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tachyondecay
The best part of the book was the theme, which Clair Messud does handle well. For that reason alone, I gave this book as a gift to a friend once, hoping that even if I didn't enjoy it, she might like it.
Aside from that, this book has little to recommend it, unfortunately. It's a shame, because I really wanted to like it: it had interesting moments, little bits that I enjoyed. Overall, however, it was just ... lacklustre.
Aside from that, this book has little to recommend it, unfortunately. It's a shame, because I really wanted to like it: it had interesting moments, little bits that I enjoyed. Overall, however, it was just ... lacklustre.
This book began with a great deal of promise, but as I got to knew the characters, I liked it less and less.
Heidi Julavits demonstrates how one can avoid using quotation marks to indicate dialogue without confusing the reader, a lesson [author:Ali Smith] could stand to learn. The Uses of Enchantment is far superior to [book:The Accidental] in use of language and style to create a particular atmosphere and introduce the character. I enjoy how Julavits varies the chapters among "what might have happened," the notes of Mary's therapist, flashbacks, and present day events. Unlike [book:The Delta], the periods in time are clearly separated, not confusing, and not annoying. Indeed, this book seems to employ two narrative devices used in other books I recently read and didn't much like, yet it does it so much better than those books.
Style aside, however, I didn't like this book as much as I thought I would. I empathize with Mary, who was either abducted and never properly counselled about it or engineered a fake abduction and never adjusted properly to society. But she spends most of the books complaining about how manipulative and narcissistic her mother was, and how she never got a chance to reconcile with her mother prior to her mother's death from cancer. Although the story spends a lot of time discussing therapy and Mary's experience with it, Mary never seems to have to exert much effort in her life or deal with any consequences (beyond her obvious estrangement from her family). She crashes a car, revisits the ghosts from her past, but at the end of the book, has she really changed from who she was at the beginning? No. And that was a disappointment.
Heidi Julavits demonstrates how one can avoid using quotation marks to indicate dialogue without confusing the reader, a lesson [author:Ali Smith] could stand to learn. The Uses of Enchantment is far superior to [book:The Accidental] in use of language and style to create a particular atmosphere and introduce the character. I enjoy how Julavits varies the chapters among "what might have happened," the notes of Mary's therapist, flashbacks, and present day events. Unlike [book:The Delta], the periods in time are clearly separated, not confusing, and not annoying. Indeed, this book seems to employ two narrative devices used in other books I recently read and didn't much like, yet it does it so much better than those books.
Style aside, however, I didn't like this book as much as I thought I would. I empathize with Mary, who was either abducted and never properly counselled about it or engineered a fake abduction and never adjusted properly to society. But she spends most of the books complaining about how manipulative and narcissistic her mother was, and how she never got a chance to reconcile with her mother prior to her mother's death from cancer. Although the story spends a lot of time discussing therapy and Mary's experience with it, Mary never seems to have to exert much effort in her life or deal with any consequences (beyond her obvious estrangement from her family). She crashes a car, revisits the ghosts from her past, but at the end of the book, has she really changed from who she was at the beginning? No. And that was a disappointment.
As a fantasy writer, I was fascinated to learn how one of the fantasy genre's most successful writers planned out his novels. I was well aware that Eddings was a formulaic writer, but it was interesting nonetheless to hear about his past in addition to reading the sheer amount of extra material he compiled in order to write The Belgariad.
While interesting, it is all academic, and obviously out of context to anyone who hasn't read The Belgariad or The Malloreon. For those who have, you'll only like this book if you're interested in encyclopedic details more than, say, a rollicking fantasy adventure.
While interesting, it is all academic, and obviously out of context to anyone who hasn't read The Belgariad or The Malloreon. For those who have, you'll only like this book if you're interested in encyclopedic details more than, say, a rollicking fantasy adventure.
First I read this book with curiosity and, I confess, not a little scepticism. Then I read this book with pleasure and even, perhaps, morbid anticipation. Finally, as I turned the last few pages and the book spoke to me of endings and new beginnings, I read this book with appreciation and wonder.
