inside me? A home for both the brilliance and inanity that lies in all that I do?
Alternatively, I could just write and see what happens...nahh, that would be too easy.
Or, perhaps this is too crazy an idea, a book log (see, b-log). That is to say, every day on which I finish a book, I will post a review of it on this blog. And every day that I do not, in fact, finish a book, I will write a review of a book I've read previously.
The goal is, of course, to spread the love and joy of reading AND to keep track of everything I read.
All reviews will be labeled b-log and, while there may be other posts, I will try to keep everything reading and writing-related.
So this has to be something different. This has to be something special. An outlet for all the thoughts that cannot help but well up inside me? A home for both the brilliance and inanity that lies in all that I do?
Alternatively, I could just write and see what happens...nahh, that would be too easy.
Or, perhaps this is too crazy an idea, a book log (see, b-log). That is to say, every day on which I finish a book, I will post a review of it on this blog. And every day that I do not, in fact, finish a book, I will write a review of a book I've read previously.
The goal is, of course, to spread the love and joy of reading AND to keep track of everything I read.
All reviews will be labeled b-log and, while there may be other posts, I will try to keep everything reading and writing-related.
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