lin·gua·phile

A few months ago, something I can no longer remember prompted me to attempt to make a list of my fifteen favorite books. The list got to about twelve, but trying to figure out the last three was hell.

What follows is something like my list: more than five (but less than fifteen) books that keep me coming back for more.

It’s a dating site that recommends users based upon the compatibility of their reading habits. I’m sorry, I’ve never even considered internet dating before in my life, but I’m incredibly tempted to sign up for this.

(For the record: if any of its members had listed Julie E. Czerneda or Diane Duane as a favorite author, I would have signed myself up already. None of them have…yet.)

Oh man. Usually I don’t write these book review thingies if I haven’t actually physically read the book, but I’m thinking so much about Sabriel that even though I only listened to the audiobook (narrated by the perfectly creepy Tim Curry, who made me want to buy the audiobooks for the rest of the trilogy even though neither Lirael nor Abhorsen lives up, in my mind, to their originator) I need to write about it.

For a moment I’m going to go on a writerly squee about Nix’s style. Oh my god. I don’t know how he writes the way he does. I’ve described it as “lean” before but that doesn’t quite seem to do it justice. It’s not just the leanness, the tightness of his prose, but the way that although he seems to be writing in a style very no-nonsense and straightforward, every so often he’ll pop out at you with a metaphor you’ve never heard before but that seems so natural that you don’t question it. And then you stop and look back and think, wait a minute, I thought this was no-nonsense prose — and it still is. He makes metaphors no-nonsense. And he makes it seem like it takes no effort at all.

I’m also really impressed, again, with how he deals with slipping between two different points of view pretty much at whim. He controls the flow of information and knowledge between characters by deciding which of them is or isn’t conscious of certain things happening in the other characters’ viewpoints. Then there’s dramatic tension because the all-seeing reader knows that some characters know more than others. I think the classic scene of this is when Touchstone first wakes up after being the figurehead and has that fabulous conversation with Mogget that Sabriel is emphatically not there for.

Worldbuilding. Shee-it. This world comes to you fully formed out of Zeus’s (I suppose Nix’s) brain — or at least the writing would make you believe so. And the magic! I have never in all my reading seen anything like this. I don’t think I’ve ever seen necromancy attempted as a subject in children’s fiction and I don’t think I’ve ever read of the idea of a “positive” necromancer, because whatever else she is, the novel is very clear that Sabriel carries a necromancer’s bells. There is always the possibility, from Jessynth’s rabbit to her father, that she could attempt to revive one who is dead and should not return to life. Nix doesn’t play it up throughout the entire novel but it’s so cracklingly there beneath the surface that you always feel it even when you don’t see it.

I don’t care that Peggy speaks a little disparagingly of the idea of “making friends with signs” because that’s what draws me to written works, and Sabriel is no exception. I love everything about the way Nix writes Sabriel. She’s confident in her abilities (just listen to the way she lists out her rank in each of her subjects at Wyverly at the beginning of the novel!) but still uncertain in some things, and not afraid to be vulnerable. She cries, and she’s not always ashamed of it. She makes mistakes but she stands up to their consequences. She is competent — even in the face of great turmoil and danger she’s able to keep a clear head and do what needs to be done. She might be young, but she understands what it is to have a cause greater than herself, and though she resents it, even hates it at times, she processes and controls that resentment bordering on hatred in order to put it to productive use in the form of willpower, determination, drive. She’s like we all are at eighteen, and usually even later: still fighting with the world to understand her place in it, and arguing for a better one with such force and persuasion and right on her side that she eventually gets it.

Nix also gains my long-lasting respect for the way in which he portrays the relationship between Sabriel and Touchstone, because Sabriel’s competence and no-nonsense attitude comes across as much here as anywhere else. I love how lightly the dynamics between them are sketched, but how vividly, so that although they have known each other for something like two weeks by the time they think they’re in love with each other (and we haven’t even seen one of those weeks, the one they spend at sea making their way to Belisaere) I have no troubles believing it. Touchstone’s initial self-abasement is frustrating, but I love Sabriel for kicking him out of it and not being too gentle about it. If someone were calling me “milady” all the time, they’d get it from me, too! And of course Touchstone is competent, as well, once we get past his demons (which, of course, he finally does, aided and assisted by Sabriel as much as she is aided and assisted by him). That kiss in the reservoir is no blushing, giggling first kiss. It sparks. And yet there is still a beautiful hesitancy between them, even when they’re both pretty sure they’re made for each other, as if a single word misplaced could turn things sour, so they’ve decided not to bother with words. [Sidenote to Diane Duane: Why can something like this not happen (eventually) between Kit and Nita? I know you’re a good enough writer to make it work!]