The Monsters of Templeton begins in a distracted, almost haphazard fashion, introducing the tangential plot of the lake monster's death even as we meet the protagonist, Wilhelmina "Wille" Upton. It took me some time to warm to her and her hippie-turned-born-again-Baptist mother, Vivienne, whom Willie addresses as Vi. When I first picked this book up off a library shelf, I wasn't sure how interesting it would be, but I borrowed it anyway. I don't regret that decision.
I soon fell in love with our heroine, who is just the right amount of feisty and reflective. She is not without flaws, her mother admonishing her as much as she admonishes her mom. Add to this the fact that Vi's dating her reverend and Willie's best friend, Clarissa, is suffering in San Francisco from lupus, and you have a veritable cast of zany characters--yet somehow, Lauren Groff makes it all work!
As Willie searches for the identity of her father, we learn about her family, and she learns more about herself. She confronts her pregnancy, the affair that led up to it, and forms new relationships with old acquaintances in her small hometown. Willie grows over the course of this book, and I enjoyed watching her development.
The parallel stories that Groff tells through the flashbacks and letters of Willie's ancestors aren't my favourite part of this book, but they serve a purpose and are interesting enough. Thanks to her excellent and varied voices, Groff manages to synthesize diverse perspectives that keep these sections interesting.
And lastly, there's the "Buds", the Running Buds, five men in late middle age who run around the town every morning, the town gossips, discussing their lives and the lives of everyone in Templeton. Groff inserts their opinions on events in the story, writing with the rhythm of a runner. These chapters serve to tie together the past and the present and put everything in perspective.
Set in and concerning a small town with a long history, The Monsters of Templeton is a touching story about family, growing up, and making choices. Groff manages to create a flawed but likable heroine and an even wackier mother. Unlike many books, which begin with a bang but peter out before reaching a satisfactory ending, this book comes to a calm and conclusive resolution that left me with the satisfaction comparable to eating a filling meal.
The Monsters of Templeton is a good read, and I'm glad I plucked it from the library shelf.
The Monsters of Templeton begins in a distracted, almost haphazard fashion, introducing the tangential plot of the lake monster's death even as we meet the protagonist, Wilhelmina "Wille" Upton. It took me some time to warm to her and her hippie-turned-born-again-Baptist mother, Vivienne, whom Willie addresses as Vi. When I first picked this book up off a library shelf, I wasn't sure how interesting it would be, but I borrowed it anyway. I don't regret that decision.
I soon fell in love with our heroine, who is just the right amount of feisty and reflective. She is not without flaws, her mother admonishing her as much as she admonishes her mom. Add to this the fact that Vi's dating her reverend and Willie's best friend, Clarissa, is suffering in San Francisco from lupus, and you have a veritable cast of zany characters--yet somehow, Lauren Groff makes it all work!
As Willie searches for the identity of her father, we learn about her family, and she learns more about herself. She confronts her pregnancy, the affair that led up to it, and forms new relationships with old acquaintances in her small hometown. Willie grows over the course of this book, and I enjoyed watching her development.
The parallel stories that Groff tells through the flashbacks and letters of Willie's ancestors aren't my favourite part of this book, but they serve a purpose and are interesting enough. Thanks to her excellent and varied voices, Groff manages to synthesize diverse perspectives that keep these sections interesting.
And lastly, there's the "Buds", the Running Buds, five men in late middle age who run around the town every morning, the town gossips, discussing their lives and the lives of everyone in Templeton. Groff inserts their opinions on events in the story, writing with the rhythm of a runner. These chapters serve to tie together the past and the present and put everything in perspective.
Set in and concerning a small town with a long history, The Monsters of Templeton is a touching story about family, growing up, and making choices. Groff manages to create a flawed but likable heroine and an even wackier mother. Unlike many books, which begin with a bang but peter out before reaching a satisfactory ending, this book comes to a calm and conclusive resolution that left me with the satisfaction comparable to eating a filling meal.
The Monsters of Templeton is a good read, and I'm glad I plucked it from the library shelf.
This is a story of curdled bitterness. One of the main characters tears his family in two and creates a gaping wound that doesn't heal until several decades later. A tale of "twins separated at birth", The Memory Keeper's Daughter explores how the secret complications of that separation affect all the members of the two families that raise these twins.
