The Curious Critic

Coraline: A Fun, Eerie Read

Spoilers!

I really enjoyed this book! At 30,826 words I think it makes more sense to call it a novella than a short story. I think my favourite aspect of Gaiman’s writing in this work is the tone (I’m now on my third Gaiman book, and that seems to be one of his foremost skills). Our world is shown in all its mundanity, and Gaiman lets the action and dialogue speak for itself, communicating a small, rather dull world wherein Coraline’s parents leave her, somewhat neglectfully, to her own imagination. I find it hard to communicate boredom in a way that isn’t boring, but Gaiman did a good job of it. Maybe it was the ever present conflict in relation to Coraline that made the boredom so interesting. Coraline wants to explore, but is soon confined to her flat. She wants her parents to spend time with her, but they are consumed by chores, work, etc. She wants the neighbours to pay attention to her, but Ms. Spink and Ms. Forcible are too busy rehashing the past to remember her name, and Mr. Bobo is too focused on his work to pay attention to her name. This conflict also helps us understand her wandering into another world (but honestly, who wouldn’t?), and enhances one of the main themes: that this world and its inhabitants are imperfect, yet still real—and when something is real then there is more to it than meets the eye. Her parents do care for her, and not just superficially—her father’s ‘recipe’ meals are acts of love, and he learns to show more affection toward her, picking her up and carrying her, by paying attention to her affection towards him (I also loved that she learns to show affection to others—her parents, Ms. Spink and Ms. Forcible—without them needing to be perfect in love towards her).

Book Review: Six of Crows

Spoilers!

World-building: Renaissance Fantasy

I have thought to myself that it would be interesting to read or write a renaissance fantasy story, and I think Bardugo did a fine job making one. Her originality in the combination of magic and guns, as well as in making a world that deliberately resembles our own (Amsterdam, Russia, China, etc.), makes up for her unoriginality (making a world that deliberately resembles our own). The book takes into account how Grisha magic would affect economics (tide-makers keeping Ketterdam isolated from the mainland), and it allows for a host of differing views or treatment of Grisha magic (Grisha who hide their powers, Fjerdan witch-hunters, Ravka’s second army, and slavers), and how that impacts both countries on a grand scale and her characters on a deeper level. Her decision to have a sea in the middle of the main countries, and to portray her world in maps only as a “known world” where apparently many countries could lie outside of it, creates an intriguing world with many unexplored places and with real obstacles like a vast body of water. I think that in my own worldbuilding and in some of the worlds I see others make, places like Europe, Great Britain, Australia, the US, etc. have influenced us so that we imagine countries surrounded by water (Middle Earth; Narnia, Archenland, and Calormen; Prydain; Roshar). I have never read any fantasy from the eastern hemisphere, but even then I imagine many of them would be influenced by the geographical aspects of China, Japan, Russia, etc. Bardugo’s world, however, resembles the Mediterranean, with a sea at the centre of the interacting countries, and much more land beyond those countries which may be unexplored. This was new and fresh for me. I realise that A Song of Ice and Fire has two main land masses divided by water, so that’s cool. And in Six of Crows, everything takes place either on the island of Ketterdam (which is only an island by magic tidebending) and the landmass in which lie Ravka, Fjerda, and Shu Han. A character is from Novyi Zem, but we never go there. So it’s not so much about where the characters go—it’s the fact that this is the world in which the story takes place. Also, unlike in A Song of Ice and Fire, the sea occupies almost the centre of the map, which reminds me of the Mediterranean.

