Progress in the Land of No Progress: Goldenhand by Garth Nix

Goldenhand | Garth Nix | first read | 344/344 (ARC)

Garth Nix could write practically anything into this series and I would freefall into it. I read a lot of books, I quit reading a lot of books partway through, and not every book I read makes me want the next page, at the end of every single page. The Abhorsen books can be relied on to make me feel completely safe with the writer. The world is beautiful. The protagonists with grit are more or less all women. Male protagonists, excitingly, tend to wilt at the edges even when they’re noble and determined–there’s old Touchstone, Sam is a rare noncombatant, and Nick is a VESSEL who spends most of this book in a swoon. Meanwhile Lirael is a dead-banishing past-seeing superlibrarian, and Sabriel is a dad-avenging dead-banishing superqueen, and Ferin is…what is Ferin? Ferin is tough and precise and funny and dangerous. Even the big bad is a complicated woman. The male villains are subordinate to her.

I really trust Garth Nix. Starting Goldenhand felt like actual relief, and just kept feeling that way. I wondered something, though, which: where can the Old Kingdom go? There are so many intricately imagined things–the clothes, the swords, the black mirror, the magic books, the practice of named necromantic bells, the enemy Chlorr–but except in Chlorr’s own story, in Clariel, almost everything they touch is old. Sabriel and Lirael depend on old writings, the librarians and Clayr are outfitted and organized by ancient tradition, their magic allies are ancient Mogget and the spirit of a bell–the origins of which are still obscure. When you pair this together with the way machined items from Ancelstierre, across the wall, fall apart when they enter the Old Kingdom, it makes you wonder where the Old Kingdom (aptly named) can ever go from where it is. It’s a country whose allure is conjured by ancient mysteries. But, being a country of living people, doesn’t it need to be able to progress in some way?

This book even remarks repeatedly on the dwindling of the Abhorsens–Sabriel and Lirael are both HARD CORE, let it not be doubted, but apparently there used to be a lot of them, hanging out in huge fancy suites in the Clayr’s glacier sleeping on beds stuffed with hundreds of geese worth of feathers, which are still the same mattresses HOW many years later? Aside from the disappearance of Abhorsen groups, PLEASE, YOU NEED A NEW MATTRESS, THAT MUST BE SO DUSTY INSIDE.

At one time, all the things our protagonists rely on were created. Before the frequently mentioned interregnum? Now, only Sam seems to be creating treasures that are new, with his golden charter magic prosthetic and other inventions. He seems to me like a good start, but I want significantly more of that. We have a lovely band of heroes now; we’ve seen the wondrous and frightening things that can be dredged up from the deep past. I hope that the next time we visit the Old Kingdom, the adventure is in creating things new.

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A Glimmer in the Dust and you Hold your Breath

This is just a booklist I have in my head that is about quiet desperate emotional cores wind-whipped by a muted and desolate setting and pierced by moments of alien magic. (When I read these books I spend a lot of time thinking about these other books.)

1. Summer & Bird by Katherine Catmull

2. Bone Gap by Laura Ruby

3. Dust by Arthur Slade

4. The Nest by Kenneth Oppel

5. A Monster Calls by Patrick Ness

6. Red Shift by Alan Garner

7. Owl in Love by Patrice Kindl

8. Skellig by David Almond

Read these books if you want to feel kind of sharp and shivery and aching inside for a thing you might lose, covered in sand and cobwebs that are looking at you with glinting cut eyes from a long long way away.

They’re all very good books.

Quantum Young Earth Virginity Unicorns: Many Waters by Madeleine L’Engle

Summer rereads, book two: I haven’t read Many Waters in years and years, I mean probably about fifteen or eighteen years. In it, Murphy twins Sandy and Dennis get to hop off the back burner of their siblings’ famous adventures and into the Biblical Noah story. The only things I remembered about it were the tiny woolly mammoths and the impression that it was WEIRD WEIRD WEIRD. It is weird! The mammoths are very much the least of it. A lot of the same weirdness is already there in A Wrinkle in Time, where L’Engle is already writing spiritually driven science-fantasy. It definitely gets weirder when you put the broader history of Earth in this perspective, and age up the characters so puberty comes into play.

