This is the spoiler post for Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. The non-spoiler post is here.
The library got me the newest installment in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter saga, the script for the play Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, on its release, a bit to my surprise, and I opened it up mostly because I couldn’t decide what else I was in the mood for, and I figured spoilers would be rampant soon enough. (This is technically a play by Jack Thorne, based on a story by Rowling, John Tiffany, and Thorne; I’ve put the author names in the order they appear on the cover.)
Unfortunately, through no fault of its own, The Cursed Child hinges on two things that leave me entirely cold: time travel and daddy issues. And, of course, it’s the script of a play, so there’s an additional barrier to emotional immersion as a reader. Which is not to say that a play can’t be emotionally engaging just on the page: I’ve read at least three plays that I was enraptured by, though of course I’ve booklogged none of them (M. Butterfly, Angels in America, and The Lady’s Not for Burning; I’ve been fortunate enough to see the last two live after I read them). But the format didn’t give me the nudge I needed to get over my general lack of interest in the play’s topics.
This all left me with plenty of mental space to be distracted by several things that were mostly incidental to the plot but felt . . . gross. Here are two super-tiny, entirely content-free examples: 1) stage directions reading, “It’s a lame trick. Everyone enjoys its lameness”; and 2) a location where magic is used “for fun”: ” . . . knitting wool is enchanted into chaos, and male nurses are made to dance tango.” Because 1) it would be cool if people didn’t use “lame” to mean “weak or lousy” and 2) ha, ha, it’s so funny that men are forced to tango with each other! Are these incredibly small things? Yes. Are they entirely unnecessary? Yes. Did they pull me out of a narrative that I already wasn’t engaged with? Yes. (There are bigger and more plot-critical things, too, which I will put in a spoiler post.)
In summary: if you don’t mind daddy issues and time travel, and if you really care a lot about the family lives of some of the HP characters post-novels, this may be for you. If you wanted a wider scope post-novels, this is not.
(I do think it would be interesting to see the play if only for how they manage the considerable special effects necessary, however.)
A spoiler post follows.
I tried both listening and reading to Welcome to Night Vale: A Novel, by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Cranor, which may have been my mistake. You see, I’m very picky about what audiobooks I listen to, because many books are just too slow out loud for my tastes. But I’d listened to the first chapter that was released as an extra on the podcast, and in general I’m just so used to Night Vale as an audio-first experience that I decided to give it a try.
I believe I got to about chapter 8 before I gave up, because it was just not working for me: as a novel, it’s far longer and slower than the podcast, naturally, and my mind was drifting far too much while I was driving. This is nothing against Cecil Baldwin’s performance as a narrator, which is excellent as always; it’s just not what works for me in audio.
But this may have carried over into my experience of the book, which basically felt like a whole lot of waiting for things to happen. And I genuinely have no idea how fair an assessment this is, because I tried to re-read once I knew the ending, to see the whole shape, and I couldn’t make myself do it; I kept checking social media and playing silly games instead, before I gave up and reminded myself this wasn’t homework, it was supposed to be enjoyable.
(Oh, another thing that didn’t dispose me well toward the book, which I think can be reasonably laid at the feet of its creators: the podcast episode that was released immediately before the novel was available was called “An Epilogue,” and opens thusly (via):
The last couple weeks, as we all know, have been eventful ones. I’m not going to go over everything again – we all know what happened. We are well read, well informed people who have paid attention to the whole recent “KING CITY” affair. We know about the terrible ordeals that Diane Crayton and Jackie Fierro endured. We know how their troubles all ended up. And we know the truth about The Man in the Tan Jacket. We know all about him now, because of what Diane and Jackie found out. So I won’t go over all of that.
Which is (a) not how people talk — commit to your framing device, damn it — and (b) the kind of thing that makes me want to say “Yes, you’re very smart. Shut up,” like Peter Falk in The Princess Bride. And the whole episode is like that, nothing happening but blatant teasers for the novel.)
So I was grumpy and felt like things were moving slowly when I shifted to reading; would the free-floating omni POV and expository prose have gotten on my nerves without that? For instance:
Josh sometimes appears human. When he does, he is often short, chubby-cheeked, pudgy, wearing glasses.
“Is that how you see yourself, Josh?” Diane [his mother] once asked.
“Sometimes,” Josh replied.
“Do you like the way you look?” Diane once followed up.
“Sometimes,” Josh replied.
Diane did not press Josh further. She felt his terse answers were a sign he did not want to talk much.
Josh wished his mother talked to him more. His short answers were a sign he didn’t know how to socialize well.
Similarly, was I discounting character development because of my mood, and failing to give enough slack to the need to establish location and worldbuilding for new readers, just because I already knew it? Would I have found charming and in-character the chapter that’s just a Carlos monologue, if I weren’t in the mood to say “ugh, that’s just an excuse to give Dylan Marron a speech for the audiobook?” I can’t say.