I appreciate her depiction of Down's syndrome in the '60s and '70s, as well as the challenges that parents of children with Down's syndrome faced, particularly in securing education and accommodation for their children. As someone who hasn't had much experience with Down's syndrome, I can't attest to Edwards' accuracy, but I think she got the emotional resonance down.
Often the conflicts in these books seem contrived and forced; that seldom happens in this story. The characters and their motivations seem real--irrational at times, sure, but that's because they're human. The relationships are a realistic, as is most of the plot, which is aided by creative license only when required to keep the story moving. Edwards makes me care about Caroline and her adopted daughter, Phoebe. She makes me resent David's actions and question whether Nora is really devoted to her son, or if every time she looks at him she's reminded of the daughter she "lost".
About two-thirds of the way through the story, another character, Rosalie, is introduced. I disliked this subplot, finding it somewhat random. In hindsight I understand Rosalie's purpose, of course, in that Edwards needed a way for David to become a father again and eventually decide to tell his family about Phoebe. But this is the only part of the book that feels contrived, which was disappointing in light of how good it is otherwise.
A moving story, I'd recommend this to others and read it again.
I appreciate her depiction of Down's syndrome in the '60s and '70s, as well as the challenges that parents of children with Down's syndrome faced, particularly in securing education and accommodation for their children. As someone who hasn't had much experience with Down's syndrome, I can't attest to Edwards' accuracy, but I think she got the emotional resonance down.
Often the conflicts in these books seem contrived and forced; that seldom happens in this story. The characters and their motivations seem real--irrational at times, sure, but that's because they're human. The relationships are a realistic, as is most of the plot, which is aided by creative license only when required to keep the story moving. Edwards makes me care about Caroline and her adopted daughter, Phoebe. She makes me resent David's actions and question whether Nora is really devoted to her son, or if every time she looks at him she's reminded of the daughter she "lost".
About two-thirds of the way through the story, another character, Rosalie, is introduced. I disliked this subplot, finding it somewhat random. In hindsight I understand Rosalie's purpose, of course, in that Edwards needed a way for David to become a father again and eventually decide to tell his family about Phoebe. But this is the only part of the book that feels contrived, which was disappointing in light of how good it is otherwise.
A moving story, I'd recommend this to others and read it again.
Cover-to-cover, Salt is lyrical, evocative prose, with an indigo but definitely not purple hue. Jeremy Page's writing drew me into the world of the salt marshes in Norfolk without so much as a backward glance to the rest of the world. He made me forget that the rest of the world even existed. The first part of the book briefly takes place during the Second World War, and aside from some references to other places, the book isn't about the war--it's about Norfolk. I have immense respect for books that are able to carve out a component of the world and create their own microcosm in which events unfold.
Page's characters, like his prose, are lively, real people with real personalities--often invective but sometimes charming. And this isn't a storybook, in which each character is a flat, stock representation of a moral absolute and the main character must navigate his or her way toward the happy ending. No, all of the characters at one time or another break your heart, even though you can faintly recall wanting to hug each of them at some point. Adrift in a North Sea of ambiguity, the main character has very difficult choices to make.
Salt begins as the tale of a marshwoman, Goose, and a German pilot who falls from the sky. It traces the life of her daughter, her daughter's marriage to a local Norfolk boy and subsequent child, eventually segueing into the trials of this child, Pip, who is the narrator of the story. Nothing in his life is easy, it seems, and each time he faces an obstacle, he runs away and seeks help from someone else, only to run away again.
That, if anything, seems to be the message behind Salt. I say "if anything" because this is a novel with a ponderous, pretentious pace. There's very little open dialogue, most of it rendered through the filter of the protagonist, who's also our narrator. Likewise, the action scenes aren't dynamic so much as descriptive. If you enjoy such a voice, you'll enjoy this book.
There is a strong sense of tradition and storytelling embedded in this book. Pip retells both his grandmother's story and the story of his mother's life, which was passed to him by oral tradition. Mostly mute for the portion of his life covered in this novel, Pip may be the first generation of his family to write these stories down; I got the sense that he placed great significance in this ritual. Page makes many references to literacy, writing, and communication in general, emphasizing how the regional dialect affects the pronunciation of certain phrases.
