I've had a fair few 'meh' books over the past few weeks; those books that are the ones that sort of don't quite work for you, or leave you feeling a lI've had a fair few 'meh' books over the past few weeks; those books that are the ones that sort of don't quite work for you, or leave you feeling a little ambivalent about them. And that's fine - that happens. Sometimes books don't work for readers, or it's not the right time to meet them or find them, and sometimes you've just got to accept that this is how it is. And then I read The Last Girl by Goldy Moldavsky and I loved it. I'm always interested by books that try to do something different and find their own space in the world (there might only be seven stories to tell, but my goodness you can work how you tell it..) and The Last Girl does that in spades.
Let's set the scene: a prestigious school, a club, and a new girl trying to find a place to start over. There's complex, messy friendships; the dark spectre of privilege, pop-culture and a group of people devoted to exploring the scary side of the world. These takes the form of a club devoted to horror films and - no spoilers here. But it's the sort of thing that feels like it might become something of a franchise and I wouldn't be surprised to hear of more to come here. The framing conceit really is very good.
Though I suspect I prefer the other title of 'The Mary Shelley Club' (which should give you some idea as to one of the references here), I thought this was excellent. Moldavsky is a pacey, stylish writer and I loved how fiery and honest her work is here. People are real here - this isn't about smoothing the edges of people, it's about exploring them. And with that comes interest; a novel that's psychological, dark, and gripping. I loved it.
My thanks to the publisher for a review copy....more
When I tweeted about reading this book, I said that Cynthia Voigt was increasingly proving to be all that I want from a writer. I'd written about my fWhen I tweeted about reading this book, I said that Cynthia Voigt was increasingly proving to be all that I want from a writer. I'd written about my fairly recent discovery of her work , a journey which had made me fall in love with her crisp and clean writing, so full of clarity and heart and texture at every inch, and I had realised that I would read more of her work. And so I did, for some things are inevitable and Voigt's writing makes me ache with an absolute jealous and love for it is perfect. I don't quite understand how she can find the emotional nuance of a moment and exploit it, so acutely, without you even noticing what she's doing. It is magic, perfect stuff.
I've read much of the Tillerman saga out of order, picking them up from charity shops and libraries as and when circumstance allowed. I'm conscious that there is an order but I rather love this way of discovering her world, of discovering the echoes within it. A name pops up that's familiar or a circumstance and suddenly the book becomes a panopticon and I'm stood in the middle of a moment seeing it from a thousand different angles. On a practical level, I'm dazzled by Voigt's efficacy and memory, but on an emotional level, I'm in the scene and living every inch of it.
What's particularly remarkable about A Solitary Blue is that it's a story of becoming, told in a way that I don't think many other stories are. Jeff's mother leaves him when he is seven and a half years old. Melody leaves a shattered world behind her: a boy coming to terms with the trauma of her leaving and, as we soon learn, her husband engaged in very much a similar state of affairs. But that's what Melody does, she leaves shards behind her and they cut. Jeff deals with this by withdrawing so far that he might be nothing more than a dot, until the world and his father and life and Dicey Tillerman start to pull him back.
Voigt has an eye for adolescence and for rendering the complexities of life with such a subtle, sure hand. There are great stretches of quiet here, punctuated only by the briefest and most telling of detail, and it's beautiful. I read this after Sons from Afar and found some sharp commonalities between the two texts; though Sons From Afar is later, it still has that nuanced, soft, gentle understanding of life and the problems it can throw at you. Of young boys learning who and what they are and what they can be, even when the world works against them.
A Solitary Blue makes me envious and happy in almost equal measure, and this series reminds me how painterly writing can be. Every time I find one in a shop, it shines like gold. ...more
It's always a good sign when a book looks as stunning as The Black Flamingo does. This is a treat of design, all the way from that luscious front coveIt's always a good sign when a book looks as stunning as The Black Flamingo does. This is a treat of design, all the way from that luscious front cover full of colour and style and power through to the pages themselves which play around with ink, typography and illustration. This is a book that sings with time and effort and care, and all of that is before you've even got to the first page. Like I said, always a good sign and Anishka Khullar (the illustrator) needs recognising for their vital, wonderful work here. It's beautiful stuff.
And all of that care and craft pays off because The Black Flamingo is excellent. It's a wild, rich verse novel that details the birth of The Black Flamingo, Micheal's drag persona. The Black Flamingo is powerful, bold, and brave - and full of all of the stories and experiences that Micheal's had to get to that point. Atta's writing is sensitive, subtle and fearless; a fine balancing act that manages to craft something utterly beautiful in the process. Micheal's part Greek-Cypriot, part Jamaican. He's a thousand different things to a thousand different people. He's viewed through the filter of his gender, his racial identity, his sexuality, his hair, his choices, the colour of his skin and so very rarely understood for who he is. But this is a book about seizing that moment of being who you are and owning it. Fearlessly, unapologetically, remarkably.
(view spoiler)[One of the rather beautiful moments in this comes when The Black Flamingo, in her act, recognises those who have paved the way for her. She pays tribute to a whole world of writers, performers, and personalities who have explored blackness, queerness and otherness. And in doing so, in placing that so very carefully within the climactic moment of this story, the reader is told that they are not alone. You are part of a continuum of voices, of people being who. they. are. Such an important thing, so excellently done and oh so beautifully handled. (hide spoiler)]
I had such a lot of time for Atta's work here. You can really feel Micheal start to find himself as the book develops; lines become firmer, words become steadier, and the absolute heart that beats in every inch of this becomes more and more wonderful. It's difficult to define what empowering literature is and sometimes I think we throw the word out in the hope that it will stick because we don't know quite else to do with it. But I think this is empowering stuff because every inch of it is full of heart and power and joy. Atta has this great gift of making Micheal both wise and naive, old and young, brave and terrified.
