There's a lot to love in Kidnap on the California Comet. It's a richly adventurous sequel to The Highland Falcon Thief and I enjoyed every inch of it.There's a lot to love in Kidnap on the California Comet. It's a richly adventurous sequel to The Highland Falcon Thief and I enjoyed every inch of it. This series is starting to have such a gorgeous texture; it reads like a little bit like Agatha Christie, a little bit like an older Famous Five (but with a damn sight more nuance and tact), and a little bit 'let's all just go on an adventure' and I love it. It's a really strong series and the quality of it is marked: these are excellent stories, well told, and I rather love that. Good books, done good.
So! It's a sequel, yes, but Kidnap on the California Comet is infinitely accessible as a standalone novel which is - again - another mark in the authors favour. It's really important to make every entrance point to a series as accessible and as readable as you can, otherwise you lock readers out and I am not here for a series that does that. Leonard and Sedgman use structure as their friend here - we go somewhere, something happens, we return - and I love their confidence with it. It's a pattern that has worked for a long time in children's lit and it works, especially when it's in such good hands. The authors pull absolutely everyone they can along with them on the journey. No passengers left behind. Adventures for everyone!
A quick note of recognition as well for Elisa Paganelli's delightfully vibrant illustrations. She has a quickness of line and a lightness of touch that really captures the moment. Her artwork is lived, immediate, real - it's such an important part of these books. The whole package is just so good.
My thanks to the publishers for a review copy. ...more
I first read the Drina series many moons ago and didn't really think that much of them. Though I devoured titles by people like Noel Streatfeild and LI first read the Drina series many moons ago and didn't really think that much of them. Though I devoured titles by people like Noel Streatfeild and Lorna Hill, the Drina books always felt a little bit more pedestrian to me. They were pleasant pedestrian, if such a thing could be, but they were definitely pedestrian. Enjoyable to read, but when you were done, you were done.
Ballet For Drina, plus a handful of other titles from the series, recently surfaced in a nearby shop to me and I picked them up - partially to see if I still thought they were pedestrian, but also to simply read something pleasant. Something simple. If ever a year demands such books to have their time, it is this. And so Ballet for Drina, Drina Dances in Switzerland (you know you're in a classic kid's series when you get to Switzerland my friends), and Drina Goes on Tour made their way home with me.
And yes, Ballet For Drina still had that slightly pedestrian edge to it, but it also had something rather wonderful and that was the bones of a very classic ballet story. Girl discovers talent, works at it, deals with problems in her way, becomes good. It won't reinvent the wheel by any means, but it does what it does in a real solid and rather satisfying fashion. I also found it pleasing that the difficulty of this path is emphasised: being a ballerina is not easy and requires sacrifice from all concerned. Yes, some of the moments are Slightly Ridiculous, but all good classic children's lit has that mildly ridiculous edge. We allow it because we believe in the world, and the world of Drina - even though it's full of balletomanes on every corner and she goes to dos wearing a little white dress with a scarlet capes (ugh, I love it) - is believable. It really is.
There's a lot here to love; it has that Blytonian quality of being almost grimly readable and accessible, and I think the earlier books where Drina is young, could still provide a lot of appeal for contemporary young readers. And that's because, in many ways, this is still a stone cold classic piece of children's literature. ...more
I reread The School by The River for a lecture I attended online this week, one concerned with the role of memory and how the act of reading is in itsI reread The School by The River for a lecture I attended online this week, one concerned with the role of memory and how the act of reading is in itself situated across our lives. What does it mean to remember a book that you read as a child? What does it mean to reread it now? Fascinating stuff and one that drove me to the work of Elinor M. Brent-Dyer, an author whom I have read for a long time, and to The School By The River. Interestingly enough, the last time I read this book was for an essay for the speaker of this week's lecture, and I didn't realise the connection until I sat down to listen.
I remember the first time I found The School By The River. I was a member of a fan journal at the time, and I remember receiving the little order supplement with the journal as it came through the post. A bright colour too, I think, perhaps blue or red. I went through a flurry of ordering 'additional' titles by EBD at that time, though it rapidly wore off. I couldn't keep up with the amount of reprints and fill-ins that were published, and so I think I maybe bought this, Behind the Chalet School: A Biography of Elinor M.Brent-Dyer and Visitors for the Chalet School around the same sort of time and that was about it. Collecting was a long term project, and I was in it for the duration. Besides, my pocket money didn't stretch to it.
The School By The River was a good book to pick. It was lost for many years, the circumstances of a small initial print run plus air-raid damage to the printers during WW2, and it's a standalone. Brent-Dyer was terribly fond of series (even though she approached issues like consistency and detail with an airy - and rather delightful - irreverence) and her standalone titles are, for me, not the best of her work. They sort of act as a sampler to the others - this is what you'll get, and it's quite likely I'll recycle the names as well and half the plots elsewhere.
Some of The School By The River does suffer from such a tendency towards being already seen elsewhere, but then Brent-Dyer throws in a revolution halfway through and things go full crazytown and I love it. I can't tell you how much I adore her talking about things like Bolshevism and Student Revolution because they're clearly such alien concepts to her. (Redheads at the Chalet School I'm looking at you). And so we get some rather wonderfully ambitious writing here with talk of politics, Bolsheviki agents, revolution and uprising, and it's all utterly off its noodle in a way that only Brent-Dyer can do. Singing in the cellars! Gunshots! Stale bread with honey whilst the proletariat swim through floods! I have never known an author so keenly devoted to hybridising ridiculous and wonderful in her work as this one.
Plot. I suppose we should talk plot briefly, because that's what we do in such things like this. Jennifer's talented with the piano, weirdly pretty if you do her hair right, very British, destined for great things and also an orphan (naturellement). She's got chums, gets a bit wound up when there's a storm on, there's also a bad girl who turns good, some terribly overwrought social drama, and a magnificent ruritanian Kingdom where everybody goes about by horse and carriage and wears national dress 24/7. Honestly, what is life when you have a book as delightful as this?...more
I bought this primarily because of the hideous cover, dazzled as I was by this rendering of Patrick Pennington in a way I had never quite imagined himI bought this primarily because of the hideous cover, dazzled as I was by this rendering of Patrick Pennington in a way I had never quite imagined him before. And for a long while it stayed unread and at the bottom of my TBR pile, occasionally beaming at me in all its awful glory without ever quite being read.