When I say “puberty comes into play,” what I actually mean is, ninety percent of this book is about, not tiny mammoths (alas), but about awkward sexy tinglings and bodily morality for fifteen-year-olds (and hundred-year-old Bible characters). There’s a lot of repeated talk of how the twins Are Not Children Anymore, and the same goes for Yalith, the No Longer Child daughter of Noah who isn’t in the flood story and must therefore die, but does have a great nurturing personality and well-described breasts. She is into them, they are into her, and there is a lot of If Only We Were Older, which turns out to be more confusing if you, the reader, don’t share L’Engle’s (and by extension, her fictional teens’) apparent assumption that teenagers would never consider having sex before marriage.

It’s all much, much stranger because of the Good Pure Angels, the Bad Sexy Angels, and the Unicorns. None of these groups seem to be good for much except as plot devices to serve or push around the human characters. The Seraphim (good angels) heal some wounds and brood a lot while listening to the stars. The Nephalim (sexy angels), who feel mad about not being able to listen to the stars due to FALLING FROM HEAVEN, catcall girls and get them pregnant with horribly gigantic babies and try to badger the less pleasant relatives into not quite murder. All the angels have pretty wings in many colors, unnaturally beautiful eyes, and spend a lot of time in the forms of animals, which are their Earth forms but somehow don’t mind being stretched into angel shape. They come in two personalities: mopey bird good angel and viril snake bad angel.

The unicorns flicker in and out of existence like fairies in Peter Pan, e.g. they exist when someone believes in them, and how they move reminds the twins of science. They’re an extremely useful form of transit, and solve pretty much the entire plot by existing at the right moments. L’Engle also decided the unicorns should hang onto their worst mythological trait:  VIRGINITY DETECTOR. Yes. Every time unicorns show up, we get to be reminded of everyone’s sexual status. We get to reminded a lot that Sandy and Dennis are pure virginal youths from the future, whose first trembling sexy feelings keep showing up but haven’t threatened their lovely innocence. (Guess what? I do not love this.)

The other side to this coin is the Nephalim, who sleaze around making some of the neighborhood ladies more Bad Sexy and are always trying to seduce more. On of the ladies, Mahlah, marries a Nephalim (sort of) and has his giant baby. Another, Tiglah, is trying to snag a Nephalim for herself. They have this exchange at one point:

Nephalim: I LIKE MY WOMEN TO BE EXPERIENCED IN THE WAYS OF LUST.

Tiglah: WILL I MAKE A BABY FOR YOU?

This is about the level of sexiness that the sexy parts of this book achieve throughout. Women married to human men are generally awesome (and make normal-sized babies by the end of the book). All of the Nephalim-sexy characters are used to highlight how pure Sandy, Dennis and Yalith are. One of the Nephalim keeps feeling up Yalith, which is mostly titillating because of how tiny and virginal and proto-saintlike she is.

Tiglah, who has gone to the sexy side, tries to seduce the twins. She gets nowhere, but the twins’ disgust reminds us of how nasty she is! Also how pure the twins are. In fact, she and Mahlah are both scorned by the story, the narrator, and the other characters. The language everyone uses for them is unpleasant, and their characters are disloyal, sex-driven, and dishonest. That doesn’t mean other characters have let go of love for them entirely, but there’s a bad attitude taken towards them both, and Tiglah unremittingly. I was very startled when one of the twins outright refers to Tiglah as a slut.

Well, okay, tall white unicorn boy that everyone mysteriously loves so much.

It’s funny (not very) because at the end L’Engle tries to round it all up by saying that the Nephalim took advantage of people and warped them, and by having one of the twins rail against the chauvinism of the Bible story that doesn’t even mention the women by name. At that point it is far, far too late to be arguing about ancient sexism. Most of it comes straight from 1986.

The other weird as heck thing about this book is that its relationship with science and religion is a lot more muddled than before, and that makes the world smaller rather than bigger. For example: there is no natural explanation for the flood (although their could have been, without diluting the divinity of it). Both twins know as soon as they hear the name Noah that it’s THAT NOAH. It’s acknowledged that the Bible is written over time by numerous people, but the crux of the plot is that they know from the Bible exactly who does and doesn’t survive the flood by going on the Ark. Weirdest of all, this has to take place a few thousand years ago, and L’Engle over and over mentions the constant tremors and the volcanic murmurings of an Earth that is still being born. She’s literally writing a Young Earth novel! That is, I’m sorry to stay, just straight up non-science. Or nonsense.