It's all there and you feel every inch of it. There's not an inch of this book that you don't feel. ...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.
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
Neena Gill's brother has disappeared without a trace and it's taken a toll on her family. They're all just trying to get through another day without hNeena Gill's brother has disappeared without a trace and it's taken a toll on her family. They're all just trying to get through another day without him, and nobody can quite do it without falling apart a little bit more. Neena's schoolwork, her friends, and her relationships are all struggling, and her mental health is taking the toll. And, as is so often the way, she must reach the bottom before we can set out again for the top...
The Million Pieces of Neena Gill is an immensely confident YA debut and one which touches on some very powerful issues without ever being 'I am touching on some important issues, ask me how I do that' in the process. There's a lot here to love, really, and much of it centres on the inherent power of the novel. Smith-Barton writes with power and heart and feeling, and sometimes she is very, very devastating. Though there were a flew slight, sticky elements in the area of characterization and a few plot moments that didn't quite work for me, Smith-Barton's writing allows her to get away with it. This is a strong, heartfelt, and occasionally rather brilliant book.
I think it's important to note that The Million Pieces of Neena Gill has a very valuable afterword which includes a personal note from Smith-Barton on the creative background of the text, alongside a list of resources for people to use if they recognise any of the symptoms or experiences in the story. I believe a lot in books that use the roundness of themselves for good; we presume so much in story to help us that sometimes we forget that story is precisely that. Fictional. Otherworldly. Imagined. But a book has space for material of this nature, material to bookend and buttress and bolster the story, and it should be used. Particularly in books like this. And when it's well done - as it is here - it's important to recognise and applaud that.
Finally, I think it's worthwhile noting that this isn't an easy book. I am increasingly drawn to books about humans. People that make mistakes. People that are messy and not particularly perfect and not paragons. Neena makes bad choices. She makes poor choices. But I rooted for her. So much. And when she faced her crisis point; a moment written with some high, exquisite clarity, I felt it. Every inch of it. And that is enough to make me ignore the occasional stickiness because moments like that tell me this is an author to watch.
My thanks to the publisher for a review copy. ...more
Juno Dawson is an excellent writer. She's fearless, too, touching on issues that would dwarf many other writers, and managing to turn them into vital Juno Dawson is an excellent writer. She's fearless, too, touching on issues that would dwarf many other writers, and managing to turn them into vital narratives of empowerment and self-discovery. Her great gift is that she doesn't make these narratives easy. Life isn't. As much as we'd wish it to be, particularly for those we love, it isn't. Dawson gets that, and she lets her characters live life. Messy. Painful. Honest. True. She is very, very good.
Meat Market sees Dawson turn towards the fashion industry. It's a precisely, tightly plotted affair with knowledge that speaks from careful research and a healthy awareness of pop culture. Jana has been scouted by a fashion agency, and this is the story of her experience of the fashion world. I need to pause and recognise that fabulous cover; Dawson is never sold short by cover design, and this is no exception. It's the first hint of a bold, unsparing book that twists into something quite addictive. I was walking around the house with this in one hand. Dishes with the other. Stirring the pan with the other. That sort of 'can't quite put down' problem that comes when reading incredibly vivid, well told stories.
Touching on some potent, complex, and challenging issues, Meat Market is one for upper YA readers. The publishers pitch it on the back of the book for 14+, and while age-ratings are a difficult subject in their own rate, I think they're bang on with this one. It's important for me to emphasise that I say that not for the content that is represented which, incidentally, I think is very well handled, but rather for understanding the nuances of its representation. Dawson recognises the glamour of the fashion industry but also the pressures of it and the power dynamics that can come into play in such horrific situations. There's some clever, bold writing here which challenges and questions those dynamics, and the final movement of the story is an incredibly empowering affair. It's not often you see agency being actively located within those who are denied it, and Dawson does that with every breath she takes. Meat Market is excellent. It's borderline anthemic....more
Delightfully nutty in the way that only turn of the century children's literature can be, this starts as something quite typical and then escalates toDelightfully nutty in the way that only turn of the century children's literature can be, this starts as something quite typical and then escalates to quite the heights. Were I the sort of scholar to throw around labels in a willy-nilly sort of fashion, I'd label this as Mills and Boon meets Young Adult literature, but I'm not so I'll settle for calling this dippy and loving it for that. Any book called A Girl's Stronghold, (with six illustrations by Victor Proud no less), featuring nuns and devoted servants and brave and noble young women would never be the sort of story to mess about.
And it doesn't. It races from Belgium to England to France; skirting around several wars, one inevitable parental death (as ever, these books do not refrain from knocking everybody off left right and centre) and at the heart of it rests our girl. She's called Faith (who would have thought it!!!!!!!). She's devoted to her father, but has A PAST. Honestly, I love how melodramatic these books can be. They have absolutely no shame about them, and about halfway through A Girl's Stronghold, the plot goes absolutely off the rails. One sandwich short of a picnic. Two stops short of Dagenham. And it doesn't care one bit. We get death, war (like - about seven? just sort of there?), a couple of beseiged cities, a case of GOSH DOESN'T THIS GIRL REMIND ME OF SOMEBODY ELSE IF ONLY I COULD REMEMBER WHO, and it's great. I thoroughly recommend it. ...more
La Bastarda first came across my radar when I was researching translated young adult literature. I have been wanting to read more of this, not only asLa Bastarda first came across my radar when I was researching translated young adult literature. I have been wanting to read more of this, not only as a reaction of the increasingly narrow political spheres we seem to be so wrongly moving towards, but also because it felt right. I want to discover new voices doing exciting things, and I want to celebrate the independent ones. The oddities. The books that are raw and wild and something else; something that may not necessarily slide into the cover of the broadsheet reviews on a Saturday but that still demanded, utterly, to be heard. My search for these books bought me to the Global Literature in Libraries Initiative (GLLI) Translated YA Book Prize 2019 and to La Bastarda.