Salt is not an action-adventure, so don't look for such among its pages. It is a character piece through and through--how strong of a character piece is up to you. While I loved the scene descriptions and enjoyed most of the first half of the book, the ending was not as satisfying as I would have liked. Too many loose ends, not enough finality for me. The atmosphere of the entire ending, which consists of a hallucination-like experience, was also confusing--I had to read it a couple of times over.
While not mediocre, Salt is not exactly great, for the reasons I mentioned above. As such, while I can't condemn it for its flaws, it's hard to extol its virtues as well.
Page's characters, like his prose, are lively, real people with real personalities--often invective but sometimes charming. And this isn't a storybook, in which each character is a flat, stock representation of a moral absolute and the main character must navigate his or her way toward the happy ending. No, all of the characters at one time or another break your heart, even though you can faintly recall wanting to hug each of them at some point. Adrift in a North Sea of ambiguity, the main character has very difficult choices to make.
Salt begins as the tale of a marshwoman, Goose, and a German pilot who falls from the sky. It traces the life of her daughter, her daughter's marriage to a local Norfolk boy and subsequent child, eventually segueing into the trials of this child, Pip, who is the narrator of the story. Nothing in his life is easy, it seems, and each time he faces an obstacle, he runs away and seeks help from someone else, only to run away again.
That, if anything, seems to be the message behind Salt. I say "if anything" because this is a novel with a ponderous, pretentious pace. There's very little open dialogue, most of it rendered through the filter of the protagonist, who's also our narrator. Likewise, the action scenes aren't dynamic so much as descriptive. If you enjoy such a voice, you'll enjoy this book.
There is a strong sense of tradition and storytelling embedded in this book. Pip retells both his grandmother's story and the story of his mother's life, which was passed to him by oral tradition. Mostly mute for the portion of his life covered in this novel, Pip may be the first generation of his family to write these stories down; I got the sense that he placed great significance in this ritual. Page makes many references to literacy, writing, and communication in general, emphasizing how the regional dialect affects the pronunciation of certain phrases.
Salt is not an action-adventure, so don't look for such among its pages. It is a character piece through and through--how strong of a character piece is up to you. While I loved the scene descriptions and enjoyed most of the first half of the book, the ending was not as satisfying as I would have liked. Too many loose ends, not enough finality for me. The atmosphere of the entire ending, which consists of a hallucination-like experience, was also confusing--I had to read it a couple of times over.
While not mediocre, Salt is not exactly great, for the reasons I mentioned above. As such, while I can't condemn it for its flaws, it's hard to extol its virtues as well.
Another one of those books that surprised me when I discovered it had found a place in my heart, The Girl Who Stopped Swimming has everything a great book should have: round characters, a compelling conflict, great dialogue, and a smooth writing style. Joshilyn Jackson's plotting and pace makes this an easy book to read; I never feel like I have to skim at any point. This is especially true around the climax, when the characters each experience personal crises while confronting the plot's final twist before revealing the last battle.
I must confess when I began reading this book, I had pictured in my mind "Desperate Housewives if it were a paranormal mystery series." Not one to watch Desperate Housewives or read paranormal mysteries, I was sceptical going in, hoping that something about the characters or the writing style would keep me afloat. I'm glad to say that I was pleasantly surprised.
The protagonist, Laurel, is a complex character full of excellent observations and equally annoying flaws. Her major flaw is her sister, Thalia. In other words, Thalia brings out the worst in Laurel, because Thalia is everything Laurel is not, even if sometimes--if only for a brief, infinitesimal moment--Laurel wishes she could be those things. The truth is, as Laurel eventually (and predictably) decides, Laurel's quite happy with her life the way it is: husband, daughter, and quilt-making career. But the journey she makes with her sister through the course of this novel is a necessary one, born out of a need to heal the rift between them and close a long-open chapter of their shared familial past.
In portraying this, Jackson never patronizes her reader. She doesn't dumb this down into a Desperate Housewives-like drama, because she doesn't break the fourth wall and wink at the audience that this is supposed to be funny. There's plenty of humour in the story--much of it coming from the narrator's limited perspective hovering over Laurel's shoulder and peeking into her mind--but it's all careful and deliberate, intended to facilitate and emphasize the creation of dichotomies rather than mock them.