Of course, I knew the Pennington books and had read them all before in singular editions. In many senses, I was telling myself that I didn't need to read this, that I knew the books, that I knew what KM Peyton could do. And that - perhaps - this cover, this brilliant monstrosity, was all I had this edition for. I knew the books well enough. I did not need to go back to them.
And then, I did. Weeks of lockdown and a slowly diminishing TBR pile, and this - the survivor - greeting me at the bottom of it. I hadn't read anything properly for weeks; in a way, I was the pond-skimmer, an insect moving my way along the top of the water and never quite fully reaching that which lay below. I read, but I didn't. I turned the pages, but I didn't.
But it is for such moments that KM Peyton is made for. She is a writer who can find the elasticity of a moment, stretching it until everything that it could be and everything that it is has been explored. And although, perhaps of the three, Pennington's Seventeenth Summer feels its age a little, this is a remarkable, brilliant collection of stories. It is life, it is love, and it is written with such a beautiful and eloquent fluency that I reread whole chunks of it in a slow stupor of wonder. Her eye for detail! The nuance of emotion! The way she can see everybody and allow them to simply be!
Oh the glory of a writer at the peak of her powers, the glory.
I'm always interested when a book does something differently, and this really does. Orion Lost is a big, meaty science-fiction story set aboard a spacI'm always interested when a book does something differently, and this really does. Orion Lost is a big, meaty science-fiction story set aboard a space-ship where everything suddenly goes wrong. And the only people who can put things right are the kids - thirteen year old Beth and her friends. Being in charge is never easy, and it's particularly uneasy when your crew is panicking, you're responsible for the lives of every one on board, you're ricocheting from crisis to crisis, and the AI might actually be evil.
There's a clear heritage here to things like Firefly, Star Wars and Star Trek, but what really appealed was how Chisholm handled his characters. They're real people, flawed and fascinating and this is a story that you don't want to put down. I had no expectations about this when I started it, but then I really couldn't put it down. It's a big, powerful, hooky read.
Also, I was pleased that it's as big as it is - there's a lot of story here, in a way that's perhaps unusual for middle grade books, but it's all there for a reason. I thought that the ending could perhaps have done with a little more and that's again an unusual thing for this age-group. Stories sometimes strain against circumstance and genre, but this is a story that fits so very well into its situation and could even give more under the circumstances. I really do want to say something about the engines being able to take it but I'm not sure I can write that in an appropriate 'Scottish engineer on the Enterprise' tone of voice so just consider it as implied, thank you.
This is a really great read. I was happily surprised and I'm delighted to be; this is something fresh, unique and rather well handled indeed. And it surprised me - a lot - and I love that.
My thanks to the publisher for a review copy....more
I am increasingly conscious that I am moving closer to the world of the Brontës, falling in love with it, and not being remotely mad about this, not aI am increasingly conscious that I am moving closer to the world of the Brontës, falling in love with it, and not being remotely mad about this, not at all. I would have fought against this a few years ago, I think, reading them as something distant from what they are. Something dull, something 'bonnety', something related to distant schooldays and the memories of tearing a text from limb to limb and leaving little to nothing left there to love, to lose onself in. But I have learnt how to read since then, and by 'read', I mean to read for myself. This isn't about literacy nor the understanding of shapes and comprehension of words, it's about reading. Selfishly, wholly. Completely. Reading not for the reaction of others but for the reaction of myself. And to trust in that. It's something I took a while to figure out: my reading has validity. And also, that it doesn't matter what route I take to get to a text. It just matters that I take it.
My route to the Brontës began with Emily and Wuthering Heights, and the slow realisation that I could not ignore storytelling as fierce as this. And so I worked my way into their world, reading books about them and books by them and books like Glass Town by Isabel Greenberg, books that are something so magical and wild and weird and delicious that they spill out of simple classifications and into something else entirely. Technically this is a graphic novel, a blend of fact and fiction, a story of the Brontë juvenilia and the stories held within, and it is that. But it's something else entirely, and I think that something is magic.
Magic. We read it as one thing, but it's so often another. Opening your eyes. Picking up a pen. Pulling a rabbit out of a hat. All magic, magic things but infinitely different. The act of conjuring. The act of making. The act of faith. A thousand different things in this world are magic and they are intoxicating, teasing, all-enveloping. Writing was the Brontës magic, a way to slide from one world into another, and the moors were their magic, a way to stand on the edge of the sky, and each other were their magic, these small potatoes in their cellar, these sisters.
I think that's what happens here in Isabel Greenberg's book, magic. Worlds slide into worlds, lives fold into each other, stories map landscapes, oceans are formed, stars are made, stories are told. Greenberg's art borders on a spectral edge, capturing the tense edge of life on the edge of the moor, a life fighting against everything that happened, another world haunting the skies above Haworth, a castle in the sky built by words and stories and dreams.
The other great part of this book is Charlotte's story. There are moments here that are intensely saddening, handled with a great and subtle restraint, and it is remarkable. I loved it. A lesson in dreams, a lesson in heartbreak, a lesson in imagination. A lesson in heartbreak, a lesson in love, a lesson in life. This book really is a stunning achievement. ...more
This is such a lot of fun. I went into The Highland Falcon Thief thinking well, I am ancient and absolutely have no interest whatsoever in trains, andThis is such a lot of fun. I went into The Highland Falcon Thief thinking well, I am ancient and absolutely have no interest whatsoever in trains, and I came out and realised that I loved it. There is a scene, for example, where they fill up the train with water (this is a thing!) and it is pretty much one of the best scenes I have read for a long while. It's breathless, visceral and genuinely good storytelling - and one that actually made me look up steam-trains on Youtube for the first time in ever.
Harrison Beck has been invited to join his Uncle Nat on the final journey of the royal steam-train: The Highland Falcon. Things go awry, as they do in all stories, and suddenly Harrison finds himself making friends and investigating the mystery of the Highland Falcon Thief. Told by MG Leonard and Sam Sedgman, this is such a vibrant and well-crafted story and one that gives you an incredibly rich mystery/adventure in the process. Mystventure? Forgive me, I am fond of tenuous portmanteaux.
Evocative of Robin Stephens' delicious mysteries, with a side-order of Agatha Christie - and a little bit of Indiana Jones thrown in for good measure - the Highland Falcon Thief is the perfect title for confident, independent readers. If they're not, then it's perfect for a bedtime read as well but be warned - you'll have to deal with a fair few 'just one more chapter' requests. And, I suspect, not all of these requests will come from the child...