Thoughts on The Count of Monte Cristo

I may at some point write a short essay on a certain aspect or scene in this book (e.g. Dumas’ expert use of subtext in dialogue—UGH he’s so talented like how will I ever write that good); for now, I’ll just say yes, it’s one of those classics worthy of the label. However, I felt different upon finishing it than I did upon finishing The Brothers Karamazov or The Lord of the Rings. After each of those, I felt spiritually enlightened, was fairly sure I had ascended to another level in the nine stages of the spiritual life, and could possibly interpret dreams. The Brothers Karamazov was nearly as mystical as it was an excellent work of literary art. And no book ever has nor will do what LOTR did (it basically generated the fantasy genre, which now no book can do—and only rarely does a book create a genre, or even a subgenre). I’ve prayed rosaries through both those works. But CMC is, for all its interwoven subplots, more simple: it is a great story. Whereas LOTR endeavoured to be a mythology for England, and The Brothers Karamazov—although only intended as exposition for another book which Dostoevsky didn’t live to write—is basically the fiction version of an Orthodox mystical text, CMC seems like the fruit of Dumas’ thinking, ‘What if these terrible misfortunes happened to a good-natured man, and then these subsequent and great fortunes—what would happen? What would he do? And what would then happen?’* As had been told me before I read it, it is not—unlike the 2002 film version—a revenge story. It is a story about Divine Providence, humility, and hope. I don’t know that I’ve read another book which does such an excellent job expressing nuance in human affairs, particularly moral ones, while resting on a firmly Christian morality. That is to say, every character makes realistic, understandable, often pitiable choices, sometimes deliberately based on their moral understanding; yet none but God, the most active person in the whole story, does so without erring. The reader is free to judge, encouraged to empathise, and taught to hope without presumption or despair. While the themes are perhaps less varied than those of The Brothers Karamazov, Anna Karenina, or maybe LOTR, that is simply because all it endeavours to do is tell a good story about a man and his sorrows and hopes, relating a few deep themes. At least, that’s how it appeared to me. I don’t mean there aren’t many layers or themes one might notice (‘theme is pretty vague)—I mean I don’t think Dumas meant to deeply explore more than a few, and the story is much more of a plot-driven story than the character-driven Brokers Karamazov or Anna Karenina, or the mythological LOTR.

Christmas Reading List

Why, on the 30th of December, am I publishing a post on Christmas literary recommendations? Firstly because, in the words of Bob Cratchit, I was making rather merry—and still am! Hence the short post, as well. Secondly because (and this is for another post), Christmas has not ended! In the Church (outside of which Christmas is in vain), it is an Octave celebration, and so the highest day of Christmas is in a sense actually the 8th day of Christmas: January 1st, the Feast of the Mother of God. Furthermore, in the West we have the tradition of the twelve days of Christmas, and on top of that, Christmastide traditionally goes until February 2nd, the Feast of the Presentation of Jesus, or Candlemas. It is true that under the new calendar Christmastide has been shortened, but I prefer to celebrate using the old calendar, not only because I know of no reason why it should have been changed, but because it is important that, just as Eastertide is always longer than Lent, so Christmastide ought always to be longer than Advent. This has obvious spiritual and eternal implications. All this is to say: You may well, and possibly ought to, celebrate Christmas until February! Certainly for another couple weeks or so. And for me, one of the ways I avail myself of the Spirit of Christmas is by what I read. Without further ado, here are some stories I like to read every year:

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. You cannot beat this, in my opinion. This story was the first of Dickens I read, and led me to fall in love with his writing. Clever, lovely, wonderful. The old 1951 Scrooge film was very good, but the book is so much better. This would be a great story to read aloud as a family. If you prefer to listen, Tim Curry’s audiobook production is amazing, and I have listened to it twice. The story goes into what it means to be a human being among our fellow men, what mortality demands of us, and what our earthly endeavors ought to consist of.
The Burglar’s Christmas by Willa Cather. Not a long story, and it gets right to the point. It is, in essence, the story of the prodigal son, but with the father’s role replaced by the mother’s. It has great insight into the maternal nature of the Holy Spirit, whether Cather knew it or not.
The Nutcracker and the Mouse King, by E. T. A. Hoffman. This is the original story, whence came the ballet. It is delightful fantasy. Alexandre Dumas, author of The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo, adapted it as well. I am currently reading his version, and much enjoying it! Also, if you haven’t seen the ballet, I highly encourage you to! It is truly beautiful.
The following I found through the audiobook collection entitled: A Vintage Christmas: A Collection of Classic Stories and Poems. I recommend all of the stories therein (the narrators vary in skill in this particular collection), but will list some of my favourites, separating them by author. First, my favourites were those by L. M. Montgomery, author of Anne of Green Gables. The three I most enjoyed were: Christmas at Red Butte, A Christmas Inspiration, and Aunt Cyrilla’s Christmas Basket. These are all short, and lovely, sweet, delightful.
Lousia May Alcott’s (author of Little Women) A Country Christmas and A Christmas Dream, and How It Came to Be True. These, along with the next author’s, contain more clear morals and values being impressed upon the reader, which isn’t always my preference, but they are done well. Alcott’s writing is lovely. A Country Christmas contains good values that many of us have lost, and the other story, if taken to heart, would make our Christmas celebrations much richer and happier.
Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Christmas; or, The Good Fairy. Much like Alcott’s A Christmas Dream, but I didn’t prefer it as much as Alcott’s. Christmas in Pogunac is another that I enjoyed. I think it is better and more interesting than The Good Fairy, partially because it is more nuanced. Still, I don’t know quite what to think of it. Read it, and let me know what you think.
Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Dinner. This precedes A Christmas Carol, and contains one or two of the same themes. But it is barely a story—more of a sketch. And that was one of Dicken’s strengths. It’s short and delightful. It reminds me of what I want Christmas celebrations to be like in my home.