The Girl Who Stopped Swimming is rife with dichotomies: the harsh contrast of Laurel's neighbourhood, suburban Victoriana--or as Thalia calls it, "Stepfordiana"--with the sisters' mother's childhood milieu, hick-country DeLop, Alabama, where the average inhabitant is lucky to have a fifth-grade level of education. The differences between these two settings becomes an important part of the plot, for they influence the differences between Laurel's daughter, Shelby, and the daughter's pen pal from DeLop, Bet.
And finally there's the dichotomy of Laurel and Thalia, two sisters who seem to be utter opposites. Acting mainly as Laurel's foil, Thalia emphasizes her sister's bland personality, criticizing her marriage and postulating that she had only one child so she could control every move Shelby could make and keep her safe. It's Thalia who threatens to widen the crack in Laurel and David's marriage by planting the seeds of suspicion of adultery in her sister's mind. And it's Thalia who needles, prods, and finally encourages Laurel to jump into the deep end and confront the person she needs to be, to surrender to the insanity temporarily so she can learn it, master it, and never again fear her ghosts.
I love Jackson's writing style, particularly how she handles dialogue. She's great at catching characters' personalities in their voices. Thalia's diction is larger-than-life, her allusions to theatre and entertainment perfect for her diaphanous and ephemeral self. Likewise, David's syntax is surgical and sterile, except when he's talking to Laurel about how he feels for her. As Laurel observes, he doesn't quite use the word feels, but his words glow with emotion anyway. Little of the dialogue feels like filler, which is something I find present in even the best of books.
I'm glad that Jackson downplayed the paranormal aspect that the copy on the inside cover seemed so eager to play up. As far as I interpret it, Laurel's ghosts are symbolic more than they are literal, and I like it that way. Don't get me wrong--I love ghost stories, and I love fantasy and magic. But in the world Jackson creates in The Girl Who Stopped Swimming, that sort of magic would have destroyed the magic already there, a different kind of magic.
By the end of this book, I was immersed in the adventure of the two Gray sisters. I cheered for Laurel when she finally, irrevocably became her own person. I cheered for David when he displayed an uncharacteristic ability to seize the day. I cheered for Thalia when she seamlessly changed from flighty, snapping sister to a concerned aunt who would kill to ensure her niece's safety. And I gasped when all of this was threatened by the plot twist and the uncertainty of the greyness beyond the climax.
I'm not sure if this is a book I could read again. As much as I loved it, I doubt it would be as good the second time through, since I would be well aware of the ending. I could see myself enjoying the interplay between the two sisters again, but I doubt it would compare to the first reading. Still, The Girl Who Stopped Swimming may not be eminently repeatable, but it is eminently readable. It earned each of those five stars.
I must confess when I began reading this book, I had pictured in my mind "Desperate Housewives if it were a paranormal mystery series." Not one to watch Desperate Housewives or read paranormal mysteries, I was sceptical going in, hoping that something about the characters or the writing style would keep me afloat. I'm glad to say that I was pleasantly surprised.
The protagonist, Laurel, is a complex character full of excellent observations and equally annoying flaws. Her major flaw is her sister, Thalia. In other words, Thalia brings out the worst in Laurel, because Thalia is everything Laurel is not, even if sometimes--if only for a brief, infinitesimal moment--Laurel wishes she could be those things. The truth is, as Laurel eventually (and predictably) decides, Laurel's quite happy with her life the way it is: husband, daughter, and quilt-making career. But the journey she makes with her sister through the course of this novel is a necessary one, born out of a need to heal the rift between them and close a long-open chapter of their shared familial past.
In portraying this, Jackson never patronizes her reader. She doesn't dumb this down into a Desperate Housewives-like drama, because she doesn't break the fourth wall and wink at the audience that this is supposed to be funny. There's plenty of humour in the story--much of it coming from the narrator's limited perspective hovering over Laurel's shoulder and peeking into her mind--but it's all careful and deliberate, intended to facilitate and emphasize the creation of dichotomies rather than mock them.