Vibrant, fun and just really really good storytelling, this is one of the best books I've read for a while. I loved it....more
I recently found a copy of A Vicarage Family in a charity shop and had a 'no book left behind' moment over it. It's a book I first read a long while aI recently found a copy of A Vicarage Family in a charity shop and had a 'no book left behind' moment over it. It's a book I first read a long while ago and one that left me conscious of the necessity of giving your family a suet pudding to eat before the Sunday roast, without ever being quite conscious of what a suet pudding was nor why you had to eat one before the meal. Isn't it strange the shards that books leave within you? The Vicarage Family is suet, for me, always.
But on a more practical, and less food-orientated note, this book is about family. It is a fictionalised autobiography of Streatfeild's childhood and one that wasn't as much fun to read for me this time as it was first time round. It felt a little episodic, a little disjointed, and strangely underwhelming. I'm not sure why it didn't work for me as much as it did though, that point about the suet still made me smile. I know what suet is now! The excitement!
Despite all of this, this is still a book I'd reccommend though, particularly to those interested in childhood life at the turn of the century and the influence that this played upon Streatfeild's books. And there is an influence, you can almost trace the stroppy and madly talented Vicky - a thin veiling of Streatfeild- in the iconic books that Streatfeild would go onto produce. It's charming, interesting but not - for me, this time round - as brilliantly written as her later work. ...more
It's difficult to talk about Sensible Footwear by Kate Charlesworth without telling you what an utterly wonderful book it is. It is simply wonderful, It's difficult to talk about Sensible Footwear by Kate Charlesworth without telling you what an utterly wonderful book it is. It is simply wonderful, this powerful, personal and political story of LGBTQI+ history within the United Kingdom from the 1950s to the present day. I was very young and in the first years of school when section 28 was enacted and I do not ever remember being taught about histories like this. Though I can't directly link it towards the act itself of course, what with being tiny and not present behind the scenes in any of the schools I subsequently attended, it is important to note that at least one classroom grew up without the awareness of things like this. Stories. Culture. People. And it is never just one classroom, never.
And so we turn to stories to fill those gaps, and to provide those narratives of histories and lives lived so beautifully, so brilliantly in a world that was not yet ready or willing to hear them. Charlesworth delivers here not only just a personal memoir that documents her own realisation of her sexuality but also the stories of a thousand others. Each decade is introduced with a contextual double spread that talks about the LGBTQI+ events of the period and Charlesworth handles these stunningly, juxtaposing events such as the opening of Gay's the Word bookshop in 1979 (still trading! go!) with John Curry's performance at the 1976 Winter Olympics. These are people - places - things bursting from the pages, bustling against each other, and it is rather, utterly brilliant.
Charlesworth is also somebody who knows how to handle a page. She packs the decade spreads with information, but then - when she has to - she knows how and when to give space. I was moved to tears by several of the pages in the 1980s, for example, and I loved her engagements with pop culture - there's a part where she discusses Doris Day and Calamity Jane and it is remarkable, wonderful stuff. It's full of power, every inch of it, and it's an education on more than one level.
Would I recommend Sensible Footwear? Undoubtedly. It's a memoir on one level, a history lesson on another, and a tribute to those who had to live in a world that was not ready or willing to let them do precisely that. It is a staggering achievement....more
Hansel and Gretel but not as you know it; the kids are horrible little things and the witch, Willow, is - well, not quite what you think. I've known oHansel and Gretel but not as you know it; the kids are horrible little things and the witch, Willow, is - well, not quite what you think. I've known of Bethan Woolvin's stylish work for a while and so, when I received a copy of this to review from Two Hoots, I was thrilled. There's a part of the picture book world that embraces oddness; art that longs for wilful disobedience, that aches make a line curve when it should be straight, that wants to have a colour two shades darker than you might expect, that longs to utilise shape in a way that you might never expect. That's Woollvin's work right there; modern, full of careful design, and deliciously, obstreperously of itself.
The idea of a disruptive fairytale isn't that new now, and it's something that needs to be done with a fresh spin if it's to have any resonance. Woollvin finds that through her limited palette; the 'note-colour' here is orange, splurging and squishing off the page with fluorescent intensity. Hansel and Gretel wear orange, tying themselves intimately into the heart of the text, whilst Willow herself wears a grey/black triangular dress, highlighted only with the tiniest note of orange on a button and on her tights. She is sidelined, separate.
But the ending of this book addresses that sidelining with devastating effect: it was Willow's story all along. There's a slightly strange final spread that didn't quite work for me - it felt a little disjointed - but overall, this is a powerful, stylistically strong text with a deliciously dark and unflinchingly honest ending.
My thanks to the publisher for a review copy. ...more
I've never wholly clicked with Joan Aiken. I think, sometimes, some of it stems from my preferences; I like stories with a particular taste and style I've never wholly clicked with Joan Aiken. I think, sometimes, some of it stems from my preferences; I like stories with a particular taste and style and frame. I like being able to handle them and know what I'm going to get and then being delighted in how my expectations are subverted. Outfox me, please, I long for it. But I think with Joan Aiken, I'm always struggling to understand, trying to figure out what's going on and where it is, and how I should feel about that. This is no criticism; it's a testament to her wild imagination and fiercely convincing world-building. Everything feels right and then, suddenly, off. A mirror, cracked. A world remade and reshaped by somebody who is undoubtedly brilliant. I am a little cowed by that, I think, and it's hard for me to find my place in the text.
And yet Midnight Is A Place is outstanding; fierce, rich, full of detail, but it's a detail that I chase after and never quite get hold of. There's so much packed in this novel - family history, dramatic personal change, hogs! in! sewers! - that I ache for time to explore it, to discover more about this and that before being pulled away to study the other. And again this is a testament to how good she is: there's so much here, whether it's the nuanced, subtle details of character, or the barely managed wilderness of the landscape, or it's simply those hogs that roam the sewers that thread like an artery underneath the world.
But here's the thing: sometimes it doesn't matter how I feel about a book. I can not be wholly comfortable with something, but I can recognise how great it is. I can recognise the mark of an author who is fine, fine, fine with her craft and I can understand how important this might be to somebody just discovering what language is and what it can be shaped to be. I would recommend this without batting an eyelid because it is good, powerful, bold fiction.