La Bastarda is the first novel by an Equatorial Guinean woman - Trifonia Melibea Obono - to be translated into English. That is not a sentence you read everyday and La Bastarda stuck with me ever since I did. This was a book I remembered, for weeks, and so I bought it because I had no other choice. I do not know much about Equatorial Guinea, but I am a reader and this felt like story before I'd even opened a single page.
So, to the book itself. It is not what I expected; anything labelled as YA seems to slide towards a specific blueprint for me, a text full of rebellion and identity and somebody, something, someone figuring out who they want to be in the world. It is not an accurate blueprint, nor indeed a wholly comprehensive one, but I'd suspect anybody who hears the phrase 'Young Adult' to think of something very specific. And I do not think La Bastarda is specific. I do not think it is specific at all. It is the story of Okomo, an orphaned teen, a girl who falls in love with somebody she ought not to and in the process and comes to rebel against much of her culture. It is simply written, sometimes stiffly written and unevenly weighted, and yet there's something here. Something buried, something brittle, something new-formed and not yet flesh.
La Bastarda intrigues me. I do not think it is Young Adult, even though in many ways it is. It reads more as a fable, an allegory, a fairy-tale that slides through themes and metaphor and imagery like a knife through butter. It is not a perfect book, nor is it one that I wholly understand yet. I wanted more, I wanted less, I wanted to split it open and find the story underneath the one that was given me. Because I do think that there's something there, something that is hinted at throughout this story and never quite fully realised.
Would I reccommend it? Undoubtedly yes; it is an achievement and Obono is a deft, assured writer. Her language is tight, restrained and that restraint sometimes delivers moments of great emotional clarity. There's something poetic here, also, and though I can't comment on the accuracy of the translation, I think that Lawrence Schimel does an excellent job. It feels like a restrained, careful, respectful translation, and there's still that palpable sense of the original underneath the translated text.
I think, in a way, I am still trying to figure out La Bastarda. I am intrigued by it and I am beguiled by it, but I do not wholly understand it. I think some of that speaks of my ignorance of the culture and of the setting and I think that some of it also speaks of the great precision of this book. It is not perfect, I think (but then, what is?). Sometimes, however, it says something very perfectly crafted and very much of itself. It tells its story. It shall not be silenced.
It shall be heard.
And that, I think, more than anything, is why I shall come back to this book. ...more
I wanted to like this a lot more than I did. Talley's an excellent writer, it touches on an area of queer history that I want to know more about, and I wanted to like this a lot more than I did. Talley's an excellent writer, it touches on an area of queer history that I want to know more about, and yet this didn't work for me. At all. It felt overlong, and the pacing was incredibly slow. Historically, it's fascinating; comprehensive, detailed and well done. As a story, however, it struggles. ...more
I finished this book last night, and ever since then I've been trying to figure it out. I was excited to be offered a review copy from the publisher aI finished this book last night, and ever since then I've been trying to figure it out. I was excited to be offered a review copy from the publisher as Celia Rees is one of those great and powerful voices in children's and young adult literature that you should always be excited for. She is a wild and wonderful writer and when I heard that she was writing something inspired by the early work of the Brontës I was thrilled.
And I am still thrilled in a way, but in that knotty sort of confused manner where you think you should be happy for something but aren't quite sure if you are; the sort of emotion that makes you question everything about you and do actual real life brow furrowing. Celia Rees is an outstanding writer, but I don't think this is a good book. It is furiously impenetrable at points, strangely balanced, and full of odd pacing and sudden shifts of tone. When I finished it, I stared at it and realised that I didn't know what to think of it. I wasn't sure I'd enjoyed it, even though I knew I loved the parts where Rees wrote about Haworth and the sisters; the intimacy and power of her work here and the way she explored the landscape of these writers was good, strong, wild writing. But I also knew that I'd struggled with the first half, got quite lost in the middle, and then bounded through the final third in as greedy and keen a read as I've ever done.
A contradiction, then, but a contradiction that keeps working on you after you've finished it. I am done with this book but it's a book that's not done with me. I've thought about it all morning, I've begun this review a thousand times and I've begun it a thousand times again. I suspect that Glass Town Wars is a story that's not just about the book. Does that make sense? I suspect it doesn't, but I'm going to try and explain myself. Sometimes when we experience story, we can read it and it's done. Page turned, book closed, job done. But sometimes the story lingers and we can make connections with it in the real world. We turn it over in our thoughts, we think it through and we start to realise that the book we've read was just the part of a journey. It's matured into something else.
And that's Glass Town Wars; it's not the best read, but the moments after it are sort of remarkable. When I reviewed Wuthering Heights, I talked about how this was a book that wanted to be read and to desperately hide away, all at once. Glass Town Wars has something of that quality, delivering a narrative of fantasy and of the Brontës which sometimes makes perfect sense and sometimes anything but. It's a curious contradiction, this beautiful and impenetrable and longlasting thing.
My thanks to the publisher for a review copy....more
I think that to understand this book, you need to understand the context of Dear Evan Hansen itself. Dear Evan Hansen is a musical that's rather wondeI think that to understand this book, you need to understand the context of Dear Evan Hansen itself. Dear Evan Hansen is a musical that's rather wonderful, even when you just listen to the soundtrack and have to hit Wikipedia to work out what's going on. It's been on Broadway for a while now, and is due in the West End in 2019.