The Girl Who Stopped Swimming is rife with dichotomies: the harsh contrast of Laurel's neighbourhood, suburban Victoriana--or as Thalia calls it, "Stepfordiana"--with the sisters' mother's childhood milieu, hick-country DeLop, Alabama, where the average inhabitant is lucky to have a fifth-grade level of education. The differences between these two settings becomes an important part of the plot, for they influence the differences between Laurel's daughter, Shelby, and the daughter's pen pal from DeLop, Bet.
And finally there's the dichotomy of Laurel and Thalia, two sisters who seem to be utter opposites. Acting mainly as Laurel's foil, Thalia emphasizes her sister's bland personality, criticizing her marriage and postulating that she had only one child so she could control every move Shelby could make and keep her safe. It's Thalia who threatens to widen the crack in Laurel and David's marriage by planting the seeds of suspicion of adultery in her sister's mind. And it's Thalia who needles, prods, and finally encourages Laurel to jump into the deep end and confront the person she needs to be, to surrender to the insanity temporarily so she can learn it, master it, and never again fear her ghosts.
I love Jackson's writing style, particularly how she handles dialogue. She's great at catching characters' personalities in their voices. Thalia's diction is larger-than-life, her allusions to theatre and entertainment perfect for her diaphanous and ephemeral self. Likewise, David's syntax is surgical and sterile, except when he's talking to Laurel about how he feels for her. As Laurel observes, he doesn't quite use the word feels, but his words glow with emotion anyway. Little of the dialogue feels like filler, which is something I find present in even the best of books.
I'm glad that Jackson downplayed the paranormal aspect that the copy on the inside cover seemed so eager to play up. As far as I interpret it, Laurel's ghosts are symbolic more than they are literal, and I like it that way. Don't get me wrong--I love ghost stories, and I love fantasy and magic. But in the world Jackson creates in The Girl Who Stopped Swimming, that sort of magic would have destroyed the magic already there, a different kind of magic.
By the end of this book, I was immersed in the adventure of the two Gray sisters. I cheered for Laurel when she finally, irrevocably became her own person. I cheered for David when he displayed an uncharacteristic ability to seize the day. I cheered for Thalia when she seamlessly changed from flighty, snapping sister to a concerned aunt who would kill to ensure her niece's safety. And I gasped when all of this was threatened by the plot twist and the uncertainty of the greyness beyond the climax.
I'm not sure if this is a book I could read again. As much as I loved it, I doubt it would be as good the second time through, since I would be well aware of the ending. I could see myself enjoying the interplay between the two sisters again, but I doubt it would compare to the first reading. Still, The Girl Who Stopped Swimming may not be eminently repeatable, but it is eminently readable. It earned each of those five stars.
It's always delightful discovering another author in one's favourite genre whose entire oeuvre you want to read after finishing just one book.
Blood and Iron begins in media res, with an agent of Faerie--the Seeker of the Daoine Sidhe--and an agent of humanity--the Promethean Club's Matthew Szczegielniak--chasing the same quarry: a faerie changeling. After introducing us to these two main characters, the book pulls back in scope and reveals the centuries-old conflict between Faerie and the Promethean Club over the fate of the mortal world.
I say "main characters" because it's hard to tell who the "good guys" are in this book. There are times when I hated Matthew and times when I hated the Seeker. I praise Elizabeth Bear for her ability to establish such moral ambiguity. Although she addresses rather tired motifs for fantasy, such as the decline of "old gods" and their replacement with a "new era" (i.e., the death of Faerie and the rise of the mortal world), Bear employs the motif effectively and turns it into a compelling theme.
In addition to her ability to create complex characters, Bear's got a nice ear for dialogue. None of it feels stilted, even the formal tones of the faeries. Unfortunately, much of the dialogue feels like filler, and there are times when I don't entirely understand what's going on. And that brings me to...
...the mythology of Blood and Iron. Bear draws from a global coffer of sources, notably Arthurian legend and faerie tales. She integrates them well, for the most part, but it can become a cacophony of mythology at times. It isn't the synthesis of these myths that irks me so much as how Bear uses it, however.