The more I read of the authors I read, the more I become convinced that there is a fine line between ridiculous and genius. So close and yet sometimesThe more I read of the authors I read, the more I become convinced that there is a fine line between ridiculous and genius. So close and yet sometimes, so very much one or the other. It is the problem, I think, of being so squarely located within a series and world that you, as the author, have created, and being unable to find your way out of it. The Drina books suffered from this towards the end, I think, because it was too far in. So did Harry Potter if I'm being frank; I ached for it to be edited so much more towards the end of the series, and yet there they were. Behemoths, character-locked, mythology wrapped islands. Maybe it's a problem of series fiction, and not one of genre at all. Maybe that's what series do: leave you wrapped up in a problem of your own making and you're just left trying to find the way out.
And so to Lorna Hill, and this delightful yet inherently ridiculous affair. Annette Dancy ("dancey by name and dancey by nature" reader, I die) needs to get to Scotland. She has no money but a great idea. Inevitably, none of that matters because everything works out! As you always knew it would! This isn't a spoiler! You knew it from the moment you read it!
There's something comforting about Lorna Hill and I do love her, but this is essentially 'dancer on a boat and then dancer in Scotland' and she's done it better elsewhere. Much better. Dancer In The Wings just feels comfortable; a book span out of air, easy as the sun rising in the East and setting in the West. And even in that comfortable ridiculousness, there are moments when it's still perfect, albeit briefly, so very briefly, because Hill does write a bloody good dance scene. You root for Annette, even though she's an idiot, and you root for dancing on a ship, even though it's ridiculous, because Hill makes it work. It's comfortable, comforting stuff, and sometimes that's what's needed. It's not the highest of literature, nor will it last with you very long after it happens, but for a moment? It's ideal. ...more
I, Cosmo by Carlie Sorosiak is, I suspect, rather brilliant. I didn't quite understand it for a while until all of a sudden I did; I got it, I understI, Cosmo by Carlie Sorosiak is, I suspect, rather brilliant. I didn't quite understand it for a while until all of a sudden I did; I got it, I understood, and then I was Emotionally Moved and here we are.
This is the story of a golden retriever and his family. His boy. His bacon. It's odd; undoubtedly, and for some reason the narration reminded me a lot of The Book Thief which is quite the unusual reference for a golden retriever to evoke, but here we are.
I keep returning to that notion of presence. Here we are. Living in the moment, loving in the moment, whispering a secret to a dog that we don't tell anybody else. I, Cosmo's premise is a little unusual and a little bit messy sometimes, and I don't quite know if the ending worked for me, but this isn't really a book about that sort of thing. It's about love and love is something that exists in the now for Cosmo and Max. Sure they have a life of stories between them, but they also have the now. That moment when they'll do anything for each other. And Sorosiak gets that, she writes their love beautifully. It's incredibly rich and deeply eccentric and rather, utterly, lovely at points.
Here we are. A dog, a boy, and a love that carries them both through some dark times. This is a book that covers family problems, the problems of being an elderly dog, and a sheepdog nemesis. It's odd. It's weird. But it's also so delightfully distinct and packed full of fierce, endless, eternal love that I think I am fascinated by it.
I, Cosmo is out in August from Nosy Crow. My thanks to them for a review copy. ...more
They Rode To Victory is a workmanlike affair; a team of comprehensive school children are going to compete against the "posh girl's school" and thingsThey Rode To Victory is a workmanlike affair; a team of comprehensive school children are going to compete against the "posh girl's school" and things are going wrong. There's been a strike; the children aren't able to practice as much as they need to; and one of the boys decides to take things into his own hands. This is Gavin who is a dab hand with a pony yet a bit rubbish with people. Things go wrong, things go right, and we learn quite a lot about pony welfare as we go along.
Pullein-Thompson is very solid here, and very much on par. It's not the best book she's ever written, and it's not the highest of literature, but it is something solid and workmanlike and the subtext hints towards some meaty areas. It's also full of those things that tell you you're in a P-T book, the first being three lines to characterise the humans, and three hundred and two for the ponies, and heavens above I do love it. ...more
I loved this. So much. Little Women is one of those iconic texts and retellings of iconic texts can be challenging things. Do you stick with the iconiI loved this. So much. Little Women is one of those iconic texts and retellings of iconic texts can be challenging things. Do you stick with the iconic or do you go for something new? Do you retell texture or detail, sensation or sentence? It's a balancing act and one that will never wholly reproduce the original. But it shouldn't. Books - stories - life - they evolve. Words grow, words shift, words change, and that which broke our heart at age six can turn us into warriors at age thirty-six. Everything changes. Why should our stories be any different?
And so this is no perfect adaptation, because I think no adaptation can be perfect. It simply can't. It's never that original, it's never that point in time, it's never the moment when we pick up a book for the first time. It's an echo, a memory, but in the hands of Rey Terciero and Bre Indigo, it's perfect. I accept the flaws of Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy (and Peggy!) because it's so utterly, utterly gorgeous. Yes, the chapters tend to devolve into vignettes, and plots are shifted and detail nuanced, but when it's as beautiful and rich and lovely as this, I don't care.
And it made me love Amy. So much. Amy! The actual worst becoming the actual best! Wonders will never cease. This is joyful, and I love it. We should not separate our stories from the world; we should take them and reshape them and make them parts of our lives. And we should give them such an ending as Terciero and Indigo give this book, one of heart, hope and utter, utter power. ...more
There's always been something special about Robin Stevens' work for me. I've been a fan of her since Murder Most Unladylike, a book that features in mThere's always been something special about Robin Stevens' work for me. I've been a fan of her since Murder Most Unladylike, a book that features in my thesis and a paper I'm working on and a presentation I'll be doing in a couple of months. I get a lot from her work, and I enjoy working with her stories. I enjoy reading them. I love them, in point of fact. She writes golden stories full of such utter quality and they're great. They're also fiercely committed to representation, diversity and equality and some of the steps made in Death in the Spotlight are beautifully handled.
I found the context for Death In The Spotlight to be a little artificial, but once I moved past that I remembered how good these books are. Stevens has the great gift of pulling you on the journey with her. And you can have doubts, and moments when you question it, because Hazel or Daisy are doing the precise same thing all along, but then you solve the crime. Figure out the murderer. You test yourself against the book at every step and when you finish it, you end up in such a good and satisfied place that you forget any of the doubt you had. I love how Stevens does that. She allows you those moments to question and doubt, and she says that it's okay. It's such an expression of faith and trust in her readers, and I love it.