The musical is eloquent, fiercely potent, and beautiful put together, and touches upon issues of grief, mental health, anxiety, loss, and the impact of social media in navigating all of this. These are increasingly present and potent issues in today's society, and Dear Evan Hansen is rather outstanding in how it handles this. I like my musicals, and I like what this one does. It marks its space in the world in a particular way, and it does it with a lot of style, honesty and precision.
This book is the adaptation of the musical, commissioned by the creators, and thus something rather interesting in itself. You can see television and film being adapted easily, readily, into prose, but it's rather less common with the musical. Much of that sings (badumtish) of the way that musicals themselves are constructed, adapting an already published text, or the difficulty one might find in say translating an iconic visual into prose, let alone the precision and honesty of young adult fiction.
There's a part of me panicking already at the thought of adapting a Gene Kelly number into text, for example, and I suspect I wouldn't have touched this commission with a bargepole. Emmich is to be praised for taking this on, and with what he delivers, because it's a decently rendered thing. It is, however, not the best book I've ever read. It could do with a little clarity at some points - particularly to those who are new to the musical - and there's a curiously forgettable air to the prose, which slightly threw me. Dear Evan Hansen is anthemic, but I suspect this isn't the best form for that anthem to take. (Sidebar: a part of me longs for a graphic novel version)
But, I do think you should read this and here's the part where I tell you why.
This is a book that functions as part of a moment and should be considered within that context. I think it might have struggled being told by itself, but when you read it and recognise what it's part of, then it's easy to see that it's something kind of fascinating. It's telling a story to an audience that, perhaps, may never get to Broadway or the West End, and that in itself is something to applaud. It's telling a story of people at their worst and best, and it's touching on topics that so very rarely are exposed with such candour. It's a good story. It's a brilliant story. It's just not that great a book.
My thanks to the publishers for a review copy. ...more
I can understand the feelings behind this, and the urge behind it, but Ten Years Later is a problematic and frankly strange book that seems to deny orI can understand the feelings behind this, and the urge behind it, but Ten Years Later is a problematic and frankly strange book that seems to deny or barely recognise much of the structure and themes that made the Sweet Valley series work. For those of you who collect a certain other series of books, it reminded me very much of The Chalet Girls Grow Up (a book I find utterly fascinating) and in a way, Ten Years Later is fascinating. It is strange and quite weird and full of a peculiar distaste for happy endings and comfortable resolution, but it is fascinating.
I engaged in the Sweet Valley books with a sort of episodic delight. They were never massively big, nor did my library have a lot of them, but I was entranced by their numerous quality. The mythic nature of Jessica's hair. Country clubs. Apartments. They sang of a very specific and quite dreamy Americana that could be like catnip, and so when I did come across them, I devoured them. I also have very fond memories of the TV series that was shown during the 90s (?), and the spectacular nature of that theme tune.
But this is not a good book. Not really. It's kind of hypnotic and fascinating and full of a sort of peculiar loathing for the characters of this world. Pascal could be a good writer, but this would have benefitted from some substantial editing, a massive chat about that hideous little 'where are they now' coda that's tacked on the end of it, and a further massive chat about all of the slightly squicky descriptions of everybody's looks.
I won't say don't read this, because I believe very much that you read what you want, always, but I would say that this might not give you the resolution that you seek for this world. But then again, I suppose, the discussion is whether a book like this was even necessary in the first place. Do you need to tie these big wide worlds off with a neat bow? Or is it better to simply step away ? I'm not sure I know, but I know this: Ten Years Later is one of the strangest and, in a way, saddest books I've read. ...more
There's a point towards the end of the first chapter of Home Home where I got The Feeling. You'll know what The Feeling is; it's that moment when you There's a point towards the end of the first chapter of Home Home where I got The Feeling. You'll know what The Feeling is; it's that moment when you read something, maybe a word or a sentence or a metaphor, whatever, but you know that it's good. Your spine tingles. Something settles inside your head. The conscious recognition of skill, there, bubbling beneath the surface. The realisation that you're in good hands.
Home Home is the story of a depressed Trinidadian teenager, Kayla, who is sent to live with her Aunt in Canada. Whilst there, Kayla must come to terms with her mental health, her new family and indeed her new home. I received it for review from the publisher and was grateful for the offer: I want to find these sorts of books and see them participating within the world, and Home Home more than holds its own. It's worthy of attention on a thousand different levels.
My only caveat with Home Home is that it is a relatively slender piece, and as such seems to almost finish before it starts. There's an undoubted element of frustration there that I need to acknowledge because, I suspect, were it given some more space, this could be something kind of great. At present, it feels like there's not enough space for it to fully explore its potential but, equally, it offers a ton of potential for follow up activities and close reading exercises.
I also don't want to deny the fact that what is in Home Home is kind of fascinating, occasionally rather beautiful, and kind of great. Home Home exists somewhere between raw, Tumblr-esque truth and a whole hearted stream of consciousness vibe. There's power here, particular in its honest and vivid truth and the way that it sometimes tumbles together and makes itself known at the least opportune moments. It feels in fact like something that you might find tucked away on a blog somewhere by somebody who feels the need to express themselves and to feel out the edges of that expression, and in the process to find themselves. I don't think that's a bad legacy for a book to have. ...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
A Change Is Gonna Come is a compilation of short stories and poems from 12 Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic writers, ranging freely over a series of tA Change Is Gonna Come is a compilation of short stories and poems from 12 Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic writers, ranging freely over a series of topics and themes, and pretty much all of them are rather wonderful, powerful contributions. What really struck me about this collection is the care that's been taken over every element in it; from the striking and wonderful cover design (for more on that, have a look at this, to the note in the introduction from the editorial mentee (a good thing, publishing world), and the inclusion of debut writers, A Change Is Gonna Come feels like it's been loved. And that sensation of love is powerful when it slides into the hand of the reader, so very powerful.