Finally, the following poems:

Christmas Bells by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Christmastide by Eliza Cook.
Music on Christmas Morning by Anne Brontë.
Ring Out, Wild Bells by Alfred Lord, Tennyson.

Clay & Steel: Differences between Children’s Stories, Young Adult, & Adult

A while back I was trying to determine what distinguishes children’s books—specifically for older children, say age 10 on average—from young adult, and young adult from adult novels. I think it may consist partly in the following. The protagonists in children’s books are generally not on a path of self-discovery, but rather have a practical goal (saving the Princess in The Tale of Despereaux), and on the journey thereto they come to better understand the world and/or grow through experience. Many of the lessons they learn aren’t too particular to them, but rather are lessons everyone must learn. For example, in The Book of Three by Lloyd Alexander, Taran learns to accept his own weakness and to empathize with others. While these are vital lessons to learn, they are general enough that they apply to everyone—everyone is imperfect, none matters more than another, and we often share the very weakness which we despise in others—and they pertain less to his discovering his identity or place in the world, which is where I think YA novels tend to focus. This is why, I would argue, the later Prydain Chronicles tend more toward the young adult genre, given the themes of discovering one’s identity and place in the world, and preparing for marriage—it’s not just a story with a boy and girl in love, which could easily be in a children’s book, but the protagonist is focussed on preparing for marriage and knowing his birth so that he might be viewed, and view himself, as worthy of his beau—and this I think more pertains to the young adult.

In a young adult (YA) novel, the characters are reaching or have reached manhood or womanhood, and are not only learning about the world, but trying to find their place in it. I will say, as an aside, that I don’t think their age truly matters as much as their maturity and place in society—Despereaux isn’t portrayed as a child, yet I’d say his story targets a younger audience. Moreover, what constitutes a “young adult” changes. I think that part of why the YA genre appeals to such a wide age range—from 12-year-olds to people well into adulthood, even in their thirties—is that we now mature so late and so slowly. Thus, I haven’t really defined the genre. More on that later.

Lloyd Alexander’s Gypsy Rizka: A Delightful Read!

I nearly missed this book! I was at The Dusty Bookshelf looking for The Prydain Chronicles, and almost walked away without seeing that Lloyd Alexander’s books occupied another shelf! I had previously seen Gypsy Rizka listed among his works on Audible and it sounded interesting. I had no idea it would be so good! Its themes and audience appeal are similar to The Prydain Chronicles, yet the style is so different, it was wonderful to enjoy Lloyd Alexander’s wit and excellent story-telling again, but see how varied his writing style can be.