Just when I thought I had the rules of Blood and Iron figured out, Bear would introduce another element that caused my understanding to vanish. This was not a pleasant feeling. For example, take the antagonist, the Dragon. The Dragon is shrouded in mysticism, and the main characters bow to a complex set of rules and requirements involving her. Any time a character speaks about these rules, the reasoning is cryptic and never straightforward. Even with some human (or at least part human) characters sharing their thoughts with me, I never achieved the same level of comfort I felt with, say, the rules of the Faerie Court in [a:Jim Butcher|10746|Jim Butcher|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1205261964p2/10746.jpg]'s The Dresden Files series.
The ending of the story was anticlimactic. I won't reveal too much, other than that the climax occurs during an epic battle, but this doesn't affect the main characters all that much. The Merlin, who is an important figure in the middle third of the book, is marginalized and shunted off to the side.
While I'm very critical of the book in this review, I did enjoy its premise, if not the execution. That's why I'll read more of Bear's work, particularly this series. Bear's a talented writer with extremely creative ideas--I'm intrigued by what I've read about subsequent books in this series (such as [b:Ink and Steel|2430620|Ink and Steel (Promethean Age, Book 3)|Elizabeth Bear|http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51f2DWgudiL._SL75_.jpg|2437808]), but I want to read them in order. Hopefully her use of mythology (or at least my comprehension of that use) will improve, allowing me fully immerse myself in the world of her Promethean Age rather than simply being a spectator.
Blood and Iron begins in media res, with an agent of Faerie--the Seeker of the Daoine Sidhe--and an agent of humanity--the Promethean Club's Matthew Szczegielniak--chasing the same quarry: a faerie changeling. After introducing us to these two main characters, the book pulls back in scope and reveals the centuries-old conflict between Faerie and the Promethean Club over the fate of the mortal world.
I say "main characters" because it's hard to tell who the "good guys" are in this book. There are times when I hated Matthew and times when I hated the Seeker. I praise Elizabeth Bear for her ability to establish such moral ambiguity. Although she addresses rather tired motifs for fantasy, such as the decline of "old gods" and their replacement with a "new era" (i.e., the death of Faerie and the rise of the mortal world), Bear employs the motif effectively and turns it into a compelling theme.
In addition to her ability to create complex characters, Bear's got a nice ear for dialogue. None of it feels stilted, even the formal tones of the faeries. Unfortunately, much of the dialogue feels like filler, and there are times when I don't entirely understand what's going on. And that brings me to...
...the mythology of Blood and Iron. Bear draws from a global coffer of sources, notably Arthurian legend and faerie tales. She integrates them well, for the most part, but it can become a cacophony of mythology at times. It isn't the synthesis of these myths that irks me so much as how Bear uses it, however.
Just when I thought I had the rules of Blood and Iron figured out, Bear would introduce another element that caused my understanding to vanish. This was not a pleasant feeling. For example, take the antagonist, the Dragon. The Dragon is shrouded in mysticism, and the main characters bow to a complex set of rules and requirements involving her. Any time a character speaks about these rules, the reasoning is cryptic and never straightforward. Even with some human (or at least part human) characters sharing their thoughts with me, I never achieved the same level of comfort I felt with, say, the rules of the Faerie Court in [a:Jim Butcher|10746|Jim Butcher|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1205261964p2/10746.jpg]'s The Dresden Files series.
The ending of the story was anticlimactic. I won't reveal too much, other than that the climax occurs during an epic battle, but this doesn't affect the main characters all that much. The Merlin, who is an important figure in the middle third of the book, is marginalized and shunted off to the side.
While I'm very critical of the book in this review, I did enjoy its premise, if not the execution. That's why I'll read more of Bear's work, particularly this series. Bear's a talented writer with extremely creative ideas--I'm intrigued by what I've read about subsequent books in this series (such as [b:Ink and Steel|2430620|Ink and Steel (Promethean Age, Book 3)|Elizabeth Bear|http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/51f2DWgudiL._SL75_.jpg|2437808]), but I want to read them in order. Hopefully her use of mythology (or at least my comprehension of that use) will improve, allowing me fully immerse myself in the world of her Promethean Age rather than simply being a spectator.