A frank highlight for me was Tanya Byrne's lyrical and incandescent love story 'Hackney Moon'. Byrne is a writer whose debut Heart-Shaped Bruise was something I called kind of spectacular, and Hackney Moon is right up there. An aching, tender, and fiercely told love story, it's honestly, one of the best things I've read for a long time. I finished reading it and did one of those little 'oh that was good' pauses. (Don't you love them?)
Another highlight for me was Aisha Bushby's 'Marionette Girl', a distinctive, eccentric and powerful story of growth. Bushby's writing is sympathetic and kind, but also full of a very subtle sense of drive. The sense of a character pushing up against barriers all around her mixed with the knowledge that she's going to break through. Does that make sense? I hope it does. This is a story full of drive and determination and power, and it's kind of heartbreaking and beautiful, all at once.
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
Messy, chaotic, and laugh out loud funny, this is something rather joyous. A dual narrative, crafted by dual writers, Freshers was one of the most refMessy, chaotic, and laugh out loud funny, this is something rather joyous. A dual narrative, crafted by dual writers, Freshers was one of the most refreshing, honest and wildly moving young adult novels I've read for a while. There was the slight plus of it being set in 'York Met', a thinly veiled University of York with aggressive geese and Betty's making cameo appearances, but that's really just the icing on top of the cake.
Not many young adult books head into university. This isn't a new thing; I work a lot with girls' school stories, and a common critique is that they don't deal with their girls once they've left school. There sort of is nothing beyond the school. And whilst a lot of that reflects the fact that, thanks to *cough* the patriarchal system of values that they were about to enter there was no future *cough*, it's also an absence that's ripe to explore. Lucy Ivinson and Tom Ellis do it justice. Beyond justice. They hit on all the big points of those first few weeks of the university experience; bad sex, bad food, bad decisions, some of the best friends you'll ever make, and then pack it with a little bit more.
And then, just in case you've not had enough, there is the most beautifully wonderful usage of Brie within a book that I think I've ever seen.
Freshers somehow manages to stay away from the obvious, and the cliche, and rings all the truer for that. It hits all the high points - and the low points - that university is. This is kind of special....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
After spending time as a writer in residence for a road, I've been increasingly interested in the role of 'roads' in children's and young adult literaAfter spending time as a writer in residence for a road, I've been increasingly interested in the role of 'roads' in children's and young adult literature. Young adult literature, in fact, has a perfect sort of marriage with the metaphor of the road, where the open road promises freedom, independence and self-determination, and it's a sense of liberty which is always in sharp contrast to that which exists at home. Furiously well known in its original German, Why We Took The Car is a translated novel that sometime burns with brilliance and sometimes widely misses the mark. It's a book of dualities where sadness battles with raw and fierce happiness, and nothing sometimes battles with everything. I think it is occasionally rather perfect. Sometimes it is not. But then again, that's the sort of delicious thing about roadtrip novels; there are moments, as with every journey, that the getting there matters as much as the destination itself. The journey might be quieter, duller, but it's still so very important.
So here are our travellers: Mike, our narrator, who is a boy who doesn't fit in, and a new boy at his school called Tschick. Tschick doesn't fit in either, being an emigre from Russia, and also possessed of problems of his own. A slow twist of circumstances and parental absences lead Tschick to give Mike a dare. It's time to go on a road trip. Tschick has a stolen Lada, Mike has some money, and the open road's calling them...
Messy, wild, eccentric, this is a book that burns on the edge of the world. I liked it a lot. It's scrappy at points, and very definitely not perfect, but then again there's a point to be made that a teenage narrator who's just had the trip of his life wouldn't ever be especially coherent. Yet that's not to say that there isn't potency here; there's an encounter with a family that is one of the best and most brilliantly unexpected things I've read with a long while, and the final movement of the book itself is kind of awe-inspiring. I think that's the best way I can describe Why We Took The Car; sometimes it is perfect, and sometimes it is not. Such is life. And sometimes, you don't know that, until you go out and live it.
My thanks to the publisher for a review copy. ...more
There's a lot to love about this pained, poised collection of short stories and much of that comes from its careful and classy curation. The authors, There's a lot to love about this pained, poised collection of short stories and much of that comes from its careful and classy curation. The authors, ranging from Frances Hardinge through to Sarah Crossan, and Chris Riddell, sit alongside a foreword by a human rights lawyer and an afterword, of sorts, consisting of an interview with Chelsea Manning. Most contributions to the collection have a brief afterwood explaining the context behind the piece, though one of the strongest - 'Barley Wine' by Kevin Brooks doesn't have one and I wonder if it's actually stronger without such. That brief quibble aside, this is a smart collection and one which hits home, immensely.
'Here I Stand' has the subtitle of 'Stories That Speak For Freedom', and covers a wide range of topics including genital mutilation, human trafficking, terrorism and racism. An obvious caveat applies around the element of trigger warnings here, but as I recommend with every book of this nature, read it yourself and use it sympathetically and with an eye towards being led by the relevant child's response. Books like this offer such a valuable spotlight on those issues which often don't get spotlit and when carefully and considerately mediated, that spotlight can often be revelatory.