Um. I think I’m gonna stop my Sabriel-and-Touchstone squee here, because I have class in 45 minutes and so much more to say (and I’m still in my pajamas). But it could go on for pages, because I love them for being real.

I think the last thing is just to say that books like this (and like Diane Duane’s Young Wizards books, and like Harry Potter) make me wonder how adults can persist in believing that children’s literature is something that one should grow out of? My favorite book of all time is still one I read for the first time when I was thirteen. Only two of my favorite authors are shelved in the “grown-up” section of the bookstore (and my favorite character in all of Julie’s work is Aryl, because she’s in her late teens/early twenties and I relate to her struggles). Maybe it’s because I’m still relatively young, but I feel so much more kinship with stories from my childhood or even about people still trying to find their way in the world than I do with any other kind of tale. I find comfort and encouragement in the fact that in these worlds, although there is always a price — always something lost — no one ever says that you can’t fashion your own ending.

We learn so much from the books we read. We learn what to expect of the world by seeing the shapes that these other (fictional) worlds assume. Skilled authors use fiction as a way of teaching enduring lessons about the hardest aspects of life: love, pain, sorrow, suffering, loss. All of these (love included) boil down to the looming specter of Death, and what happens after, and how much we all, even if we can’t articulate the reason, just don’t want to go. But good authors use fantasy as a mode of assurance that acclimates us to the inevitable. However we fear it, we will die. Everyone dies. But not everyone lives. Authors like Nix and Duane and Rowling show death in their children’s fiction and get a lot of blame for it from parents worried that their kids are being exposed to too much too soon, but by the time a child is old enough to read, I think she’s old enough to already know, somewhere in the dark of her mind, what death means. And that’s why she needs books like Sabriel and Deep Wizardry and The Wizard’s Dilemma and the last four Harry Potter books. We know death along with knowing life, but we don’t know what to make of it, because everyone to some extent fears it (as the unknown) and so no one wants to talk about it. Books like these can use the aspect of fantasy to couch a very honest reality in terms that are more palatable than the ones that our reality uses, and furthermore to suggest something other, something else, something beyond, in nebulous terms religiously vague but comforting to all those lost young souls who need to know, in life as well as in fiction, what comes after the last page — what happens next.

Yes, Sabriel is really just a coming-of-age/coming-to-terms-with-death story (in fact, the two of those might be one and the same). It’s been told a million times if it’s been told once. And yet the fact that I’ve read many of the millions doesn’t make me tired of reading the ones of them that are this good, that strike a chord this true within me. Sometimes, it’s not so much about what you say as how you say it, and I don’t know many who’ve said it better than Nix.

Ohmygod. Pretty much all I can think right now is “holy shit, my mind just exploded.” Because seriously. This book? More dangerous to minds than nuclear weapons are to people. I don’t even know where to start.

The best place, probably and unfortunately, is the disappointment. It wasn’t at all what I wanted it to be. Now, I know that’s probably unfair of me to say, but I had high hopes for this, and it didn’t live up to them. It was too…linear? Too fast. Things moved too quickly and always only in one direction. This was the book that was supposed to answer the questions, solve the problems — not introduce more that would prove to be utterly unsolvable. Of course I know more now about the Om’ray, and the M’hiray, than I did before reading this, but not the kinds of things that I really wanted to know. Too much of this book felt like useless information, the stuff I read through to get to the “good part.” Except that the “good part” never came.

Before I skip ahead too far, I should say that the first 50 pages or so were delightful, like coming back to Italy after four years and discovering that I loved it so much more than I’d remembered was possible. Even the things that bother me about Julie’s style felt like coming home—her strange interjections, heavy overuse of fragments, none of it mattered, because I was there with Enris and with Aryl and they were adorable and in love and about to embark on something like a great adventure.

And then things just went strange. A hundred or so pages in, I started remembering what Vikram and Melanie and my instincts have taught me about writing — start with a conflict on page one, let the reader know what the story is about, and make sure that there are new challenges and new obstacles that build upon this up until a climax. But it took far too long for this story to make its way to its eventual conflict and climax, and in the end, the storyline really meandered too much for its own good. I personally don’t see why the whole storyline about Naryn going to Vyna and Anaj showing up as her unborn child (and then the thing with going to Tikitna afterward) had to be there. The real dangers in the story are the dangers that A) more and more Om’ray are learning how to ‘port and disturbing the balance, and B) pirates are coming after Marcus’s Hoveny Concentrix finds, threatening not only his life but also the security of the Om’ray. As far as I’m concerned, the story could quite easily have started with Marcus’s fear that pirates might appear to cannibalize his find, and Aryl’s fear that the Om’ray are becoming something else, something heretofore unknown and uncontrollable.

