Book Review: A Wizard of Earthsea

Although I have strong feelings on the subject of judging each work of art based on their own merits and avoiding comparisons as much as possible, I’m afraid I’m going to make myself into something of a hypocrite with this particular book review, since my obvious and unavoidable frame of reference for Ursula Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea is J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series. Please try to forgive me for making frequent comparisons between the two, which is unfair to Le Guin for several reasons – first and foremost because she published A Wizard of Earthsea in 1968, a good thirty years before the appearance of Rowling’s boy wizard. In fact, some fans of Le Guin were not pleased when Rowling was hailed as being original and creative, given that Le Guin’s novel similarly tells the tale of a powerful young wizard who attends a school of magic and must face off with a terrible nemesis before becoming one of the most powerful wizards in his world.

Despite the similarities and the obvious basis for comparison, though, there are some key differences between the work of Le Guin and Rowling that make A Wizard of Earthsea a very different reading experience from Harry Potter. First of all, there is the nature of the prose itself – Le Guin’s phrasing is much more somber and lyrical than Rowling’s witty, even sometimes comical style. Whereas Rowling’s serious tale of good versus evil is often includes sketches about students’ antics (namely Fred and George Weasley) that will bring a smile to your face or even cause you to laugh out loud, the first of Le Guin’s Earthsea Cycle sounds much like the ancient ballads often mentioned throughout her tale. A Wizard of Earthsea is the origin story of Ged, a very powerful wizard with lowly origins and a dark indiscretion in his past. He ultimately becomes Archmange (head wizard) over all of Earthsea, though – sometime after the conclusion of this novel. Referencing these later events a few times at the beginning and end of the tale, the A Wizard of Earthsea reads very much as though a narrator were relating this story of Ged’s early adventures to the reader before a campfire. The cadences of Le Guin’s language are both ancient and universal, so that we feel almost as though we are listening to Homer’s The Odyssey or some other classical myth. The only thing that disrupted the rhythm of the prose for me was the names of Earthsea’s cities and inhabitants, which often felt disingenuous to me. It often bothers me, though, when authors slap together consonants and syllables that are extremely difficult to pronounce, thinking that this indicates that they come from a wholly different world. If that kind of thing doesn’t bother you, though, you’re sure to enjoy the prose of the novel without fear of disruption.

A second point of comparison between Le Guin and Rowling’s novels is the comparison of their main characters – Harry and Ged himself. While Harry is the classic do-gooder who will not bend his principles for any reason, Ged is much more prideful and especially early on, is bent on acquiring power and showing up his schoolboy rival. This difference, in and of itself, doesn’t necessarily make Ged less sympathetic then Harry, although it is often more difficult for a reader to identify with a protagonist whose main characteristics are negative. I personally think that characters driven by petty jealousy, greed and even hate can be extremely interesting and even sympathetic – if their emotions are explained to the reader in enough detail. But because Le Guin’s tale is written much like a ballad, the reader isn’t given long passages of insight into Ged’s state of mind. We are told that he is jealous, and then the story keeps moving. For me, this made it more difficult to identify closely with Ged, who simply came off as being power-hungry and ill-mannered at times. I wanted to like him – and I certainly did not want to see him bested by his rival, but when the “good” guy is less likeable and his rival is only somewhat snotty (certainly not as odious as Draco Malfoy), it is hard to be wholly invested in the conflict between them.

Despite the fact that I didn’t find Ged very sympathetic, the tale itself is fairly absorbing and I found myself lulled into different passages of the lyrical story. Ged’s own pride leads him to make several bad choices early in his career as a wizard, and then he must attempt to put right the shadowy evil that he has introduced into the world. This quest leads him on a long and dangerous journey through many different lands; his encounters and adventures are all well-imagined and interesting.

