Fiction: January 2006 Archives

Archie Stringweed is turning ten; there’s a suspicion amongst his family that life will never be the same again… Several generations ago a curse was put on the Stringweed family and early on in the novel a terrible transformation takes place. A web of curiosities and mysteries involving green balls of light, talking gusts and blusters of wind, clouds of white birds, a huge amount of snow, a couple of coins and the sudden appearance of eccentric and well-travelled Uncle Rufus all come together as part of the conflict with the tornado Huigor.

The main strength of this novel is its castlist of colourful and unconventional characters. They are painted with verve and good humour and each has their own particular anxiety to overcome. It is how they do this and the type of bravery they display that makes the novel both heartening and admirable. At times the onslaught of different and discursive story-elements leaves the reader feeling slightly wind-swept, but this is a book that will quench the thirst for action and adventure of even the most thrills-desperate child.

The ambivalence that surrounds much of the criticism about John Boyne’s first novel, The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, seems to arise from an inability to suspend one’s disbelief. As Kellaway asserts in the Observer, ‘(t)he Holocaust as a subject insists on respect, precludes criticism, prefers silence.’ The danger here is respectful silence has an unnerving ability to marginalise the Holocaust from mainstream historical discourse. This can be evidenced by BBC research findings that less than 40% of young people had heard of Auschwitz. Research on the streets of Minsk resulted in similar findings: “I think Auschwitz is a type of hoofed animal”.

Clearly historical treatment of the Holocaust for young people in the main has not resulted in even basic comprehension. The question arises then as to whether fiction has a role to play here and it can easily be argued that it does… Successful fiction captures the imagination, it allows us to live lives that are extraordinary to us. The story of Bruno and Shmuel within “The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas” does exactly that, through it we gain a fresh and new perspective on the Holocaust allowing us to invest our emotional economies, should we divest our interaction with history of this then historiography becomes the realm of arbitrary facts and figures.

This novel is one whose success is grounded within the naivety of its voice. To criticise that and to dismiss Bruno as ‘thick and unobservant’ as Saunders does within The Times is to radically misalign the premise upon which “The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas” operates. As publisher David Fickling comments, ‘This is a book about innocence walking into darkness’, the at-once emotional and artistic impact of the book occurs as the reader moves through from disbelief to an awareness of the true capacity for humanity to dispossess itself from all respect and compassion. This is not, as Saunders suggests, a novel of ‘absolutely blush-making vulgarity’, neither is it as Kellaway claims ‘the first novel ever written for children about the Holocaust’, it is a novel whose ending remains with readers long after the paper pages are finished, it is a novel that inspires thought and difference of opinion, it is a book that deserves to be read, to be discussed, to be held close to the heart…

It is easy to see how this novel could have been both unique and superb. Throughout the narrative trots along at a steady pace and in places it picks up speed and truly begins to gallop. This works best when Chance and Jacquetta are together feeling the winds of freedom and liberation rush through their respective manes and hair, the power of the writing at such times sweeps the reader along and makes the book a genuine pleasure. The marrying of a fairly traditional equine-focused tale together with the American civil war is not wholly comfortable however. Despite a somewhat sentimental scene whereby Jacquetta learns of the death of her brother Marcus, for a large portion of the novel the impact of war’s emotional focus is directed most heavily upon horses. As such the reader is left with an after-taste that the story would perhaps have felt more satisfactory had it not have placed the mortality of human kind and horses together.

‘Home 4 the wkend? Surprise 4 mum. CU fri. Rsvp.’

Liam Connor receives exeat to go home and spend the weekend with his mother and father. On arriving at the family home, however, he finds it has been ransacked and his mother and father are missing. The situation descends still further when, returning for a second time the following day, neighbour Mr Mendes fails to recognise him or to acknowledge that the Connor family have ever resided there. Memories and the world that Liam has inhabited are fast being erased, leaving him to rely on wile and wit to survive and discover the truth both of his origins and his time at the sinister NATS school.