Every scene with Marcus in it — especially those toward the end — tore my heart away. I had a bad feeling from the first time I met him and started to fall in love with him that he wouldn’t survive to the end of the series, but to see him die the way he did, and for him to live on with the sort of name that history made for him, just struck me as far too terrible to be true.

Well, I think I’ve made my way here now — the first ending. The first epilogue. The moment when I went, “oh shit, what’s going on?” The moment when the ground disappeared from under my feet and I just went falling down into a dark dark hole, not knowing if I’d ever come out again. An epilogue? But isn’t there more of the book? From the moment that the thing had started with an effective “Part One” entitled Cersi, I’d been ready for the Stratification — the leaving of the Clan homeworld, the movement outwards — but nothing could’ve prepared me for what happened next. Nothing could have prepared me for what became of the M’hiray almost as soon as they set foot on Stonerim III. All the things that mattered, the things that made them who they were, that linked them to each other and to their own memories, their own past, gone. Each and every one of them lost. Wondering what it meant to be a certain way and not know why. Aryl, knowing she loves heights, knowing how to climb and fight and protect and be strong, but not knowing who that makes her. The shock of an epilogue with at least 100 pages left in the book was nothing to the shock of seeing these characters suddenly stripped of everything I’d come to associate with who they are.

All of a sudden, the Om’ray became the M’hiray — the innocence of one world exchanged for the power games of another in less than a blink and with no knowledge of motivation. What was worse for me was the fact that the rest of the M’hiray were perfectly content to go on with their lives like nothing had gone wrong. Aryl cries to herself in her sleep, but what of the others?

Of course, their deepest natures still poked through. Aryl and Enris were still good, kind, benevolent people. Others who had had their problems back on Cersi only had them aggravated by a change of place. But the biggest disappointment about the end of the book was how soulless it felt, like all of the people had left. It reminded me of the last episode of the fourth season of Bones — the actors are the same, but where did the characters go? Only Czerneda didn’t have the decency to let anyone wake up and realize it was all a dream.

Oh, she set up the world the way that it is. She got from Aryl to Sira. But — as much as I hate to say this — I can’t feel at all proud of the way she did it. These people deserved more dignity, more respect. They deserved the honor of their own story, not tainted by their inevitable future.

When I read Julie’s stories, very rarely am I compelled to start sentences with the phrase “If I were writing this.” But so much of this book had me doing just that. And I’m going to further the sacrilege by extending it now: If I were writing this, it would have been two separate books, one centered around the conflict to leave Cersi, another centered upon the conflict of surviving upon Stonerim III. There was definitely enough material here for two books — the author appears to have realized this, since she’s set it up in such a dichotomous structure. In this scheme, the “first book” would have involved more of a threat from these alien pirates, perhaps the beginning of a war between them and the Om’ray (a war that they would only get involved in due to Aryl’s firm faith in Marcus, who would still die to give them the coordinates to leave for his old home when he saw there was no other choice).

The “second book” would have begun with the arrival on Stonerim III, and the conflict to find a place to live and people to become would have been expanded. There would have been a general panic at first about the loss of memories, more infighting, more power play amongst the M’hiray before the rest of the world ever got involved. There would have been argument over whether it was right to control susceptible humans, instead of simple acquiescence. There would have been dissent. The fate of the M’hiray would not have been unanimous. And the book would end with Aryl and Enris, alone if necessary, finding Karina Bowman, and finally remembering. Not just some of it, all of it, and knowing it for themselves, even if it meant never sharing it with anyone else because no one else would possibly believe.

If I had written this book, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this as a way to explain my disappointment and fervently hope that the next book will be better.

Again, I know I’m probably being unfair. I loved Riders of the Storm in a way that only really matches my love for The Wizard’s Dilemma. Both of those stories fight through pain to make me believe in the goodness of humanity, and the ability of people to make choices for the better, to shape the world anew — to fight through the tears. Rift in the Sky doesn’t do anything like that. It doesn’t fill me. It does what its title promises — it empties. It evacuates, it nullifies, it destroys. It doesn’t try to do it, but it does. It takes everything I loved about this series and makes it truly, thoroughly alien.

I hate to say it, but I’m afraid. It used to be the case that anything Julie wrote would be enough to pull me out of the worst of my life , enough to celebrate the best of my joy. Now, for the first time, something she’s written has left me feeling less than whole.

Maybe I just need some time. Maybe a second reading, in due course, will salvage this novel’s merit. But for now? I guess I’ll have to learn what it’s like to read a book that empties where I’d had such high hopes that it would fill.

I read this a while ago, so this will probably be a little impressionistic. I read more for the story than the writing, which was itself merely adequate. I thought that the characters were interesting, but not quite compelling, and I almost wish that the author had simply focused on Leonora’s story, because although Corradino’s was interesting, it didn’t give me the same sense of forward motion or agency.