Book Review & Analysis of Children’s Stories: The Mysterious Benedict Society

A delightful read, which exemplifies two or three characteristics especially important in children’s books. The first of these is a catalyst right at the start (or nearly so). If we look at some other well-done (or at least popular) children’s stories, all or nearly all of the following have the inciting incident occurring within the first chapter: Redwall—we meet Clooney the Scourge in the first chapter; Mossflower—Martin the Warrior is captured by the wildcats in chapter one; A Series of Unfortunate Events: The Bag Beginning—the children learn of their parents’ deaths in chapter one; The Tale of Despereaux—as soon as he’s born Despereaux is shown to be a queer mouse, contrary to popular standards, but the actual inciting incident occurs shortly thereafter, when he falls in love with the princess; The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe—the first chapter is titled, “Lucy Looks into a Wardrobe,” and that’s what happens; Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone—as Tim Hickson points out, the first chapter is really a prologue, and in it occurs the inciting incident (the Potters’ murders and Harry’s “adoption” by the Dursleys); but chapter two includes the vanishing glass, Harry’s first obvious display of magic; Bridge to Terabithia—the Burkes move in next door in chapter one, and the narrator says, “[Jess] thought later how peculiar it was that here was probably the biggest thing in his life, and he had shrugged it off as nothing.” In all of these, the inciting incident is early, hooking the reader just a few pages in. This is not to say that “adult” books do not have early catalysts. But Tolstoy’s chapters of subtextual flirtation in Anna Karenina are less likely to captivate (or even be understood by) a child; and a child is less likely to put up with Dostoevsky’s chapter of exposition in The Brothers Karamazov before the plot actually begins. In children’s books, nuance appears little, and patience has to be earned before it is tried. At least that seems to be the rule.

Homicidal Passivity: An Analysis of Hemingway’s “The Killers”

In The Killers, Hemingway displays how passivity, rather than reducing one’s agency, can make one an agent, even an agent of evil, through cowardice and irresoluteness. He displays this in each character, either by example or by an ironic contrast. The first person named is neither of the apparent killers, Al or Max, but George. George shows the greatest passivity, doing nothing in the entire story except making a sandwich; he never goes into the back of the kitchen when Nick and Sam are taken, but merely stands there the whole scene. In his dialogue, he is evasive and non-confrontational:

“‘Well, bright boy [George],’ Max said, looking into the mirror, ‘why don’t you say something?’
‘What’s it all about?’
‘Hey, Al,’ Max called, ‘bright boy wants to know what it’s all about.’
‘Why don’t you tell him?’ Al’s voice came from the kitchen. 
‘What do you think its all about?’ 
‘I don’t know.’ 
‘What do you think?’ 
Max looked into the mirror all the time he was talking. 
‘I wouldn’t say.’”

When Al and Max leave, George again does nothing, suggesting Nick go and warn Ole Andreson of his impending death, and saying, “Don’t go if you don’t want to.” And in the end, he epitomizes passivity in the final line of the story: “Well, you better not think about it.”

Humility, Charity, and True Honor: A Book Review of Black Cauldron (Prydain Chronicles #2)

In Lloyd Alexander’s Black Cauldron, second of The Prydain Chronicles, both Taran and Prince Ellidyr show in wonderful character arc’s different paths to the the same virtues of humility and charity.¹ While we may like Taran and dislike Ellidyr from the beginning, their arcs begin in similar places. Both possess great pride and shame in light of their birth and seek to remedy their situations by the same means. We must remember that, as Iroh says in Avatar: The Last Airbender, “Pride is not the opposite of shame, but its source. True humility is the only antidote to shame.” Taran is ashamed of his unknown parentage and his lowly position as Assistant Pig-Keeper; all this he sees as dishonorable, and hopes to gain honor through great feats of heroism in battle and adventure. Ellidyr is last in his line of brothers in a royal house which is poor and not high esteemed, and he also seeks to gain honor in the very venture for which he and Taran are both employed. From hence, both take very different routes on their paths of failure and redemption, yet their contrasts and parallels teach great lessons of virtue.

At Home in Oneself: A Book Review of Taran Wanderer by Lloyd Alexander

In Taran Wanderer, fourth in The Chronicles of Prydain series by Lloyd Alexander, Taran begins his quest to learn his parentage with a great deal of pride. His pride has always manifested itself in the series as quickness to judge others, accumulated shame regarding his own mistakes, and a high value on birth, nobility, and glory in feats of heroism—whence comes greater shame as regards himself, since he has an unknown birth, no noble rank, and his greatest feats of heroism in the series are of self-denial (and therefore lacking outward glory). In Taran Wanderer, he comes to learn true humility by a gradual journey from outward comparisons to an inward honesty and magnanimity.