A ‘flesh’ of fact must cover bones of horror if fear is to be instilled into readers and this is where Nick Gifford excels with his work. Though he writes of extreme situations there is plausibility… Search through the annals of history and the blight of eugenics and the power that megalomaniacs who wield it as their ideological club are inked upon the pages of history books in human blood. Erased is a real romp of a read. That it equips readers with an awareness of the mechanics of inhumanity must be a step towards ensuring history’s mistakes are not repeated.

My stomach lurches when I think about how it must have felt, to think you’re invisible, and suddenly have all those eyes looking at you, instead of looking through you.

Skin is in essence a love story, a story about familial love gone horribly wrong and the resultant consequences. Focusing on Karen, ‘Skin’ is really Donnie’s story of the slow comprehension of the traumatic death of his sister whose decline he has seen charted through her gradual wasting away and the series of notebooks she has kept.

It is a tribute to debut novelist Vrettos’ skill that “Skin” is in no way a heavy book, yet neither is it frivolous. There is lightness of touch in the narrative voice which allows the story to be both life-affirming and uplifting despite its inevitable conclusion.

Perhaps the greatest tragedy in “Skin” is the Leplant parents' unending efforts to maintain some level of family balance and thereby to do the best by their children Karen and Donnie. Throughout they remain oblivious to the emotional effects they thrust upon their offspring. If dysfunction lives within this novel it does not arise through hatred or indifference but rather through love - and it is this which makes the book so painfully poignant and powerful.

Depiction of Karen’s anorexia is at once central and yet incidental to the novel. Interplay between the issue being central and incidental is what makes the book successful in making this story of at once visible and three-dimensional.

There can be no doubt that this is an ‘issue’ led book, but the issue does not wholly subjugate its narrative.

On opening her clarinet case Sal finds – to her disbelief – that she is the next one chosen by the lottery. Sal responds in phases, first denying the results, then feeling angered and despondent. These feelings, depicted against the backdrop of Sal’s history, the personal struggles she has contended with, isolate and bring into rapid relief the injustice she faces. As always with discrimination, this is both arbitrary and organised, coldly callous and manipulative.

Beth Goobie’s writing is incendiary. It flares and flames leaving a deep and indelible impact. It is impossible to come away unmarked…

In It didn’t happen a complex understanding is shown for the way memory and truth underpin the way we grapple with our past, thereby forging a place for us in the present and allowing means for us to push into our every future… The story is told in snatched vignettes between Paul and a third person narrator that focuses on his sister Laura and ex-girlfriend Melissa. It is this duplicity of views that allows for a blurring and obfuscation of fact and truth. Just as it is impossible to speak too highly of this book, it is impossible to tell too much without influencing possible interpretations.

Badly disabled following an accident on a motorcycle, Melissa cannot see how her life, her aims and aspirations can be met. Feeling inexorably guilty at the fate Melissa has befallen, Paul craves to support and help his ex-girlfriend. Together they set off towards the sea one night and what follows could either be deeply tragic or life-affirming and magic – piece the puzzle together and decide for yourself!

As with several facets of the book, characters are divided into two main groupings. These are the aborigines or, to use the novel’s slang, the ‘oysters’. The second set of characters are from the new united state of Europe. Political assimilation and corruption run rife and key players in the novel whilst believing they are acting for the best are pawns in a far greater game… they are the eponymous ‘Useful Idiots’.

This book fair crackles with mystery and intrigue! Jan Mark’s narrative is amazingly confident and self assured. The story is thought-provoking and explores a large number of issues, including federalism, nationalism, various philosophies of history and of reading the texts of the present in such a way as to glean information regarding potential pasts. The academic and scientific is juxtaposed with the social and with tradition in a manner that is sensitive and which shows sense! Useful Idiots is a microcosm of life, a myriad of world views.

Jan Mark displays her usual fairly maverick (though highly adept) approach towards making young people think and towards exposing them to large, often uncertain ideas. Syntax and diction alike are fairly complex in this work and at times are highly specialised. This combined with the relative size of the novel will doubtless prohibit it from ever becoming the ‘most popular’ novel in the world. That said it is a highly engaging read and deserves to find a loyal readership.