This is not a book for everyone, in the sense that you must be receptive in order to read it, or else you'll want to put it down after the first 100 pages (if that). It's a slow story, rich in details and dwelling on significant moments in the lives of its many characters. There's very little action and a lot of deliberation. It takes dedication and patience to see it through until the end. If you have that, however, then hopefully you enjoyed The Toss of a Lemon as much as I did.
Padma Viswanathan provides us with an intimate perspective in a culture that is foreign (at least to me). To those of us who have grown up in a society without castes, a society without child marriage, parts of the story may seem strange and even unconscionable. It challenges us to keep an open mind and remember that just because our society taught us something is moral or immoral does not automatically make it so.
I enjoyed watching the development of a single family over the course of sixty years and four generations. The events within the family parallelled and reacted to the events going on in India at the time, causing alliances to form and branches of the family to schism. With the exception of one father who marries into the family, Goli (whose antagonism seems just a little too enthusiastic), Viswanathan's family squabbles illustrate the tension between the "old" and "new" orders--the former wanting to preserve the traditions and values of the caste system, with the latter pushing for the abolishment of caste and replacing superstition with science and medicine. Some members of the family resist this transition while others embrace it wholeheartedly. With The Toss of a Lemon, it's not a matter of taking sides and deciding who is "right." Rather, I enjoyed watching what choices each character made.
Parts of the book are slow, and I didn't like every aspect of the story. One of the antagonists, Goli, didn't seem realistic all the time. Toward the end of the story, his role was marginalized (and to be honest, I liked it that way). Likewise, the pace of the story slows even further for the last 1/3 of the book until suddenly hitting the denouement, where everything wraps up in the blink of an eye. I knew this would happen because I was nearing the end of the numerous pages, even though I didn't want the story to end.
The Toss of a Lemon is an excellent piece of character driven fiction. It took a good chunk of time for me to read, but it was worth that time (unlike some books), and I appreciate how it educated me about another culture without insisting that I accept the culture in any particular light--Viswanathan presents historical events and her characters' lives in a very neutral way, allowing us to form our own opinions and remember that just because one is raised to believe something, that doesn't necessarily make it right or just. As the times change, so do the mores, and this will lead to conflict across generations. It's our actions during such times of conflict that test us as people. Seldom do you get to see three generations of a family interact in this manner, however, which is why The Toss of a Lemon earned my praise.
Padma Viswanathan provides us with an intimate perspective in a culture that is foreign (at least to me). To those of us who have grown up in a society without castes, a society without child marriage, parts of the story may seem strange and even unconscionable. It challenges us to keep an open mind and remember that just because our society taught us something is moral or immoral does not automatically make it so.
I enjoyed watching the development of a single family over the course of sixty years and four generations. The events within the family parallelled and reacted to the events going on in India at the time, causing alliances to form and branches of the family to schism. With the exception of one father who marries into the family, Goli (whose antagonism seems just a little too enthusiastic), Viswanathan's family squabbles illustrate the tension between the "old" and "new" orders--the former wanting to preserve the traditions and values of the caste system, with the latter pushing for the abolishment of caste and replacing superstition with science and medicine. Some members of the family resist this transition while others embrace it wholeheartedly. With The Toss of a Lemon, it's not a matter of taking sides and deciding who is "right." Rather, I enjoyed watching what choices each character made.
Parts of the book are slow, and I didn't like every aspect of the story. One of the antagonists, Goli, didn't seem realistic all the time. Toward the end of the story, his role was marginalized (and to be honest, I liked it that way). Likewise, the pace of the story slows even further for the last 1/3 of the book until suddenly hitting the denouement, where everything wraps up in the blink of an eye. I knew this would happen because I was nearing the end of the numerous pages, even though I didn't want the story to end.
The Toss of a Lemon is an excellent piece of character driven fiction. It took a good chunk of time for me to read, but it was worth that time (unlike some books), and I appreciate how it educated me about another culture without insisting that I accept the culture in any particular light--Viswanathan presents historical events and her characters' lives in a very neutral way, allowing us to form our own opinions and remember that just because one is raised to believe something, that doesn't necessarily make it right or just. As the times change, so do the mores, and this will lead to conflict across generations. It's our actions during such times of conflict that test us as people. Seldom do you get to see three generations of a family interact in this manner, however, which is why The Toss of a Lemon earned my praise.