I can recognize that some of the book’s themes are laudable, even if I can’t make myself care about them. And I did enjoy some of the small touches, particularly the house’s thoughts and the man in the gray pin-striped business suit. Further, other podcast fans like this just fine–see, for instance, Amal El-Mohtar at NPR–so it can’t only be a book for readers new to Night Vale. But fairly or unfairly, it just wasn’t for me.
(Oh, and if you’re new to Night Vale and are arachnophobic, you want to avoid the book and podcast both.)
I reviewed Naomi Novik’s new standalone fantasy novel, Uprooted, over at Tor.com. As the title of the post says, it’s not the book I expected, based on the first three chapters: it’s better. Check it out.
I should really start booklogging again, shouldn’t I?
Katherine Addison’s The Goblin Emperor is a standalone fantasy novel that was nominated, on its own merits, for a Hugo this year. As the first novel under a new name by Sarah Monette, I was quite looking forward to it; and I enjoyed it very much, though it is certainly not for everyone.
The main thing to know about this book is that it is a story of one person’s growth and development, specifically Maia’s journey from the despised fourth son of an emperor, raised in isolation and near-ignorance, to an effective Emperor after an airship explosion kills his father and his three older brothers. There are subplots in which things happen, but the book is about Maia; this gives it a somewhat unusual shape, which is why it’s useful to know that up-front.
(The secondary thing to know is that if you, like me, have trouble with decoding the meanings of names—I was too sleep-deprived the first time through and thought the variants on titles were personal names, so I could not figure out who anyone was after a certain point in the book—there’s an appendix that explains things.)
This is a single-volume kingdom-level fantasy, populated entirely by non-humans (distinctly non-mythic elves and goblins; Maia’s mother was a goblin, which is one of the reasons his elf father despised him), set at the start of industrialization, all of which are refreshing changes from multi-volume medievaloid epics. But the setting also leads to some intrinsic awkwardness about the very premise. Maia’s journey is a fantasy of political agency, but—as in-book revolutionaries remind us—no matter how much Maia tries to improve politics by promoting voices that had been marginalized, the system he sits atop is still one that denies legitimate political agency to the majority of people. Of course this is a problem that all novels about the triumph of non-elected rulers have, but (perhaps unfairly) The Goblin Emperor‘s very recognition of the problem made it more prominent in my experience of the book. Not so much that I didn’t enjoy myself, but it was still a little weird.
One criticism I’ve heard is that Maia is too nice. I think that the book is careful to show the effort it takes him, and the reasons he prioritizes empathy, but I recognize that mileage could reasonably vary on this. (Also, I’d much prefer to cut people slack for being perhaps unrealistically nice than the reverse.) Another is that the opening is pretty slow; I was drawn in by Maia’s emotions as he’s suddenly thrust into being Emperor with almost none of the knowledge he needs, but if the opening doesn’t inspire similar feelings in you, you may find it rough going.
I did enjoy this a lot, especially on the second time through when I’d figured out the names. More, on balance, I think it is more successful as a single book than Ancillary Sword. I look forward to reading The Three-Body Problem, the last Hugo nominee for Best Novel I intend to read [*], and seeing how I’ll rank this category overall.
This is a post about rereading The Hobbit in two different ways.
First, I don’t think I ever actually linked to the chapter-by-chapter reread I did over at Tor.com in 2012-2013, with revisits for the movies, and one more post coming, obviously. (I did The Lord of the Rings, too, over a much longer time.)
Second, Chad and I have just read it out loud to SteelyKid (who turned six over the summer and is in first grade). We alternated nights, and started out with Chad reading odd-numbered chapters and I reading even, but then Chad combined chapters 13 and 14 and so we switched even-odd status for the rest of the book.
It was so much fun, reading it to her. Her attention did drift a bit during long descriptive passages—generally she’s reading books that are more heavily illustrated than my childhoold coffee-table-sized hardcover with pictures from the Rankin-Bass animated adaptation, so she has more to occupy her. (Also, reading illustrated books, as opposed to picture books, introduces the problem of spoilers—and not just when she flips ahead, either, but when they put the most dramatic image of the chapter at the front no matter where it falls in the chapter.) But she paid enough attention to notice things like Thorin not being captured by the spiders being signalled clearly throughout the chapter, which I personally never noticed until the reread project, and was involved enough to want to interrupt for long discussions of why not this method or that method to kill Smaug. I was also surprised to find that all the songs I read went very smoothly out loud, even the ridiculous elf tra-la-la-lally ones. (Some of the chapters were really pushing the limits of bedtime, though, in the vicinity of 45 minutes or so, in case you’re thinking of doing this yourself.)
We’re not reading her LotR any time soon, because clearly she’s not ready for it, but I can definitely say that first grade is a dandy time to read The Hobbit.
(Chad showed her the Rankin-Bass movie, which I don’t get the impression she was very enamored of, and which I still have never seen. Afterward she asked him if she could see the new ones now, because she’d heard them mentioned on the radio. He said no.)