I don't want to speak of highlights here because somehow this doesn't feel appropriate, but rather I want to look at those pieces which sang out for me. The collection is immensely powerful, but as I said previously, Kevin Brooks' contribution was something quite remarkable. Ditto 'Dulce Et Decorum Est' from Chibundo Onuzo, a story on the topic of child soldiers, which instead of taking the more expected motifs of its theme delivers something quite astounding. This is the gift of collections like this, the gift of perspective. Sight. A new eye on the familiar. Sometimes stories do become familiar and thus unseen; to deny that familiarity is a great thing. Onuzo's bare, pained eloquence here speaks volumes.
I like this volume, and I like the careful craft that lays behind it, from Chris Riddell's beautiful artwork through to the stories, poems, and especially the graphic contribution from Mary and Bryan Talbot with Kate Charlesworth. I think it's important to recognise that stories, particularly of this nature, aren't just these neat things tied up in bows and that embrace of diverse form is another point in Here I Stand. It's a tired phrase to call something important, but then again, so many of the books being published at the moment are. Here I Stand stands firmly with those, and indeed manages to carve a space of its very own. ...more
It's been a long while since I read a Sweet Valley book, and even longer since I've seen the TV adaptation, but I've got neither out of my head. ThereIt's been a long while since I read a Sweet Valley book, and even longer since I've seen the TV adaptation, but I've got neither out of my head. There's something about these books that I've grouped with something like The Babysitters Club, Bug Juice, and A Horse Called Wonder, those stories and shows of glossy sunlit Americana that did nothing but appeal to somebody who was more familiar with rain and bare, grey days. And the TV show! That theme tune! Could there be two different girls who look the same as Sweet Valley High ?! These are my madeleines, Proust, deal with it.
The delight of the Sweet Valley books comes in their matter of fact bluntness; they are what they are and they make no bones about it. Elizabeth is sensible, Jessica is not. Everyone is incredibly foxy, and spend much of their day foxing about the beach or foxing at the shops, looking foxily at beautiful and expensive yet foxy clothes. There's usually some sort of slender moral, but mainly there's foxiness, and it's oddly spectacular. We, the adults, the patriarchy, whatever, we often denigrate books like this, all too easily, because we're simply not comfortable with the fact that there's a space for romance and simple, bold brushstrokes in young adult literature. In young adult life, really. We laugh at the way people obsess over bands, and find comfort in fandoms, when really these are all just facets of life and have no reason to not be in literature. I will fight you, Britishly, with severe looks and tutting, if you suggest that they should not be.
Malibu Summer is spectacularly unapologetic in doing what it does: there's romance, several jaw-dropping subplots, some delightfully nutty nuance on Lila's choice of swimming costume, and I loved it. Yes, certain aspects may have dated at this point, but as a whole the book is wonderful. Nothing makes sense. Everything glows. Everyone is foxy. Everyone gets a job or a hottie or some sort of moral fulfillment. It's brilliant. I loved it. What a ridiculous, gorgeous, honest book this is.
When Dimple Met Rishi is a ferociously charming book. It's also a book I heard about on social media and so, I suspect, might be my reposte to those cWhen Dimple Met Rishi is a ferociously charming book. It's also a book I heard about on social media and so, I suspect, might be my reposte to those critics who think that book-talk on social media is the death of everything they hold dear. People talk about books, freely, fascinatingly, and that talk is driven by emotion. In the case of When Dimple Met Rishi, it was a talk that sang of love, all the while accompanied by that cover, that rich, beautiful cover.
And I'm always a little nervous because I don't want to be the person who, for want of a better phrase, shouts against such a loving discourse. Like what you wish, talk about what you wish, and if you've read the book, if you've participated in the world, if you've quizzed your reaction as much as the thing that you're reacting too, then fine. Your perspective is warranted, welcome. Necessary, really.
When Dimple Met Rishi is delightful. It is a book that more than easily stands up to the discourse around it, and more so, drives it through having such a genuinely beautiful, eloquent and passionate narrative that slides out from its pages, easy as air. This is a good book. It's a very charming, distinct, book, which tells a very beautiful, very empathetic love story.
Dimple Shah and Rishi Patel. They're both attending the same summer school programme for coders, and they are part of a "suggested arrangement". That is to say, they're part of an arranged marriage. Rishi, a wild romantic, is on board. Dimple, slightly less so...
When Dimple Met Rishi tracks the development of this relationship; unabashedly so, and it's just lovely. There's a slightly fumbly last few pages as Menon brings all of the threads together but really, the threads are so gorgeous and you're so invested at that point that it's easy to let that slide and just will them all to get together.
The other thing to note about Menon's style is that it's very quietly frank. She moves from discussing a group of 'Aberzombies' to theistic semantics, and does so in a tone that is very well handled, sympathetic, and also intensely welcome. In a way, I can't recommend When Dimple Met Rishi enough really, as it's such a quietly multi-faceted piece, full of an intense, vibrant heart and what's not to love about that? It is a good book....more
I've been sitting on this review for a week or so, in that gloriously selfish phase of having read a Good Book but not wanting to talk about it. SometI've been sitting on this review for a week or so, in that gloriously selfish phase of having read a Good Book but not wanting to talk about it. Sometimes I want to wallow in that sensation and just hold it tight to myself, that feeling of having read something transformative, big, honest and real. The events of the past few days have, however, reminded me of the importance of talking about this sort of thing and so here I am; earlier than I intended, because this book is not due out until September, but I think now's the right time to tell you about it.
Sally Nicholls is a joy. She has this great gift of story; and so I was thrilled to receive a review copy of Things A Bright Girl Can Do. It's Suffragettes, it's history, it's bravery, it's love. It's gorgeous, really, and it made me so utterly possessive of it. It follows the stories of three different girls as they work to realise their political and personal views. They fall in love, out of love, and the relationships which underpin this novel are beautiful and sensitively told. Honestly too; there's no easy racing off into the sunset here, everything has to be earned.