I not only enjoyed the novel for its own sake, but it also made me want J.K. Rowling to get back on the horse and write a couple of novels that detail Dumbledore’s adventures prior to becoming such a well-respected Headmaster at Hogwarts. In Deathly Hallows, Harry ends up digging through a lot of different stories and rumors about Dumbledore’s early days as a wizard, and those mysterious circumstances and famous battles could be a lot more interesting if presented as Le Guin has presented Ged’s early days – as a prideful, vulnerable young man instead of the great wizard that he one day becomes.

Another thing that I really enjoyed about A Wizard of Earthsea was the way that the novel discussed the use of magic and rules governing the supernatural. Le Guin relates a lot of information about the interconnectedness of the earth and all its inhabitants; the balance or “equilibrium” of the world; the power of knowing the true name of a man, a beast or an element; the difference between an act of magic that creates a harmless illusion and an act of magic that alters the fabric of the world, even in a small way. I found these passages to be particularly absorbing.

I have to say, though, that at no point did I find A Wizard of Earthsea quite as engrossing or riveting as Harry Potter. I’m fairly certain it’s because I just didn’t identify with Ged the way that I do with Harry and his friends, who are all unpopular misfits at school. Harry, Ron and Hermione may be the clichés of Children’s/YA Literature – the smart, nice outcasts that remind you of your own awkward adolescence – but there’s a reason that type of protagonist sells so well. If the author develops them with skill, then we identify with their teenage angst. Ged, being a quiet and driven character in a lyrical ballad-type novel, just didn’t project enough emotion for my taste, I guess. That isn’t to say that I didn’t like him or root for him, or that I didn’t enjoy the novel – just that I didn’t enjoy it as much as I could have. It’s still an excellent read which I highly recommend, and I can imagine that it would be great to read out loud to kids as well as being a novel that you can curl up with yourself.

This post participates in my Focus on Fantasy Reading Challenge. To learn more about the challenge or to participate, check out my original post about Focus on Fantasy.

Book Review: Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret

It may or may not be surprising to find out that I didn’t grow up reading Judy Blume’s novels – I went to a private Christian school from 4th until 12th grade, and so the librarians weren’t exactly pushing fiction from the banned books list. I’m fairly certain, in fact, that my school librarians were the kind of people who contributed to the lists of books to be kept from innocent children – hoping in vain that they could keep our vulnerable minds from learning about subjects such as menstruation, sex and religious freedom.

But this is exactly why everybody loves Judy Blume’s novels so much – she actually writes about the subjects that most parents and librarians consider inappropriate, yet are the most significant subjects that preoccupy and shape young adults. I’ve heard that many adults who grew up reading Blume’s novels in the 1970s and 80s now swear that the author saved their lives because she was the only adult that was honest with them. Honesty – a policy preached but not practiced by the majority of conservative adult society.

I decided that it was finally time that I learned more about Judy Blume, starting with the novel that I had heard the most about – Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. And oh, would this book have infuriated my Christian school librarians! To talk frankly about menstruation would have been unseemly, to entertain the idea of religious freedom for an audience of elementary schoolers would have been irresponsible and inappropriate – but to combine the topics? I believe that might actually fit under their definition of blasphemy.

As I read the novel and thought about all of this, I grew more and more frustrated with adults – parents, grandparents, teachers and librarians, who all have forgotten what it feels like to be a kid and be left in the dark, especially about something so important. Margaret is old enough to understand that religion and the development of her body are both extremely critical elements to the person that she is and will become. She may even understand that better than the adults in her life, who don’t want her to think about these things in a critical, rational manner, but would rather simply dictate to her the kind of person that she ought to be.

But what we’ve really got in Are You There God? is a case of the blind leading the blind, with quite selfish intentions. Margaret’s Grandma Sylvia is insistent that Margaret is a Jewish girl, while her maternal grandparents are adamant that because Margaret’s mother was raised a Christian, Margaret is a Christian too. Even her own parents, who are certainly more open-minded because they have been able to sustain an inter-faith marriage, aren’t so open-minded as they seem – they would prefer that Margaret remain undecided in terms of her own religion, presumably in order to justify their own choice to reject both Judaism and Christianity. I was not feeling too sympathetic toward any of the parental figures in this novel, none of whom actually took the time to explain the significance of religion or the purposes of any religious practices to poor Margaret.