I have my suspicions for the future trajectory of this series, as we're moving towards a tumultuous period in British history, but I'll not dwell much on that. I shall simply say that I'll be there with these books and waiting to see what happens. I love them a lot, I really really do....more
I've been looking for something like Girl Squads for a very long time. This smart, chatty and furiously honest book is a treat because, unlike so manyI've been looking for something like Girl Squads for a very long time. This smart, chatty and furiously honest book is a treat because, unlike so many of the others out there, Girl Squads acknowledges the truth about women's history. It is complex, fought for, and often overwritten by a cultural system which privileges other voices. I'm trying not to write The White Western Patriarchy here, but I'm sure you've figured that out by now.
What I loved about Girl Squads is that it's not afraid of offering an opinion. There's no romantic hagiographies here; history is rendered as a messy, knotty and occasionally deeply unsatisfying thing. The style is chatty, conversational, occasionally sliding a little too much towards the informal, but as a whole works perfectly. This is big sister history, told to you by somebody who wants you to think about the world and to fight for your place in it. And the women covered are remarkable. It's split into sections covering Athlete Squads, Political and Activist Squads, Warrior Squads, Scientist Squads and Artist Squads, and covers women's groups as diverse as The Haenyeo Divers to The Blue Stockings.
Interspersed throughout by Jenn Woodall's sensitive and richly detailed illustrations (a small cameo to introduce each woman, and a lovely page to introduce each section), Girl Squads is a vibrant, powerful thing. It pays tribute to the complex lives of the women it celebrates and it manages to keep that complexity intact. Being female is a complex, wonderful thing. Not many books recognise that challenge or celebrate it. But Girl Squads does.
I am grateful to the publisher for a review copy. ...more
There's not much I wouldn't do for one of these glorious Esme Verity covers. The daughter of Lorna Hill, Verity has a great grace to her artwork and IThere's not much I wouldn't do for one of these glorious Esme Verity covers. The daughter of Lorna Hill, Verity has a great grace to her artwork and I love it. The light. The richness. The softness. This is good, classical artwork and rather beautiful stuff. The book itself isn't, perhaps, the best thing that Lorna Hill has ever done but every now and then it absolutely sings. But that's Hill all over; sometimes she gets a little lost in the plotting and circumstance (everybody in Northumberland dances beautifully) but then sometimes, she'll deliver a page as utterly wonderful and as perfect as anything you'll find framed in a gallery. She's an interesting author and one that I think tends to be a little forgotten, and she shouldn't. Not in the slightest.
So to the specifics; this is the first of the Dancing Peel series. It is fiercely, utterly romantic with its 'Peel' tower that looks out onto the moors, dancing siblings that explore Spanish dance and ballet respectively, and the hints of romantic destiny over injured and orphaned animals. The latter is done in the way that only Lorna Hill can do, and I love it. Her writing can be very quiet on the surface but a thousand stories and images and sensations are lurking underneath, always.
One final thing to note about this edition is that it is a very beautiful thing and worth hunting out from a collector's perspective. I'm always loathe to reccommend certain books to collect, as I want them all for myself, but you should pick up a copy of this. The cover, as I've already mentioned, is divine, but the endpapers feature a map of Northumberland that is rather wonderful. And good endpapers, as any fule kno, are everything. ...more
This really didn't work for me for a variety of reasons. Though it's based on a true story, and one that Zail tells us about in an extremely poignant This really didn't work for me for a variety of reasons. Though it's based on a true story, and one that Zail tells us about in an extremely poignant afterword, Saving Midnight seemed to miss the mark in a lot of ways. The ending was very moving but felt rushed, and as a whole there was an oddly anticlimactic air to it all. Zail is better than this - as that moving afterword shows - but when the afterword is the most powerful part of the book, then something isn't right. ...more
It has been a long time since I have read something so perfect as this, and if it doesn't win the Kate Greenaway Medal this year, or at the very leastIt has been a long time since I have read something so perfect as this, and if it doesn't win the Kate Greenaway Medal this year, or at the very least make the shortlist, then I'll hand in my badge. I'm not sure that I have an actual badge, so to speak, but I'm trying to work on a metaphor that tells you how great this book is and how blindingly, utterly, brilliant it does what it does, and so I'll hope you'll forgive me my delirium and go out and buy it straight away. Because it's good. Honestly, it's more than that. It's perfect, and I'm delirious over it and I feel like I want to write a love letter to Andersen to say thank you for letting me take look at it (their edition is out in October 2018, it has the slightly different - and better - title of 'Mary And Frankenstein', and have I mentioned you should buy it?). This is a gift, this book, and here's the part where I tell you why.
Written by Linda Bailey, Mary and Frankenstein explores the story of Mary Shelley. The daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft, the creator of modern science fiction, the girl who loved Percy Bysshe Shelley, the girl who lived, Mary Shelley is a fascinating and complex figure. And in the hands of somebody lesser, her story might have suffered. It might have been reduced to one of those hagiographies we see so often at the moment in children's literature, and it might have been sidelined for the stories of those people she lived and loved with. But Bailey doesn't. I knew we were in good hands when I read her author's note and saw that she'd thanked an academic for critiquing the manuscript. This is everything, my friends, because it shows somebody who takes this seriously. It is a privilege to write these sorts of books, and it is a skill to write them well. Bailey does that. She does that so well. She has a clean, simple, and deeply restrained style that delivers such calmly beautiful lines as:
"Mary's mother was a great thinker. She wrote books to say that women should have the same rights as men. She died when Mary was only eleven days old.
Can you miss someone you've never known?
Mary does"
Just, let that sink in a little. The great grace of that, the restraint of that. The way it gives you everything and manages to hold itself back from giving you too much. It's brilliantly done. And it's smartly done. It gives children a chance to find something else out on their own, to fill in the absence with their facts and stories, to look up into the sky and tell their own story. After all, "Writers dream stories, awake and asleep."