Everyone is worried because the Bible doesn’t mention Yalith and neither has god, whom Noah talks to a lot. Yalith is apparently the literal only good woman on Earth not married to one of Noah’s sons, so everyone is very disturbed by this. NO WORRIES, THOUGH: Yalith is so pure that she gets OT raptured like Enoch! This is apparently not the same as dying. Therefore everyone in the Noah family is joyful and satisfied with the loophole, and can go back to being not concerned about the destruction of every other human and animal on the planet.

Not wanting to drown, the purity twins ride a couple of unicorns through time and space. The good boring angels come along and take away their sunburn so no one will know about them going to Young Earth Noah World, and they can suffer the loss of a second family and a year of their lives in complete isolation. Then the rest of the Murphys get home and the twins make cocoa. Well, golly, I guess that’s that!

In accidental good timing, there are a number of parallels between Many Waters and The Magician’s Nephew: early world, a present god, visitors from our own world, a blend of fantasy and theology. But Lewis had a better handle on his, especially comparing these two books. When Lewis does deal with puberty, he just kicks people out of Narnia, and although he treats Susan a lot like Tiglah (sexy lipstick, doesn’t get on the Ark), he doesn’t drag her into Narnia and call her a slut first. I suddenly appreciate that.

Many Waters Verdict: still weird. Wish it had more mammoths.

The Dying Before the Living: The Magician’s Nephew by C.S. Lewis

Yesterday I picked up The Magician’s Nephew for the first time in several years and I learned several quite good things about it. I came from a family that spurned the chronological renumbering Harper has been doing for decades and always came at the Narnia books Wardrobe-first, but as, I suspect, most people, I have read some of the books more than others. The Magician’s Nephew I think I have read the most times out of any of them, and it’s true that this time around there wasn’t a single line in the book that wasn’t dearly familiar.

I did notice some things about how Lewis wrote the books–about what he liked. Yes, there’s all of the theological stuff, which is less of an allegory and more of a self-aware parallel, like in John Scalzi’s Redshirts. What’s odd is his voice, which I’ve heard a lot of people complain is difficult to read aloud. Apparently there is no flow in the text. I heard them aloud, several times, and I never had a problem with it. I’ve never read them aloud myself, though, and this time through I can see how a person might have trouble.

Lewis’s tone towards the reader, regardless of what funny, glum, terrifying, or wonderful thing is happening in the story, is chummy and personal. Settling down to his voice is like settling down with a long letter from someone who doesn’t intend you to share the letter with anyone else. It’s full of asides, bits of omniscience, and awkward parentheticals stuffed into the end of sentences in ways a lot of writing teachers probably would have berated him for. (I side with Lewis here.)

Moreover it’s like getting a letter from a magpie, because Lewis loves delicious, glittering little treats in an absolutely childlike way, and he lures you right into the plot with them. He starts on page one, as he is introducing his story as historical fantasy (the historical part, interestingly enough, I think gets passed over a lot in the reading because now both the era of the story and the era of the first audience are Old). Here, according to the book and to Lewis’s bitter memory, the clothes were uncomfortable and the schools were horrific. And then: “But meals were nicer; and as for sweets, I won’t tell you how cheap and good they were, because it would only make your mouth water in vain.” Boom! The first page, and he’s already dragged you into another world as easily as a magic ring, just by mentioning the tantalizing out-of-reach treasure of sweets.

The next bit of treasure he drops is Polly’s Smuggler’s Cave up in the attic, the kind of secret hideaway that you pursue madly as a child and I think frequently keep yearning for as an adult. Polly stashes all kinds of things up there–furniture bits, candles, her secret story-writing project that Digory is absolutely not allowed to see, and the extremely excellent touch of all her empty ginger-beer bottles, because leaving them makes it feel more authentically like a smuggler’s cave. This is exactly the kind of secret space you want as a kid, and even better if there’s the chance to go beyond that and sneak into a mysteriously empty house two doors down.

That bright temptation of a small imaginative adventure lures us in, and it also lures Polly and Digory right into the plot: instead of an empty house (and we never do find out what is in that house–it remains a whole world to be explored, whether the cause of its emptiness is plumbing or criminal gangs), they land in a warm study full of glittering magical rings. It’s just like a trail of Reese’s Pieces, and it works on me as a reader just like it does on Digory and Polly.

