octavia_cade's Reviews (2.64k)

I read and reviewed each of the three volumes collected here separately, so this is basically just for my own records. The rating is an average of the individual ratings. The Tombs of Atuan, the second book in the series, got five stars from me. I think it's outstanding. I've read it a number of times, and each time it's as effective as the last. And how much do I love Le Guin's use of brevity, both in her uncluttered prose and in the length of her novels? If only more fantasy writers took her approach...

On the other hand, both A Wizard of Earthsea and The Farthest Shore only got three stars each from me. While I can admire the prose and the setting, Ged bores me to death and always has done. I cannot, and have never, warmed to him or even to Arren. I just don't give a damn about what happens to either of them, and that is a problem. In fact I'd go as far as to say that one of the great achievements of Tombs is that Tenar manages to make Ged a tiny bit more interesting than usual, and that is frankly a heroic effort on her part.

Granted, this is only the third of the novelisations I've read thus far, but it's far and away the best of them, adding a lot of extra material that just wasn't in the episode. That extra material doesn't change the plot much, but provides extra creepy occurrences of the TARDIS trying to communicate with its inhabitants. It takes them a while to catch on - it's Barbara who does so first, and this is a particularly good story for her characterisation - and it's easy to picture the TARDIS shaking its big blue head, thinking "How much more do I have to do to spoonfeed you idiots?!"

So, quite entertaining. And the text zips along nicely and at pace, which is always enjoyable.

My streak of loving every Earthsea book that primarily features someone other than Ged continues. (I'm sorry, but he's routinely the least interesting thing about this series.) Anyway, the stories collected here cover a range of time in the history of the Archipelago, and there's a strong focus on restriction. Namely, the difference between the magics associated with men and women, and how this difference is basically enforced by social and gender constructs - the magic men do is important and large, while the magic women do is small and petty. That sort of thing. This is something Le Guin has covered before in the Earthsea books, and in Tales From Earthsea this is reinforced. Particularly well illustrated in the text is the impact such an imposed (and fundamentally baseless) power structure has on individuals - how it limits women and cripples men, how neither gender really benefits from it. And this is interesting thematically, and it's been one of the most attractive themes for me throughout the books, but even so it's not the main appeal here. Le Guin's prose is just so polished. There's nothing disjointed about it... not the tiniest note. It's so smooth and so restrained, so subtle and so quiet... it's an absolute pleasure to read.

Nennius is not as entertaining as Gildas, I must say. He's far less bitchy in his historical judgements, although the odd bit does shine through: "Nennius, pupil of the holy Elvodug, have [sic] undertaken to write down some extracts that the stupidity of the British cast out" is pretty much the opening line, which gave me a great deal of hope for an amusing read, but sadly he becomes a lot more objective and scholarly from then on. Instead, he makes a great deal of effort to standardise chronology - the introduction tells me he was one of the few to do so at this time - so this fairly short document is as well-ordered and readable as he can reasonably make it, though the fairly extensive lists of "begats" will never be thrilling reading.

I've also shelved this as "Arthurian" because this is one of the very earliest Arthurian sources, although as with Gildas there's not a great deal of relevance here. Just a few paragraphs mainly, and it doesn't give a great deal of detail. The closing sections on the wonders of Britain and Ireland are more interesting...

Short interesting memoir from a forensic anthropologist. It's intelligently illustrated, too, with a number of useful drawings and photos. On the whole, though, I was hoping for a little more. Manhein is an excellent story-teller, and that's what's being put across here: stories, a number of them, none more than a few pages long. It ends up being a diverse but disconnected narrative, and one that never delves very deeply into anything. I was expecting true crime, but a lot of the cases highlighted here - presumably some of the most interesting of Manhein's career - involve, for instance, accident or drowning. That in itself isn't bad at all! The variety gives a greater sense of what life as a forensic anthropologist actually entails, and I appreciated the realism. I was, however, also expecting more science. I happen to like science, and there was just not as much here as I was looking for. I would have preferred fewer chapters, going more in-depth, I think.

This is a likeable story that has a strong emotional centre. Avi Cantor, of the title, is a trans boy who is suffering from depression when he hears the rumour, spread about his school, that he has six months to live. What works for me here are the characters - primarily Avi. His love interest Ian is a little more thinly drawn, but Avi's own feelings are very well explored, and from the author interview at the back it's clear that Lamb's own experiences are the inspiration. It works. Avi isn't what I'd call a happy character, but he is a believable one.