Trademark short, well-paced chapters and the trusting narratorial voice of its protagonist Roy make this an ideal novel for boys who have perhaps not yet been introduced to the type of book that might wholly capture their minds and imaginations. Usborne should be applauded for bringing into print within the UK a stable of quality American novels for young people under their Fabulous Fiction range. Here’s hoping another Philbrick book, “The Last Book in the Universe” will find itself featured shortly…

It is easy to pinpoint the minute when my friend Branwell began his silence. It was Wednesday, November 25, 2.43 pm, Eastern Standard Time. It was there – or, I guess you could say not there – on the tape of the 911 call.

You couldn’t wish for a better start – a better ‘hook’ - to get you into this mystery cum exploration of the nature of friendship. Concise, accessible and dramatic, Silent to the Bone gives us first that terrifying 911 call verbatim. A baby has been harmed, possibly dropped, and must be rushed to hospital. The baby is Branwell’s half sister. Branwell is blamed by the babysitter, and his total silence seems to confirm his guilt. From here on, from Branwell sitting like stone in his cell in the detention centre, just as baby Nikki lies silent in her coma, we are taken backwards and forwards in time by narrator Connor as he alone sticks by his friend and tries to piece together what happened on that fateful afternoon and (more importantly) why it happened. In this, Connor is helped, appropriately, by his own half sister, grown up Margaret, who is smart enough to help him interpret his clues and sensitive enough to nurse him through the corresponding emotional journey. In a smooth arc up towards light and understanding, the puzzle unfolds, Branwell edges towards speech and Nikki struggles to regain health and life.

This is a moving book, carefully written by a craftswoman of the game and there is little to fault. My first impulse was to give it a straight five chicks. Yet on reflection I was a little unsure. The issues of rejection and belonging in modern multi-strand families, of the way that sex can become a world-changing issue for a young, confused teen (does it ever stop?!) and the healing power of forgiveness, love and openness are all beautifully handled. Margaret in particular is a lovely character: anyone would want such a sister. But still, would the circumstances depicted really lead to Branwell’s helpless silence? And how realistic is Connor’s endless introspective attention to detail and his self-analysis? (Her voice trailed off as if she had ended that sentence with a comma and not a period)

No matter. Four chicks or five, this is an excellent book, well worth checking out.

The hero of this fantasy for older children/early teens is water-fearing, bullied loner Owen. Living in the shadow of his father’s apparent suicide, Owen keeps himself to himself, skives off school, and spends much free time in his den. As our story starts, on a bitter chill day, he is, as usual, out and about doing his own thing, visiting his own private places, when he encounters a tired, uniformed stranger. Moments later a strange phenomenon occurs: a dark flash in the sky, a moment of blackness across the land, and a feeling of change. The uniformed man seems to be the only other witness. It has begun, he tells the boy, grimly.

The ‘it’, we learn gradually, is a recurring battle between The Harsh, ghostly white creatures who wish to turn back time to total nothingness and the Resisters, a group of people who remain in suspended animation deep in the hillside until The Harsh make one of their attacks, and must then thwart them to save humanity. Already Owen’s familiar landscape, his house and neighbours, have disappeared, as time is sucked backwards. All that remains is the old building known as The Workhouse, which turns out to be the Resisters’ HQ, and, across the river, the mini-empire belonging to Johnston, the scrap merchant, the chief ally of The Harsh it transpires. Yet evidently Owen himself has not disappeared. Is this because he happened to be in one of the ‘islands in time’ when the Harsh started their time-sucking machine, or is it because he has some sort of role to play here, something connected with his dead father? As the first trenches are dug between the ancient enemies, the boy seems lost and helpless, just as he is in his own reality: but by the time (200 pages in) that the race to the icy north takes place, in order to turn off the offending machine (the ‘Puissance’ – that’s ‘power’ to you and me), Owen has discovered inner resources and an intuitive understanding of what must be done that are quite inevitable.