I loved this book. It's so determined and genuine, and Nicholls tells the story with such a straightforward honesty that it's hard to not get sucked in. It's a perspective that I haven't read enough of and so I also welcome this. To add to that, I'm also very grateful for the rise of overtly political and politicised young adult fiction. Things A Bright Girl Can Do doesn't sugarcoat the process of becoming politically active, but it does render it as an absolutely vital experience.
And it believes in teenagers, young people. It believes in their chance and their ability to make a difference. Get this on pre-order now, and when it comes shelve it with something like Troublemakers, and let them work their respective magics.
As I said at the start of this review, I didn't really want to talk about Things A Bright Girl Can Do because I was selfish over it. Possessive. But here's the thing, that's what a good book gives you. You have that moment with it and then you realise that, as great and vital as that moment is, it's time to share it with the world because you can't let a book that's as good as this go unheard.
My thanks to the publishers for a review copy. ...more
There's a lot to love about this potent and markedly well-told thriller, not in the least the vibrant delight that is the narrator Jemma. Unable to coThere's a lot to love about this potent and markedly well-told thriller, not in the least the vibrant delight that is the narrator Jemma. Unable to communicate, yet possessed of a quick-thinking and fiercely distinct personality, Jemma now needs to communicate more than ever. Somebody has been murdered - and somebody's confessed to Jemma that they did it.
Much of the strength of this book comes from Jemma; she's a delight. Funny, warm and brave, she's the centre of her foster family and the secrets that they hold. She witnesses her foster siblings fight their own battles, and upon the news of a personal revelation for herself, she starts to take some immense steps towards independence. It's difficult to not root for her; She's so well-drawn and convincing that I Have No Secrets races by.
I was in a bit of a reading dip before this, having just read a ton of things with hideous opening chapters, but I couldn't put this down. Isn't that cliche? Yet all cliches come from fact and in the case of I Have No Secrets it's true. I couldn't put it down. It was refreshing, and sort of wonderful even in how it dealt with some very dark and complex issues. To put the murder itself aside, both Olivia and Ben, Jemma's foster-siblings, face some complex troubles of their own.
Thematically, it's a little Wonder and a little Jacqueline Wilson, and as much as it pains me to do that compare and contrast thing, I think it's a worthwhile exercise with this book because it's in doing that sort of comparative analysis that you realise how this book is something furiously singular, immensely readable and something quite valuable indeed. ...more
The debut novel from Angie Thomas, The Hate U Give is a ferociously crafted and brilliant and startling novel. It's hard to not exhThis is remarkable.
The debut novel from Angie Thomas, The Hate U Give is a ferociously crafted and brilliant and startling novel. It's hard to not exhaust myself of superlatives for it but it is something else. I'm often a little nervous about those books that get a lot of good press because I don't want to be the one who goes 'actually..'. I really don't. I don't review to shoot things down, I review books for their bookish ways. For what they can say and do and how they say and do it.
Page two. That's how long it took for me to know that I was going to review this book; that's the moment when I read a sentence so utterly perfect that reader, I stared at it and marvelled at how wonderful a thing language is. I stared at the sentence in the way you do when you read a lot of things, when reading is your quote unquote job and you have seen it all before but you have never seen this. The Hate U Give gave me something new, something so fiercely beautiful and resolute that I've had difficulty stepping away from it. Thomas' use of language is immense. Firmly, fiercely, immense.
Starr lives in two worlds; high school and home, poles apart. When she is the only witness to a shooting, those barriers start to crumble and Starr must figure out how to live her life and how to find justice. I read this, I devoured it, and it made me think of that maxim often trotted out in creative writing classes. Write the story you need to tell. Not the story you think people want to hear, nor the story that you think people might be able to sell, but the story you need to tell. And that's what Thomas achieves here; every word cracks with fury and pain and beauty. It is remarkable. It should be epochal. ...more
It's taken me a while to figure out how to write this review. I loved Troublemakers but I didn't know how to write about it. It's a curious thing, sorIt's taken me a while to figure out how to write this review. I loved Troublemakers but I didn't know how to write about it. It's a curious thing, sort of not quite what I expected it to be and somehow more than that. It's a big book. It's thick and edible and layered with a thousand different notes, and all of them hook into you and don't let you go. I loved it. I don't know how to write about it, so maybe I'll try and give you something different than my normal reviews.
But let's begin with the blurb. Alena lives with her half-brother, Danny, and his boyfriend, in the east end of London. She has never known her mother who died when she was a baby. Danny and Nick are her family. Danny, though, has taken a job with a local politician who's aiming to be London Mayor; somebody is terrorising the local area by leaving bombs in supermarkets, and Alena's suddenly desperate to know more about her past. Her family.
This is a coming of age story, and it's a yell into the world, that moment when you walk to the edge of the beach, dip your toes in the sea and yell out into the blue beyond that you are here that you matter that you exist. Troublemakers is an affirmation; a defiance, but it's also somehow more than that. It's like Sunday Lunch with the people you love, those lunches where you know everything almost a moment before it happens because you know these people. It's about family, forgiveness, foolishness, love. The shape of people. The mistakes of people. The love. The cup of tea, the feet up on the sofa, the recognition of what makes you you. It's a little bit Jenny Downham, a little bit Annabel Pitcher, but it's very much itself. It's feelings, and fear and friendships. Coffee. Hope. Hate. Joy..
I still don't know how to write about this book, but oh I know how to write about what it made me feel.