I find the whole magic subplot far less convincing, though. It doesn't help that deals with demons are one of those things I just have very little interest in generally when it comes to fantasy media. I can't help but think I'd prefer this story with the supernatural bits taken out, and more focus on Avi and Ian and how they use their relationship to navigate the world around them.

A distinct improvement on the last book in the series, and I reckon that's because Gretchen Lowell isn't in it. That sounds counter-intuitive in itself, as she's clearly the most interesting and charismatic character of the lot, but her mere presence causes the IQ of everyone around her to drop to room temperature. Aside from lovely sensible Henry, of course - and it's no coincidence that when he's out of action for most of the book, the remainder of the characters have to rely on their own damn common sense for a minute and actually begin behaving like their actions have consequences. (It's much less easy to be a thoughtless, selfish twit when you have to clean up after yourself.) Hopefully now that the deeply unlikeable Archie has managed to knock off one serial killer without metaphorically disemboweling himself with guilt, he'll stop prevaricating when it comes to the rest. Still hate him, though, and I'm honestly hoping that come the end of the series he dies.

On the other hand, I will never not love an octopus.

The really interesting thing about time travel, other than the tension that comes from a clash of cultures - is the ability of time travellers to change the culture in which they find themselves. Or, more to the point, their inability to change it, which is what this particular book/set of episodes explores. It in no way reaches the heights of the modern Rosa Parks episode, which is themed around that same inability, but it's still an entertaining story. Because really, who can fault Barbara's desires here? As a historian, she's keenly aware of both the horrors (and heights) of Aztec culture, and the destruction of that culture by the future arrival of the Europeans. One does not excuse the other, and if she can find a way to extirpate the idea of human sacrifice from the Aztecs, then maybe there will be something left of them to survive Cortés. I doubt it - he was clearly pretty damn bloodthirsty himself - but the slowly-dawning realisation that she can neither stop human sacrifice nor ameliorate the coming invasion is immensely sympathetic.

I'm sorry, I am, but this is just excruciatingly dull. Had it gone on any longer I might have slipped into coma. In fairness, the first half isn't that bad. I was actually thinking of giving it three stars as, despite the appalling behaviour of everyone concerned - apparently mass murder and ecological destruction is perfectly fine if God orders such - it at least had interesting imagery and moved along at something like pace. Then, halfway through, the rot begins. The descriptions of the ark, and how it is built, and the clothes, food, ointments that follow are just interminable. And then they start being repeated, with pretty much only a tense change to vary it. I had to force myself to finish.

Honestly, I don't know who wrote this, but I have very strong suspicions. After all those very lengthy descriptions of the fancy, expensive things that Aaron must wear, the fancy, expensive things with which Aaron must cleanse himself, and the fancy, expensive things with which Aaron must be fed, it's a fair bet that one of his descendants was chomping at the bit to have the gravy train continue. ("No, no, it's not me who wants the jewel-encrusted breastplate. God wants me to have it.")

The best thing about this, by a country mile, was the genuinely interesting and well-written introduction by David Grossman. That I would happily read again.

This is just flat-out horrifying. I'm working my way through one of the Goodreads biography lists, and I side-eyed this to be honest. Because you do think it's the family, don't you. They must have done something to produce a kid willing to commit such violence. I was expecting a laundry list of excuses... and there were none. There was also no explanation. Nor, Klebold is at pains to repeat, will there ever be one. Any chance of explanation died with her son.

The really terrifying bit is I believe her when she says she had no clue, and that there was nothing in Dylan's family life that would cause him to commit mass murder. The family seems entirely normal. Klebold comes across a little bit helicopter, to be honest, but not hugely so, and she had no clue. Nor did her husband, nor did their other son, nor did pretty much anyone else in Dylan's social circle, excepting Eric Harris. The kid was just a bomb waiting to go off, and no-one picked up on it, simply because - like many other kids - he hid his problems too well. How mental health plays into tragedies like this is a strong focus of the book, and supplements the emotional tone of it well.

Parenting seems such a crap-shoot anyway. You can work your arse off, do the best you can, and decent results still aren't guaranteed. I'm not a mother, and never intend to be, and stories like this make the prospect seem even less appealing than it already does. The horror and confusion and grief that this woman feels, the sheer overwhelming shame… it's like a train wreck. I couldn't look away. It feels a little bit privileged to judge the prose here, but the prose is certaintly part of that fascination. It's lucid and thoughtful, and the years of groping towards some sort of resolution - one which will surely never come - is well served by this style, I think. It's compulsively readable, and, as I said, absolutely awful.