We get a few other treasures in here, by the way, in the form of more things Lewis just drops on us in a casual line never to pick up again. Old Mrs. LeFay was a fairy? Does that mean our world has its own magic? It certainly had ATLANTIS, although the only thing we know about that is that the “stuff” the rings are made from didn’t come from there originally, but from the Wood Between the Worlds. But that means there are magical things about our world after all, things no one in the books ever gets to explore because they’re too busy in Narnia. They’re there, anyway–our world is not barren of magic, in some small, lightly explored way. (Take that, Quentin from The Magicians, you odious, charmless toadstool.)

Anyway–for the title of this post. Our world isn’t a dying world in this book, but the book is frontloaded with death. It starts off with Digory’s mother in the process of dying. That’s what makes him and Polly friends instead of enemies, at first. The first world they go to, when they get out of the wonderful, suffocatingly alive Wood Between the Worlds, is very much dying. Their presence, of course, sends the final towers toppling. But what they step into is already (brilliantly!) ghastly: a landscape of crumbling emptiness, stained to blood by a sun boiling to its death. Waking up Jadis livens things up, but mostly in the form of her relentless story of how she killed everyone else on the planet.

(While we’re on Charn: this time through, the hall full of not-statues reminded me strongly of the gods in the temple in Megan Whalen Turner’s The Thief, where they are doing something similar but distinct. It’s still a strange, stifling hall where figures who are too beautiful to be real straddle the line between alive and un-alive. However, MWT’s goddess isn’t frightening because she’s wildly destructive; she’s frightening because she’s a goddess.)

The Narnian bits are all about waking up, and the waking up is more powerful because we have just been to this oppressive, crumbling place where everything has descended into bloody destruction. The atmosphere on Charn is terrific, and when Digory rings the bell you can feel the sound crushing you down. On Narnia, the darkness wakes, and Aslan’s song makes things creep and burst and beam into life. Half the power of Lewis when he’s joyful is how effectively he sets it up against what is horrifying. And of course because Digory is sorry enough and obedient enough, he gets to save his mother’s life as well.

People talk a lot about Lewis’s overt Christian themes in the Narnia books, but talking to one point on any book really is a disservice to everything else that’s going on. It’s easy to hand over all the war horror to Tolkien and give Lewis the God stuff. But they were of the same era (and Tolkien did God stuff in the personal way long before Lewis). At the end of this whole book about how a world can finish going wrong and how, with the introduction of Jadis to Narnia, it can start to go wrong, there’s a prophecy for our world: that in a few decades’ time, tyrants will rule and people will suffer. If we’re not careful, it will go like Charn.

Of course the books are never interested enough in our world to go back and see it through on our end. It’s just a lesson, one of the more overt ones. By and large, he would rather tell it with Lions, and flying horses, and talking beasts, and other bits of glittering gold.

6.9.14 The Goblin Emperor

The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison

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First Read: 429/429.

Like The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms, The Goblin Emperor is about an unwanted royal kid of the “wrong” ethnicity (in this case, goblin rather than elf) who is snatched up and brought to the seat of an empire because someone needs to get on the throne. Maia, the son of one of the emperor’s numerous discarded wives, has been raised in the middle of nowhere with very little company aside from his abusive guardian Setheris. He has no siblings to fight for the honor of emperorhood, and is plunked right down on the throne when the entire royal family is killed in an airship sabotage.

Considering the the racial and political biases he faces, and the lack of experience socializing generally, and his spotty training by Setheris (who, obviously, deeply resents his role of guardian to a seemingly irrelevant prince), Maia’s progress in learning the trade of ruling an empire goes surprisingly smoothly. Maia endures what bumps there are and makes some really canny decisions and develops a backbone with apparent ease.

It went a little too smoothly for me at first–I actually put it down halfway for a couple of months, which was really surprising to me. Katherine Addison is a new form of Sarah Monette, who is one of my favorite authors, but one I recommend gingerly, because most of her books under that name can wear about every trigger warning under the sun. Most of her books are also incredibly emotionally dynamic–this book took me a while to get into I think because it lacks the crescendos and passions of Monette’s past novels (and it happened that those were things I loved about the other books).

But the superficial similarity of premise to The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms prompted me to pick it up again! And then I read 250 pages in a day and finished it, and it was a warm, kind, encouraging book that I really deeply enjoyed and would definitely definitely reread.