Instead, I really felt sorry for Margaret, who had to struggle through her religious crisis all on her own, while also dealing with puberty. These two crises are intertwined in Margaret’s experience – she is desperate to get her period and behave in socially acceptable ways with boys so that she can fit in with her friends and peers. Likewise, a major reason that she wants to make a decision at this point about her religion is so that she can understand where she fits in socially – she wants to know whether she should join the local YMCA or the Jewish Community Center. A lot of Margaret’s self-concept is built on how well she can assimilate into the social landscape. This isn’t exactly healthy, but it is realistic – most young adults would rather die than stand out from their peers. It’s too bad, then, that some readers focus on Margaret’s anxieties regarding her period and her relationships with boys, while loosing sight of how her religious crisis is so closely-related to her sexual anxieties. In other words, her emotional, spiritual intellectual and physical development are all tied together – which is the case for most adolescents.

All in all, I doubt that I’m saying very much about Judy Blume’s novel that hasn’t been said before – but if nothing else, I want to communicate that I think it’s important for everyone to read this classic for themselves. It’s entertaining (who can’t help but laugh at the chant “We must, we must, we must increase our bust?”) but it’s also an important reminder that children are capable of thinking critically and therefore need answers. Most of the time, an adult’s attempt at shielding a young adult simply stunts their growth – instead of trying to protect teenagers, we should be attempting to guide them and support them. I couldn’t help but think of how much easier Margaret’s struggle would have been if someone had set her down and said, “Listen, here is why Jewish people do this and this, and here is why Christians do that and that. This is the way that they think and believe, this is what is important to them. Now you have to decide whether or not those things are important to you, too.” Margaret still would have had a lot to sort through on her own, but she wouldn’t have felt quite so confused and alone.

And so one of the things we can take away from this novel is that honest communication between children and adults will build trust and foster critical thinking, not contaminate the young adults in question. Kids and teenagers need information just as much as adults – they need to understand what’s going on around them and what is happening to their own bodies. This novel is great because of its brutal honesty about all kinds of adolescent anxieties – and I think all adults stand to learn a lot from Judy Blume.

[Disclaimer: My parents, despite being the ones who placed me in private school, did not attempt to restrict my reading materials in any way – so this review/commentary is not meant as a criticism of them at all. They let me check out anything I wanted from the library, and only once did they even bat an eye – when I came home with a stack of Anne Rice novels at the age of twelve. But despite being disconcerted, they let me carry on – and it did me no harm. So, a big thank you to my parents.]

Book Review: The Witch of Blackbird Pond

The sign of a good historical novel: when the reader is aware of the setting as being significantly different than her own contemporary landscape, and yet feels that at some point while reading, the setting itself fades away and almost ceases to matter because the characters themselves are timeless.

This is exactly the feeling that I get whenever I read The Witch of Blackbird Pond, the Newbery Award-winning novel by Elizabeth George Speare. This novel may be set in colonial New England and include detail about Puritan attitudes and witch hunts, but these things are secondary to the emotional reality of the main character Kit Tyler. I closely identify with Kit, a young woman raised in warm, sunny Barbados who must move to Puritan New England to live with her uncle, aunt and cousins when her grandfather dies. She finds herself quite the fish out of water – she is a headstrong, impulsive, educated and outspoken young woman amongst the prim, reserved and pious seventeenth century New Englanders. She is unaccustomed to doing even light housework, but in Connecticut, she must do her fair share of the chores; her delicate hands become covered in calluses and her fine silk dresses go months without wearing. The contrast between her carefree life in Barbados and her new lifestyle of constant labor is astounding, and it is very difficult for Kit to adjust. She longs to escape the harsh New England winter and return to her balmy island home. Having moved from one climate to another, as well as having shifted roles several times in my life, I can certainly appreciate how truly difficult such a change would be for a spoiled girl like Kit (and like myself).