I was lukewarm about the opening book in Courtney Milan’s Brothers Sinister series. But not about the second book, The Heiress Effect: I love it passionately and with only the tiniest little reservations. I laughed, I cried, I couldn’t stop reading, it’s awesome. (I actually read this quite some time ago, but when I was looking at my ereader I couldn’t remember if I had because sleep deprivation, so ended up reading it all over again.)
Why, you say, is it awesome? Let me tell you, dear reader. Here are our main characters:
Jane Fairfield is stunningly rich but needs to remain unmarried until her epileptic sister Emily comes of age, because her sister’s guardian, in misguided attempts to keep Emily safe, confines her and subjects her to painful medical quackery—which Jane attempts to deflect with bribes and other methods, but to do that, she needs to be in the household. So she deliberately makes herself garish and horrible to repel suitors.
Oliver Marshall is the illegitimate son of a duke (see the prequel novella) who was raised in a loving, hard-working farming family and who desperately wants a political career to address class injustices (the political plot of the novel is the Reform Act of 1867, which increased male suffrage in the UK). To do that, he’s taught himself to fit in with the elite, to swallow their insults and work behind the scenes for incremental change.
Oliver sees what Jane’s doing almost immediately, the first person to do so; but he can’t afford to like her as she is, and she can’t afford to be the kind of political wife he’s looking for.
Also, there is a secondary romance involving Jane’s sister Emily and an Indian man who’s come to England to study law and work for better political treatment of India (this is ten years after what was then known as the Sepoy Mutiny). This is my first little reservation, that this whole plotline may be slightly too easy, but the two of them are very sweet and a lot of the complexities are at least raised, and I figure I’m allowed a little bit of wish-fulfillment in my fiction. (At the epilogue, it’s about twenty years early, historically, for an Indian MP.)
(My second little reservation is that one character is too blatantly Snidely Whiplash. He’s sadly plausible, and I guess everyone else turns out to be at least a bit nuanced, but it feels rather on-the-nose, especially early on.)
So: characters I liked immediately, genuine conflicts, and the thing that really hit a nerve for me: it’s a book about the personal costs of fighting oppression: internalized -isms, learning the dangers of using the master’s tools, and doing what you can with what you have (the part with the grand adventure is what started my waterworks). Oh, and grace notes of female friendship, strong adoptive families, and not magically fixing or shaming people with disabilities, too.
It’s awesome. Go read it.
I liked Ancillary Justice very much. I . . . don’t actually know what I think about its sequel, Ancillary Sword.
For me, Sword is such a middle book that I can’t fully assess it until I know the shape of the whole series. It’s doing fascinating and important things in terms of character growth and worldbuilding (which, because the Imperial Radch is an empire built on conquest and economic exploitation, involves a lot of examination of systems of oppression). It has some great bits like a character who reminded me of Delirium in a particularly dangerous state, and four-fifths of a limerick that I was sad to learn doesn’t have a last line. But it’s also a trip away from the main action set up in the last book that, by the end—as one character explicitly says—has added at least one entirely new complication and not resolved any old ones. And so I feel my assessment is on hold, waiting to see if the character growth and worldbuilding pays off sufficiently to justify the somewhat slower pace and the change of focus.
(I’m also a little uneasy about the combination of forced labor on plantations and this being a fantasy of Breq’s political agency. But people who I trust to be more clued-in on things like this than me, such as N.K. Jemisin, don’t seem to have had a problem with that, and I can see ways in which the book attempts to address the problems with that setup. For me it’s more a balance/tone thing than anything, and I’m feeling a little raw on these topics right now, so I’m not sure how far I trust my uneasiness.)
Anyway. Pretty much every other review I’ve seen seems to like this book as much or more than the first, so chalk me up as a tired outlier who is, nevertheless, very much looking forward to the next book.
Since Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell is, in part, about the hierarchies and inequalities of British society, I asked the Internet for a social history of Britain during this time period and was recommended Linda Colley’s Britons: Forging the Nation 1707-1837.
Britons starts with the Act of Union that joined Scotland with England and Wales and ends with Queen Victoria’s accession, particularly emphasizing the last fifty or so years of that time. It argues that during this period, people in Great Britain [*] formed a British identity that supplemented existing identities. This was the result of multiple factors, including being a Protestant island threatened by Catholic invaders, actual or potential; the pervasive importance of trade; reaction to losing the American war; and the changes wrought by widespread military mobilization that allowed limited increases in participation in public life for men and women.
[*] Not the United Kingdom; this is not a book that attempts to grapple with Ireland, except to discuss Catholic emancipation. Relatedly, this is not a book concerned with the morality of imperialism.
I read this like the homework it is, skimming for the important bits (and making extremely, extremely brief notes to myself summarizing each chapter, which I’m putting behind the jump). It seemed readable to a non-historian, and puts a useful emphasis on primary sources such as popular political art and government surveys; because of the way I read it, I can’t really say whether the level of detail was illuminating or excessive.
At any rate, a useful overview for my purposes, and as relevant today as it was in 1992, when the first edition was published (there’s a 2009 revised edition, which was not the one I had library access to). Colley is still writing about this topic: see her archive at The Guardian.