Can you tell? I struggled with this one. The basic concept’s okay and there’s no doubt that there are some fine chunks of imagination here - although these tend to be reserved for the various gadgets that Owen encounters in this new world of Resisters and Harsh rather than for the often quite stock characters - yet the overall effect is much too patchy. One has the feeling that a good sneeze would blow the fabric of this imagined world quite away, that there isn’t enough cohesion and weight in what the author would have us believe. Many of the gadgets and setpieces seem glued together without rhyme nor reason. Why the bits of French that crop up from time to time? Why are the bad guys, Johnston’s men, portrayed as Italian-type gangsters that seemed to belong to Inkheart rather than to the icy Harsh? Why is the Puissance in the north and where exactly is that north supposed to be? (Half the characters get there by boat, half by land in a car with huge bicycle-type wheels). I was never quite sure if this was meant to be a serious fantasy à la Garth Nix et al (to mix my languages) or more of a tongue-in-cheek romp.

It could be that this is a good book waiting to happen but released much too early, before the details and writing were properly worked out. Or it may be that it’s destined to be an absolute smash with a follow-up film and that I just can’t see it. It wouldn’t be the first time. Perhaps it will be right up there with Shadowmancer.

Off-beat gags and quirky characters set the tone; light and humourous. Dawn’s knitted donkey Clop, for example, is “made of stern stuff (as well as wool and snipped-up stockings)”.

Fans of James Bond will find this an altogether gentler kind of spy story. The gadgets are less hi-tech and the villains less threatening. A finger nibbling tortoise is about as violent as it gets. Plenty of friendly details (think tea from china cups, ginger nuts and jumbo crosswords) create a warmly welcoming world.

The story skips along at a carefree bumbling sort of pace, which may prove too scenic for some readers.

There are numerous clues to puzzle over, yet the ending is still unexpected enough to satisfy.

The Black Paw is the first book in the Spy Mice series. This a very light read; the characters are affectionately drawn and the story is entertaining and well paced. It will appeal to younger fans of the ‘Spy Kids’ movies and similar. However, it’s all a little bit too cute for my tastes. It reminded me of Michael Hoeye’s stylish Hermux Tantamoq series, where the fastidious portrayal of the mouse characters similarly veers between whimsicality and tweeness.

The Black Paw is the first book in the Spy Mice series. This a very light read; the characters are affectionately drawn and the story is entertaining and well paced. It will appeal to younger fans of the ‘Spy Kids’ movies and similar. However, it’s all a little bit too cute for my tastes. It reminded me of Michael Hoeye’s stylish Hermux Tantamoq series, where the fastidious portrayal of the mouse characters similarly veers between whimsicality and tweeness.

Cyrano explains how the pair ended up in this situation. It’s the story of how Roxane was seduced by Christian’s words both written and spoken and how de Bergerac wrote those enticing entreaties to win the heart of the woman he loved for another.

Add in Cyrano’s embarrassment about his rather prominent protuberance, dashing heroism and a sneaky rival in the shape of the Comte de Guiche and all the elements are in place for a classic historical romance.

This is not a tale that has hidden its light under a bushel. Movies in the shape of Cyrano, staring Gérard Depardieu, and Roxanne, Steve Martin, have brought this story to life in traditional and updated environments.

Geraldine McCaughrean’s version is based on the original play by Edmond Rostand and opts for the traditional setting of seventeenth France. It has all the lyrical richness that the tale demands, Cyrano’s swagger is admirably conveyed, Christian is suitably eager and dumb.

The machinations of the Comte provide a darker background for some of the more pantomime moments and everything floats along effortlessly.

It is also book that opens up the debate about the merits of retelling a classic tale: is such a work more valuable than the more “full-on” challenge of inventing your own characters, setting and plot? Is it merely a buswoman’s holiday for McCaughrean?

The marketing team at Oxford University Press won’t care about such writerly concerns, however. They will simply be delighted with the January publication date.