It's beautiful. And it's even more beautiful when it's paired with the incomparable artwork of Júlia Sardà. I'd encourage you to have a look at her website and this review about the process of illustrating this little gothic masterpiece, as her artwork here is almost incomparably done. It's immense, it's ferociously unique and particular, and it makes me breathless. Her use of line and colour is so wonderfully done, and she has this great gift of being able to centre her images and find the humanity of them (an apt skill when we consider the topic!). There's a lot going in in this amazing book and yet, even as the wind whips the trees or as owls fly through the sky, your eye's drawn to Mary. Her red hair, her white face, her story. She will be heard, she will be seen, she will be told.
Oh this book, I could write for days about it...
I will teach it in my classes, and I will hand it to those who tell me that children's books are the easy options, and I will nominate it for the Kate Greenaway and I shall will it to win every award on the planet, because it's outstanding. It's one of the best picture books I've ever read....more
Julia Gray is quietly producing some of the most complex and challenging books out there, and Little Liar is a spectacular addition to her canon. I'm Julia Gray is quietly producing some of the most complex and challenging books out there, and Little Liar is a spectacular addition to her canon. I'm fascinated, really, by books that do not do what you expect of them nor what you think they should, and this is one of those books that quietly and determinedly does what it has to do in its own way and pulls you in with every step it takes. I have time for books that do that, and I have such time for books that do it well.
Nora, the narrator, is a liar. She has told lies before, about many things, but one lie in particular starts to change everything. Like a pebble dropped in water, there are ripples and aftershocks that reach farther than Nora can imagine. Her new friendship with the rich, unpredictable and talented Bel is impacted; her world changes. And choices, inevitably, have to be made.
I devoured this. I'm not sure the ending quite delivered on what I wanted it to be, but then I'm not sure something like this can ever do what you want it to do because of the nature of the beast. I'm also not sure the title is the best one, and I have concerns about it being overshadowed by more visible titles. I say these sorts of things because the story here is so very good that I do not want that to happen. It's precise, pained, and beautifully crafted, and every now and then Gray has the skill to throw in a minute that makes you genuinely gasp. And I did, and can I tell you how rare that is? To physically pause and gape at a book and have that moment of full body reaction?
Little Liar is a complex book full of complex characters and it's often unattractive, dark and challenging. There's a level of bravery in that because nobody can easily, nor coherently, be rooted for and nobody gives you those (so often impossible or ripe with cliche) moments of fictional happiness. But then, do you have to root for somebody in a book? You can root, perhaps, for the way that a book makes you feel; the way it may bring you to the edge of your senses and block out the world beyond it; the way that you can't describe it in one sentence; or, perhaps, the way that you are genuinely part of this world and at a loss for what will happen next but knowing, knowing that you can't stop reading?
I can root for that.
My thanks to the publisher for a review copy. ...more
Lyrical, poignant, powerful and ferociously unashamed of what it is and the story it has to tell, Circe by Madeline Miller is something else. As I do Lyrical, poignant, powerful and ferociously unashamed of what it is and the story it has to tell, Circe by Madeline Miller is something else. As I do with many of the 'big' books, the ones that win the awards and are talked about at length by everyone I know, I began it with fear. I stray carefully into books that are out of my specialisms, because I don't want to read bad things. I don't have time for that. Nobody does. Reading is a brief, beautiful marriage and to have one that doesn't work out? That's the worst of things, the worst of times.
Circe works out. And it is the best, the best of times.
It is the first book by Madeline Miller that I've read, but it will not be the last. Miller's eloquent and lyrical prose seeks out the roundness of Circe's story and presents it with such utter truth. It is a remarkable book, evocative of those epic poems that tell stories of long lost and distant heroes; Circe, however, is as present as the keyboard that I type this on. You feel her, you know her, and you live her every breath. There's something rather remarkable happening here; a story of a woman being told in an intimate, powerful, believable manner - the story of her survival, her loves, her losses, and her rampant, raw bravery.
A powerful, graceful and eloquent story, told with truth, honesty and love. I read this in a handful of days. I would go back to the start of those days all over....more
My eye was caught by the premise of this one. Jack is an orphaned boy and, after one prank too far, his Aunt washes her hands of him. Jack is sent to My eye was caught by the premise of this one. Jack is an orphaned boy and, after one prank too far, his Aunt washes her hands of him. Jack is sent to be with his Uncle, an exploring botanist, and the two of them are off to the Himalayas to find the rare blue rhododendron. But, as such things always are in books, that's a lot easier said than done.
Jack Fortune and The Search For The Hidden Valley is a very enjoyable thing. Occasionally some of Purkiss' prose feels a little conscious, and I'd welcome some clarity to the structure of the novel at points, the weight of the adventure carries her through. This is a really unusual setup for a book - not the adventure elements, but the botany subtext - and I think that's a very welcome thing. I don't think I've ever read a book that merges botany with a Boy's Own adventure, and the little historical note for context at the back of the book is nicely done.
Set in eighteenth century England, and touching on issues of colonisation and British rule, there's also an option for a lot of related discussion. Jack's interactions with the locals are nicely done, if a little too briefly, and I'd welcome this sort of discussion being pushed forward in the sequels - I suspect there may be a sequel. It feels as though there should be. I'd like there to be one. There's something so delicious about the premise, and Purkiss' clear love of the genre, that one book really isn't enough.
My thanks to the publisher for a review copy. ...more
There was a point in reading this when the back of my neck started to tingle. It's not often that happens, but when it does, it's the sort of thing yoThere was a point in reading this when the back of my neck started to tingle. It's not often that happens, but when it does, it's the sort of thing you need to pay attention to. And I think you've experienced it too; that little sensation that you are reading something that is kind of superlatively wonderful, and your whole body has realised it. A literary spider sense if you will. The voice that forms afterwards and whispers: this is good.
I had that with A Spoonful Of Murder. I had it in spades. Most specifically I had it with pages 98-103, if you'd like me to be very specific, but this book is just a delight from start to end. I am a fan of Stevens' work. I adored Murder Most Unladylike ( my review is here), and its sequels have been nothing but a vibrant joy. I even wrote about Murder Most Unladylike in my thesis and will bore you to death for hours on its nuanced representation of transgressive girlhood; and I love A Spoonful Of Murder with all my heart.
I really, really do. One of the things I love about my job is that I get to push good books at people. Not, I hasten to add, literally. I do not stand on street corners pushing books. I talk to people in my libraries and I share with them the books that are just classy and good and brilliant things. Stevens is at the top of her game here, because she takes risks and makes them work in a quite wonderful fashion. This isn't the same old same old framework, resting on its laurels. Hazel and Daisy are in Hong Kong and there's a murder and a kidnap to solve.