I didn't know what to expect from this. I picked it up because of the cover, and for some reason came home from the library with a handful of yellow bI didn't know what to expect from this. I picked it up because of the cover, and for some reason came home from the library with a handful of yellow books. Perhaps colour-based selection will be my new method when I'm not sure what to get; after all, it worked perfectly here. This is a hell of a book and it is surprising. It's not often that I get to use that about a thriller because we are so familiar with what they do. We are trained to look for twists and turns and lies and deceit but sometimes a book just throws itself in a direction that you don't expect. And when it does it well, oh that's a good moment indeed.
The Yellow Room is outstanding.
The central protagonist, Anna, received a letter from her father's girlfriend, Edie. It is unexpected: her father is dead, and Edie would like to meet her. The two start to form a close relationship and Edie provides much of the mothering that Anna lacks and needs - her own mother is preoccupied with work, and their relationship is deeply fractured. Yet Edie has problems and secrets of her own;, and secrets always have a way of being found out...
Vallance's writing is calm and controlled and wickedly strong. It's hard to write something like this because the temptation is to strew it with Conscious Things That You Should Pay Attention To. Vallance doesn't do this; she laces her work with a sort of conscious believeablity throughout and everything that is within it is sort of normal and okay and then, when the shifts come and Things Happen, you sort of can't process it because it's so out of the blue and yet, in a way, it was there all along. That is an awful sentence but it's the nearest I can come towards conveying the experience of this book. The last third, in particular, is vital and tense and brilliant.
I also loved how Vallance didn't seek the easy way out. I'm starting to cleave towards these texts that treat every individual within them as human. Adults, child, all of them. No character left behind, no character placed in just as a cardboard cut out. Everyone has motivation, depth and when they do the things they do it is understandable. It is sympathetic, even when they are awful and unconscionable things. Give me depth, and I will follow you to the moon and back. I really will.
Grace, the titular heroine of The State of Grace, has Aspergers. She also has a horse, and a boy that she sort of likes but doesn't quite know how to Grace, the titular heroine of The State of Grace, has Aspergers. She also has a horse, and a boy that she sort of likes but doesn't quite know how to act with. Coupled with this her dad is on long work trips overseas, her mother is starting to act weird, and her sister has secrets of her own, there's a lot going on. Throw in a horse, some nice little nerdy in-jokes, and you've got quite a charming story driven by an intense sense of heart. I liked The State Of Grace. It's a little messy, a little tumbly, a little disjointed, but unerringly driven by a sense of love and a determination to let Grace tell her story.
I really appreciate Lucas for centring Aspergers within this. People look for reflections of themselves within literature, and even more so when it comes to children and young adult. Whether that's a drive driven by the adults or the young readers themselves is a debate for another time, but it happens. It's one of the most consistent questions I get asked, irrespective of context. "Do you have a book about...?" Where The State Of Grace shines is both in its frankness of discussing Aspergers but also in the additional material at the back which covers more about the issue.
I also really loved the horse element in this. Grace has an Arab called Mabel, and that's something we don't often see in contemporary young adult. Her relationship with Mabel is sensitively told, and gives Grace both a sense of power and responsibility. It comes towards the fore at the end of the book and though I won't spoil the incident in question, the reaction on Grace's part is immensely true to life.
Tonally, The State of Grace has a lot to pay back towards the old Pullein-Thompson books but also towards a modern sort of romance vibe. It's very genuine and somewhat innocent in feel, but really sort of determinedly charming with that. I liked this. Also, on a slightly tangential note, I would definitely welcome more male representation in texts of this nature. I really hope The State Of Grace signifies the start of that movement and of that discussion. ...more
Prisoner of Night and Fog is set in extraordinary, awful times. It's 1930s Munich and Gretchen Müller has grown up under the protection of her Uncle 'Prisoner of Night and Fog is set in extraordinary, awful times. It's 1930s Munich and Gretchen Müller has grown up under the protection of her Uncle 'Dolf'. 'Dolf' is Adolf Hitler and Gretchen is his beloved pet. The daughter of a Nazi martyr, Gretchen has been bought up in the parties ideology. Yet one day she meets a Jewish reporter, Daniel Cohen, who tells her that her father was not martyred. He was murdered - by somebody in the party. Together, Gretchen and Daniel set out to discover just what happened to her father....
It's the story that got me with this. There's something incredible here, but I don't think Prisoner of Night and Fog quite manages to follow through on the vivid, awful truth. Though several characters are identified as fictional, many aren't and Gretchen comes into contact with a wide range of actual people. Hitler. Rohm. Eva Braun. Angela "Geli" Raubal. It's a vivid context and one that should make a young adult novel burn. I'm not sure that this one does that. There's a lot of running from one plot point to another, which becomes oddly repetitive, and Gretchen herself is somewhat toneless.
Sometimes I recommend novels more for the context of what they deal with. I do think Prisoner of Night and Fog is worth a read because the setting and the historical narrative is fascinating. I suspect in a way that it might have worked better were the novel itself less safe. That's an odd thing to say in the context, and bear with me for a second whilst I explain it.
Let's say 'A girl sits down at the table, eats her lunch and gets up again'.
Now, let's say something like: 'A girl sits down at the table, eats her lunch, and then the table eats her.'
It's a farcical example but I'm trying to make the point that sometimes a narrative needs to startle and snap when you least expect it. And when it doesn't, and when I'm longing for it to be brave and reckless and unpredictable and it doesn't - then I end up feeling somewhat disappointed. There's a big story here and it's one that would sing in young adult work; Prisoner of Night and Fog makes a good attempt at telling that story, but doesn't quite succeed....more
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