And it bothered me a little that Alessandro turned out to be such a nice guy — if you ask me, that was just too good to be true. It was difficult for me to believe that he would want to have this child with a woman he barely knew and that he would want to marry her when the narrative never really gave me evidence for the time they spent together. I think Alessandro was right to feel like the love story was really between Leonora and Corradino, but I also think that any man in that situation would have probably walked away.

I loved learning about the parts of Venice I’d just visited, but I wish there had been more detail about how glass is actually blown, more scenes with Leonora in the workshop. I wanted more of Venice as a character, with the past seeping through into the present but not overshadowing it. Again, maybe the story of Corradino Manin wasn’t as important as the story of Leonora.

I think was bothered me most about this book was that, at the end, instead of having Nora as the strong woman figure, she becomes the contented mother. And although that’s not bad, it’s not as interesting. Maybe it’s because I’m so young that I can’t imagine motherhood being as entertaining as youth, or something like that, but I’m even worried for Julie E. Czerneda’s next book because Aryl will likely have a child in it and I think that would change a lot of her character, make her harder for me to connect to. But in Fiorato’s book, the move seems even more contrived, considering Leonora’s previous infertility. In the end, I lost respect for Leonora, and I didn’t want to.

Oh goodness, where to begin? This is the kind of book I’ve been looking out for. Fun, sassy, character-driven, well-plotted. Light and fluffy, too, but in the best possible way. Sinclair is definitely an author I’m coming back to.

First, a note on the worldbuilding, which I thought was quite deftly managed. Sinclair never overwhelms you with details unnecessary to the story — someone knows Chekov! — but still provides enough detail for you to beleive that the world existed before you opened the book and will continue to exist after you close it. I’d say she did an especially good job delineating the three-way background conflcit between the Conclave, Empire, and ‘Sko without fact-dumping or getting in the way of the real story. I want to see her write more about this world!

Next, the main characters. Okay, yes, this is a typical love-from-loathing story, but the thing that makes it work is the characters. Of course they have stereotypical aspects (hair light moonlight? “air sprite”?) but in general I would say that both Trilby and Rhis are strong characters with strong voices. Do I believe the character changes they undergo? Eh. Sort of. I would’ve liked Sinclair to spend more time exploring their pasts and letting them be awkward around each other, but I don’t entirely disbelieve what ends up happening either. My main complaint is probably with Rhis — how does he go so quickly from being the Kyrhis Tivahr to Rhis Vanur? — but even then, I want to believe he can, which is an important factor.

I think it is now time to devote a whole paragraph to the name Trilby Elliot, and how gosh darn awesome it is.

Another thing that really impressed me about this book was its stellar cast of supporting characters, particularly the Zafharin ones. I’d say it’s a sign of a pretty good book when a character who only shows up halfway through the novel can steal a bit of your heart.

Honestly, Linnea Sinclair writes the most intriguing science fiction I’ve read in a while, possibly since Julie E. Czerneda (if we forget for a moment about Ursula K. LeGuin). This is definitely a book to keep, and an author to follow.

This might be my favorite Neil Gaiman so far. I started off with Good Omens, which although immensely clever and incisive, just might not be my cup of tea stylistically. I followed that up with The Graveyard Book, which I enjoyed more (though probably not much more, just enough more) and which is why I keep reading him.

The thing about Stardust is that it took the parts of Gaiman I liked — his whimsy, what I think I would call his elliptical style, and of course his British humour (in this context I think it has to be spelled humour) — and took them for a ride. Like his other stories, his characters aren’t quite what I read for (which for me is strange), but they do have great power. I just think of them as more like archetypes or forms than characters, but this just means that Gaiman can capture something essential, not just about an individual, but about a whole class of individuals. It’s not like reading something by Julie E. Czerneda, where I feel myself inexorably drawn into the characters’ shoes: instead, Gaiman allows me to recognize in an instant that I’ve always been in these shoes, they just happen to be shared by a lot more people than I originally thought.

What has in the past bothered me about Gaiman’s style is the narrative distance he keeps from the worlds and people he creates, so that although I might be close to these things, I know always that the narrator somehow isn’t (although I’m sure that in reality Gaiman is). But in Stardust, the voice of the slightly distant fairytale narrator seems more consistent with what’s being narrated. I found myself enjoying the authorial distance here, where in other books of his it might have just bothered me.

Finally, there’s no doubt Gaiman’s a master of his craft. In Stardust, he’s managed to write a fairytale that feels entirely original and free from cliches while still satisfying the reader’s deep desire for symbol, archetype, and consistency. If I could use one (compound) word to describe this particular book, I’d call it “well-wrought.”

Julie E. Czerneda, To Trade the Stars

Julie E. Czerneda, from her introduction to the 10th Anniversary Edition of A Thousand Words for Stranger