The relocation means that, for once, it's Daisy who's out of her depth and trying to figure out the ways of the world. It's deliciously done, without ever disempowering her, and can I tell you how difficult an act that is? To write and to never, ever, not even once, devalue nor disempower character? It's a rare, rare thing and one that is kind of beautiful and wonderful to read. It also speaks a lot about Stevens' trust in this series and her work. She doesn't mess this up, not once. Hazel is wonderful throughout, providing an introduction to her home city of Hong Kong and the intricacies of dim sum even as she's wrestling with the thought that she is, herself, a suspect.
Good books make me happy. Good series make me even happier. Stevens manages to make each of these accessible to new readers, but also to old, and every single paragraph is just a joyful and gorgeous thing. It's books like this that make me run out of superlatives.
I don't usually step towards fantasy, but The Belles caught my eye. Camellia Beauregard is a Belle, tasked with 'controlling' Beauty in the gray and dI don't usually step towards fantasy, but The Belles caught my eye. Camellia Beauregard is a Belle, tasked with 'controlling' Beauty in the gray and dammed world of Orléans. It is only through appointments with a Belle, that people can be transformed and made beautiful. Yet, upon arriving at the royal court, Camellia and her sisters come to realise that everything is not as they dreamt it would be. Beauty, and the search for it, can be deadly. And a girl who can control that may be asked to make some impossible choices.
That's a good hook right there; a premise that sings towards some vital discussions, and places The Belles at a very vital intersection in Young Adult literature. This is the book that, for example, (Modelland by Tyra Banks) was trying so very hard to be. Beauty, and the commodification of that, the corruption of that, is something that needs to be bought out of the shadows and subject to critique. As The Belles shows, and as Barbara Kruger might say, your body is a battleground.
So The Belles hits notes that needs to be hit, and it hits them well. It took me a while to get into this, though I suspect that's partially my unfamiliarity with the genre but it is worth mentioning. In contrast, however, the final third or so was a powerful reading experience with some severe, scarring scenes. As Clayton remarks in the afterword, this is a story that's been gestating with her for quite some time and you can sense that. There's a lot of rich detail work and it's convincing. There's no loose space in this world; it all makes sense and combines to deliver something that, ultimately, is a powerful and kind of brilliant read. The second half of this book is a genuinely great read. I suspect the first half is too, but it just took me a long time to get into it.
A final thing is worth mentioning. You know how certain books become very conscious of their first part in a series and end with a madly infuriating cliffhanger? Well, the Belles does end with a cliffhanger but it manages to get away with it because I actually cared. Funny how good writing does that to you.
My thanks to the publisher for a review copy. ...more
It's difficult to review this book so, forgive me if I take a while to get to the point. If I'm honest, I'm not wholly sure as to why I didn't like thIt's difficult to review this book so, forgive me if I take a while to get to the point. If I'm honest, I'm not wholly sure as to why I didn't like this and I'm not sure that that dislike comes from me, as opposed to the text itself. Like I said; difficult.
Let's do the formal bit first. This is a prequel to the events of Northern Lights. There's a boy and a girl and a baby named Lyra. Things happen; characters make cameos, and I am left ferociously whelmed by the whole experience. ("I know you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but can you just be.... whelmed?" "I think you can in Europe.")
If I'm honest, and these reviews are the space to be so, La Belle Sauvage is a solid adventure story that tastes of Peter Ransome and Eva Ibbotson and Katherine Rundell and that's about the all of it. That is not to say that these are bad references to pick up on, because they are the very opposite of it. Ibbotson and Rundell and Ransome are totemic and magnificent, and to participate in that space on an even keel is a marvellous and beautiful thing.
There's some hints of something else too in this book, even though the last third feels like a different book altogether (and I wonder, so much, at that structure), and the wilderness of Pullman's power sometimes makes itself known with ferocious strength, but as a whole this book lacks something of the raw tenderness that his work can achieve. Is that an oxymoron? Can tenderness be raw? I'm not sure, but I know that it's the best way to describe it. This universe of daemons and witches allows it. Longs for it, sometimes. You share the deepest part of yourself with somebody else, and have the pain and the ecstasy all at once. La Belle Sauvage doesn't quite connect, somehow, and it might do in the following books, it might find its space in its wild and wonderful world, but right now it feels anticlimactic. It doesn't feel like the book it should be.
I was also concerned at the shaping given to many of the characters here and indeed, even in writing that, I have to stop and choose my words carefully. What am I trying to say? I think I am trying to say that I loved Malcolm and his heart, but I did not like certain aspects of how the characters were constructed. Perhaps that comes from spending the last few years embedded in books that talk about girlhood and womanhood, but I ache somewhat when women perform the role of caregiver and when girls become romantic pawns - and have this element of their characters be not treated as powerful. Does that make sense? Honestly, I'm not sure, and I wonder if, in a way, I'm writing this review too soon. But then again, when can you write a review? Sometimes I write about a book the moment I finish it because I'm hungry and giddy and mad with love, and sometimes I wait and try to let the thoughts settle in my head.
And now that I have done that, we are here and I am left with this : I think this book could have been better and I am still not sure how I feel about that. ...more
The titular Murderer's Ape is Sally Jones and she's also our narrator for this gently told story of murder, double-crosses and false imprisonment. It'The titular Murderer's Ape is Sally Jones and she's also our narrator for this gently told story of murder, double-crosses and false imprisonment. It's an interesting note to take for such a dramatic series of topics but then again, Sally Jones is an interesting figure. She's the best friend of the Chief, and together they run a cargo boat. She's the engineer, who lives with humans, and although she doesn't speak she can understand everything that they say. The Chief and Sally Jones take on a job and it ends badly; the Chief is accused of murder, and Sally is forced to go on the run. Can she clear his name? Can she survive?
I read the hardcover edition from Pushkin Press (my thanks to them for the review copy), and it is a beautiful edition. I bang on a lot about the importance of design when it comes to books and this is perfectly and distinctly done. A book can look good, but one that looks good and distinct? That's important, and it's nicely done here.