CW: There’s one scene of violence/ritual suicide and there are fairly mild but inescapable elements of (mostly past) abuse.

Otherwise it is like sitting on a slightly consternated pillow of political intrigue and budding community, with the refreshing addition of political optimism. It also reminded me, in the gist and in a few very particular particulars, of a more gentle, less canny King of Attolia–which is also by one of my FAVORITES EVER.

This was just a REALLY NICE BOOK, and I felt good after reading it. Actually I still feel good from it two days later. That’s always a mark of a worthwhile real.

Miracles on Maple Hill by Virginia Sorensen

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My first book of 2015 was, as promised, Miracles on Maple Hill by Virginia Sorensen, which is a book that makes my mother put her hands over her heart and exclaim, “Oh, I love that book!” My mother’s taste is exquisite. She never got me to read Maple Hill as a kid, though, I think because the title has a superficial similarity to Incident at Hawk’s Hill by Allan W. Eckert. Hawk’s Hill was a semi-fictional account of a little boy being lost and taken in by a wild badger mother. Parts of it had a lasting effect of horror and alarm upon my baby-psyche, and trying to introduce me to a book that might have anything in common with it was an error for a number of years. Eventually I decided Maple Hill was probably boring, too, I think because the paperback in our house had a particularly stiff binding and I, at nine or so, liked paperbacks to crunch. What good reasons to have for not reading something!

As it turns out, Miracles on Maple Hill is NOT a boring book. It’s a setting book more than anything else–a family moves to a run-down family house in rural Pennsylvania, in part to fix it up, but mostly as a source of rehab for the father, who’s come back from war (and, elliptically, prison camp) with incredibly understandable psychological damage. Marly and her brother aren’t sure about the move to the wilderness, being city kids, but they both take to it like naturals. Sorensen’s descriptions of the seasons and the processes of farming, syrup-making, and living in a small northern place all pop to life. If you have ever been anywhere that looks or smells like what she’s writing about, you’ll be catching a whiff of them from beginning to end. I was a semi-country kid myself, but I spent enough time visiting southern Vermont as a kid that Marly’s excitement and insight and the small details of her adventures struck home in a big way.

So it’s a good book. It’s a good thing Mum didn’t read it to me in my suspicious phase because periodically the family does things like throw nests of baby mice into the woodstove (Marly’s outrage and distress over this convinced me early on that we are kindred spirits and she should be my best childhood friend in the past). But it has all the compelling Healing Nature traits of The Enchanted April, which is both a delicious book and one of my life-long heart-healing go-to movies. It builds a sense of homeliness and community like Anne of Green Gables (another book with a fantastic movie counterpart, actually–when the place is one of the characters, it doesn’t always hurt to see it.) Maple Hill also deals with a child’s perception of a war-wounded or illness-stricken parent in a particularly effective way. More recent books like The Meaning of Maggie by Megan Jean Sovern and Absolutely Truly by Heather Vogel Frederick address similar issues (including in Frederick’s case the moving of a family to a small town to sort out the veteran dad and take over a family property). But the balance and the texture both felt stronger to me in Maple Hill.

The idea of going to the country to rejuvenate yourself is quite an old one, and maybe it ignores some of the profound difficulties of the “simple life.” This book doesn’t really ignore those parts, though, any more than Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books did (although if anyone can ever get their hands on the new autobiography, I have heard that it holds back even less than the fictionalized versions…). But I know that when I feel really, truly, terribly wrung out, where I go is a place something like their Maple Hill–and it’s true about the miracles. It gives you room to breathe again.

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Smile by Raina Telgemeier

Smile by Raina Telgemeier

First Read | Finished 17 Sept 2014

Eisner-winner and young-crowd pleaser! NO ONE TOLD ME THERE WOULD BE QUITE SO MUCH CRINGE-INDUCING DENTAL WORK. Not for the weak of heart or perhaps the long-suffering of mouth. If you are neither, you will probably still wince for poor baby-Raina. Telgemeier has expressive, consistent artwork–I definitely want to check out her Babysitter Club adaptations now. And she manages to fit a whole arc of growing up–several years’ worth–into a single volume, moving from one school year to the next and one phase of life to the next without dropping any strands or making any jarring time jumps. Young Raina is infinitely familiar in her struggles with mean friends (and how much you should put up with), ill-fated crushes, and learning to love your own looks and abilities. I am really looking forward to reading Sisters.