Teen/YA: January 2006 Archives

"The way I see it, school is like on of those documentaries about big cats on the Discover Channel. It's maul or be mauled. It's not fair. It's not right. It just is what it is. I spent two years of middle school having my lunch money stolen and my clothes, hair and teen, tiny, almost unnoticeable lisp mocked by a bunch of girls who were bigger and uglier than me. So when I got to senior school, it was beyond time to reinvent myself."

In Isabel Sarra Manning has created what surely must be one of the most caustic and insular characters in teenage literature. Her torrent of acerbic and intimidating remarks towards the beginning of the novel make it difficult to identify or empathise with her. What becomes apparent is that Isabel is not only highly intelligent, but that she is also sensitive, however, much her endeavours might attempt to shroud that. It is these facts that pull her apart from partners in crime, Nancy, Ella and Dot.

A case of mistaken identity forms the basis for a relationship between Isabel and Atticus – Smith to his friends! It is through being close with Smith, that Isabel finds herself able to confide more honestly elements of her feelings and eventually of her past, but this rests on the premise of a single lie – that Isabel is 18. Inevitably, in true soap-opera-style Smith learns of this lie (courtesy of Isabel’s ever ‘amiable’ friends) the relationship unsurprisingly deteriorates with Smith unsure of which parts of Isabel’s character he can believe or find truth in

The plot of this novel does – at points – make one feel that one has fallen asleep in front of the television and awoken in front of an averagely scripted episode of Hollyoaks, but then this is the audience the novel is aimed towards. Where “Let’s get lost” excels is in the plausibility of her teenage protagonists, their fears, anxieties, loves and laughter are detailed with extraordinary perception, as too are the politics of the school-yard. Parts of the novel are quite ‘adult’, but given the content of teenage magazines again this is in context with the novel’s audience. Sarra Manning has crafted that rare thing, a novel that is insightful and observant, whilst remaining a truly compelling read. Bravo!

"It occurred to me long ago that what scares us most isn't death, disease or nuclear war. What's most terrifying isn't the world outside, but the world inside."

Receiving an intriguing letter from a Mr Reginald C. Mather, journalist Ashley Reeves sets off on an expedition to Tryst in the Lake District in pursuit of an exclusive story about the Ganges Red mosquito for magazine ‘Missing Link’. His arrival at Tryst is marked by an imminent rainstorm and on his journey across to Mr Mather’s island, Ashley looses control of his boat colliding it into rocks. Shattering on impact, Ashley is thrust into the cold waters of the lake and swims towards the island, arriving with a soaked, broken mobile phone and no immediate means for leaving the island…

The story moves on apace from this point forward and author Dean Vincent Carter proves himself a master of the genre displaying a true understanding of the terrors of one's internal world and gradual corrosions of control... Mr Mather seems the archetypal, if not eccentric, entomologist. He is learned in insects, theories of evolution and also the legends surrounding the exceptionally sized Ganges Red mosquito – an insect the size of a human hand and capable of secreting an agonising toxic saliva that aids the creatures blood ingestion. Paternal scenes where Mr Mather’s brings in cups of tea echo the extreme juxtaposition of psychosis with seeming geniality meaning character leanings of Mr Mather’s are as shocking and atypical as those of Hitchcock’s Norman Bates…

Central use of the mosquito is a touch of genius, the blood-sucking is reminiscent of the most traditional Vampiric horror stories, yet the more grounded use of an insect sets this story firm amidst the consciousness. “The Hand of the Devil” is a multi-dimensional story. On one level it can be read as a taut and particularly gruesome, gripping and, in points, graphic horror story. On a more figurative footing, the story of the Ganges Red mosquito charts the horrifying ways in which love that is lost can manifest itself when a failure to grieve and to arrive at some sort of solace in one’s thoughts arises whilst at once being, in parts, genuinely touching. A true gore-fest, read this book and you’ll never see mosquitoes in quite the same way again…!

Reece is the latest in what we understand to have been a long line of delinquents to dwell with well-meaning Mrs Duff. When at the beginning of the novel he pops his head over the fence to look into his neighbour’s garden, he traverses the safe boundaries and parochial outlooks of ‘not-in-my-backyard’ mentalities…

The fuse for this fiction is lit and it sizzles swiftly! Keith, baby-sitting for younger sister Annie, becomes immediately concerned for her safety. Hee senses that Reece is not malicious but suspicions that he is dangerous are confirmed when he unwittingly sets fire to Annie’s beloved doll, Raggy.

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…

If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take…

Debut novel The Devil’s Footsteps established E. E. Richardson as a horror writer with an uncanny grasp of the human psyche, an essential qualification in writing books that not only teeter on the edge of our fears and anxieties but lend us greater personal understanding. With The Intruders Richardson further asserts her considerable powers as writer and social commentator.

The drama of this novel unfolds powerfully as Joel Demetrius and his sister Cassie move in to live with the Wilder family in their new house at the culmination of the mother’s relationship with Gerald. The alliance between the two families, however, is an uneasy one, particularly for Cassie who feels ostracised within her own home and betrayed.

The success of this novel’s horror arises through the clever interplay of paranormal activities and familial discord. Richardson’s portrayal of the house and the family home as a malignant entity draws emphasis toward the stability and balance both Joel and Cassie crave on different levels. The novel explores the very real repercussions and family anxieties post-child relationships can cause. That these take place on paranormal planes allows the story to skilfully avoid explicit didacticism.

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.

A relatively enjoyable and easy read. Sheldon’s humour shines through with splendour in places, though don’t expect the same type of laugh-out-loud comedy as authors such as Louise Rennison. Recommended for teenagers who are struggling to enjoy reading, though definitely not for those who are looking to be pushed into the realms of adult literature.

One of the vivid moments in this book comes when Wilson describes Prudence trying to wriggle out of one of her mum’s too-fitted creations in the midst of a girls’ changing room, having to pull the dress up and over her head to get it off, leaving her inappropriate underwear exposed to all eyes.

Wilson does the minutiae of embarrassment so well you relive the incident with Prudence. It’s the bigger picture that is her weakness. You can’t quite believe the story because the overall scheme rings false.

Wilson has a template against which her fiction is drawn: awful adults, suffering out-of-kilter children. Every story is accommodated to this basic dress-making pattern. So, here, the two girls suffer in silence at home, until a heart-attack intervenes, which means they are sent to school and on to new sufferings. At school, Prudence becomes entangled with the young, hip art teacher, Rax.

Rax, worn-down at home by a wife struggling with two small children, is only too happy to be empathetic and endlessly patient with the kids getting the rough end of the stick at school.

The problem with the story is that to fit the template, all the other teachers have to be particularly stupid and unkind. To me, this didn’t sound like today’s teachers, but like the gorgons of an earlier age. Also, so much of the father-daughter stuff sounds wrong: why would such an unpleasant, child-hating man opt to spend the extra time with children that home-educating involves? How is it Prudence doesn’t have access to TV or computer, or even magazines other than the odd smuggled one, but she can summon up images like a vision of Rax against “an urban warehouse flat, large and airy and white, with huge canvases on the wall”?