Quietly and lengthily told, The Murderer's Ape isn't, perhaps, the quickest of books. It took me a while to read, but it wasn't a traumatic process in the slightest. Narrated by Sally Jones, this is a quiet tale of peril and trauma that skates the edge of some nasty topics (anarchism, forced imprisonment, the idle rich, revolutionaries, and abusive relationships) whilst never quite wholly engaging with them. Some of this distance comes from Sally's position of remove, never quite accepted for who she is except for when she's with her friends, and the overall effect is rather one of gentle disturbance.
That's not to say that this book doesn't pose some big questions. Far from it. Sally is constantly required to assert her presence in a world that is not wholly comfortable with her, and that question of negotiated identity is something very important to children's and young adult literature. The best of these books allow our protagonists to find out who they are and, more to the point, who they can be. Sally is aided and abetted on her quest by a variety of characters who illustrate both the good and bad sides of humanity. It's up to Sally to decide how to live, and to survive.
For me, The Murderer's Ape sits somewhere on the lower edge of Young Adult, and on the higher edge of Middle Grade literature, and that is something I welcome very much. This is a book which should be placed into the hands of those who want meaty content, but may be, perhaps, unable to deal with the darkest edge of what young adult can (and indeed, should!) provide. The short and precise chapters, told in Sally's clean and clear prose also would fit very nice as a bedtime read. There are eighty so it may be a lengthy process, but then again there's nothing wrong with a slow read and in fact, it's something that might prove quite appropriate to this rich and classic tale....more
It's very easy for somebody who reads a lot of books to miss an author. And yet, equally, it's also very easy to have a consciousness of who and what It's very easy for somebody who reads a lot of books to miss an author. And yet, equally, it's also very easy to have a consciousness of who and what that author is and how they do what they do. This is where I stood with Chris Riddell; conscious that I hadn't really read much of his work, but conscious that his work was good. And I'd come to that decision for a variety of reasons, not just for the quality of his art work which burns from his books like fire, but also because of the children I knew who pretty much swallowed each and everything he'd published. Sometimes the biggest thing for me, as an adult who's involved in children's literature, is to step back and recognise my position as a guest in this space. And if an author's work is devoured, furiously, hungrily, then that's an important thing to take note of.
I picked up Ottoline Goes To School after Chris had delivered a charming and annoyingly inspiring lecture at Homerton College. I didn't possess the persistence or elbows to get to the bookshop first and grab the sumptuous Travels with my Sketchbook which I've had my eyes on for a while, but Ottoline Goes To School was an appropriate, and by no means secondary, choice. I was intrigued to see what Riddell did with the school story because they are sort of my thing. And when I got it signed by him, I did my traditional slightly incoherent stare and babble because that too, is also my sort of thing.
This, the second of the Ottoline series, is a delight. Ottoline is off to the Alice. B. Smith School For The Differently Gifted; a boarding school for children with a special an often quite peculiar gift. As she's trying to figure out what her gift might be, a ghost starts to haunt the school...
I was trying to figure out the best way to describe this lovely book and the idea I kept coming back to was cleanliness. That's perhaps a little bit of an odd phrase to use and one, I suspect, which doesn't crop up in children's literature criticism that often so let me explain a bit more about what I mean.
Ottoline Goes To School is one of those books that balances word with image and does so without compromising the integrity of each. In fact, it's so beautifully and carefully balanced, this mediation between the visual and the textual, that every page is a delight. And it's challenging too! Whilst Ottoline is engaged in the complexities of a new school and a Slightly Tremulous New Friendship, Mr Munroe is carefully scouting out the school and trying to figure out what's going on. And that's the cleanliness, right there, that ability to balance and deliver whole, heartfelt, narrative in word and image without compromising or pressing on the space of the other elements within the spread. This book is so clean, so crisp and sharp, that it's a joy. ...more
Confidence is hard for big people, let alone little people, to maintain, let alone figure out if they even have it in the Let's talk about confidence.
Confidence is hard for big people, let alone little people, to maintain, let alone figure out if they even have it in the first place. The world is an intimidating space and circumstance conspires to place people in intimidating positions. Whether that's your first day at school, a birthday party where you don't know anybody, or simply walking past some bigger and scarier children at the park, life as a child is hard. And it's easy to want to make this easier, it's easy to want to wrap up a child and say - look, stop, this is not your life. Not yet. You don't have to feel like this, because I am not going to let that happen. I won't let you feel that way, not yet, not ever.
Let's talk about realism.
It's going to happen. At some point, your child or the children you look after or see in the bus, will feel intimidated by life and there's nothing you can do to stop that. Life is life is life. One of the biggest things that children's book do is help in such circumstances. And when these books are shared in loving situations, savoured slowly and closely, that's when you help your child deal with those moments that you'd maybe rather they didn't have to deal with. You give them models of behaviour, of potential reactions to model, and to maybe think about when they're in the nursery and having to deal with the world by themselves.
Let's talk about Stardust. I don't need to tell you about the quality of Nosy Crow books at this point; just remember that they can handle books well. And that's so important because a beautiful book tells you that what is inside is important. A child, especially those who are developing their literacies, might not be able to fully verbalise why, but they'll get that this is an important thing.
Stardust is the story of a young girl who feels overshadowed by her sister. Her sister's the best at everything, and the younger sister never quite manages to be number one. But one night, her grandfather tells her a story about how the whole world is made of stardust, and how she's always been a star in his eyes. The lesson obviously sticks, because the final spread sees the now grown up girl on her way to the moon as an astronaut. This final image, my friends, is a kicker.
Briony May Smith's artwork is joyful. It's very calm and quiet; round, thick lines, with the constant evocation of something other in that dark sky, blues and blacks and dotted with pinprick sharp stars. She's got something of a serene quality to the spreads too, a sort of timelessness that's not going to allow this book to date. I really loved one spread in particular which depicts big sisters and little sisters across the world, using a variety of skin tones, cultures and costumes, yet all of them connected by the quiet consistency of line and shade. It's subtle and yet delightful. My only sadness with this book is that it needs endpapers; there's space for something exuberant here, particularly after that end note of the book, and without them, there's an unfinished note in the music of the book.
So let's talk about confidence again. What Stardust does is it models a situation of empowerment for the reader; the grandfather who believes in her, and the little girl who grows up, becomes an astronaut and flies to the moon. It is powerful stuff, and it's perfect for anyone who feels a little wobbly with life. Adult, child, dog, cat, whatever, whoever. This is generous, powerful work and it's hard to not be moved by it.
My thanks to the publisher for a review copy. ...more
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