My ability to sympathize with Kit was further heightened during my latest re-read of the book because like Kit, I recently lost my grandfather. Like the young protagonist in The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate, Kit was very closet to her grandfather, who educated her and encouraged her to think for herself. Her homesickness mingles with her grief; these are emotions with which I am all too familiar. Though Speare never goes on too much about Kit’s emotions, it is clear that she misses her grandfather, and while most readers can sympathize to some degree with her heartache, this element of the story struck me particularly hard at this moment in time.

But despite all the grief and difficulties that Kit faces in the novel, The Witch of Blackbird Pond is not a distressing story – merely an engrossing one. Kit is a resilient young woman, determined to make a place for herself somewhere in the world. She is realistic, hard-working, and intelligent; she knows that she must learn to curb her impulsive actions and adapt to the ways of the local New Englanders in order to survive. She is willing to adjust herself in many ways – and yet she is not willing to compromise with regards to certain things. She refuses to leave or betray her friends, including an old woman that most of the village believes to be a witch. When this leads to Kit herself being accused of witchcraft, she still will not betray another young friend of hers, even though the testimony of her friend would likely set her free. Ladies, this is the kind of tenacity and integrity that we want in our female protagonists!

A few readers have commented that the story is fairly slow, so I feel it is important to note that the novel is more about Kit’s emotional upheaval and does not linger on the witch hunt and trial scenes too long – and yet it is Kit’s willingness to stand up for her own opinions and values time after time that make the novel exciting in its own way. Such a stubborn stance would have actually put a young woman like Kit in great danger at that time – which is why she ends up on trial for witchcraft and faces the serious danger of being maimed, cast out of the community, or even killed. But Kit admirably holds her own in this situation, exemplifying the kind of friendship and commitment that readers can appreciate.

Moreover, readers should find the combination of Kit’s realistic expectations and firm values to be an excellent example of what it is like to be a feminist in the real world. Women didn’t always have (and many still don’t have) the luxury of building a career instead of attending to the housework. Circumstances often limit women – even very capable, intelligent women. In many ways, this story is about learning to accept your circumstances while finding the most agreeable way to cope with them. Kit may not be able to change her reality of the need to labor daily beside her uncle, aunt and cousins in the harsh New England climate, but she can work to earn the respect of her family and build friendships with those in the community with whom she feels a true kinship. She then honors those bonds to the best of her ability, a trait that is truly admirable.

The novel isn’t all about compromise and suffering, though; Speare ends the novel on a happier note for Kit. I don’t want to give too much away about the novel, but rest assured that the story doesn’t end with Kit on trial for witchcraft. Sometimes I dislike a too-happy ending because it is unrealistic to have everything perfectly sewn up, just as it ought to be. Yet in this case, I’m all too willing to forgive Speare the indiscretion of a neat conclusion because it’s just so satisfying to see a character achieve happiness when you identify with them so closely.

March is Women's History Month, and this post participates in my Women's History Month Reading Challenge. To join the challenge, all you have to do is read and review one or more books, then link back to my original Reading Challenge post by leaving a link to your post in the comments section.

Book Review: The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

I think I’ve mentioned this (briefly) on the blog before: one of my pet peeves about certain works of historical fiction is when a writer sets his or her novel in a specific time period, includes all the correct historical details with regards to food, clothing and cultural traditions such as work habits and holiday celebrations, but main character is written with a much-too-modern attitude. Especially with novels about young girls and women, the tendency of many contemporary authors is to give their protagonist a modern feminist mentality, but while many girls and women chafed at their traditional female roles throughout history, they didn’t think in quite the same way as “enlightened feminists” at the end of the twentieth and beginning of the twenty-first century.

Many authors of historical fiction need to do a little more research – they shouldn’t only look into what kinds of corsets and gowns women had to wear, what chores they had to perform, what little education they were given – but what the women of those times actually had to say about these things in their letters and diaries. Then they need to stretch their imagination farther in order to articulate a character’s dissatisfaction with traditional gender roles – without adopting contemporary attitudes and expectations.

That’s my little soapbox speech for the week, but the truth is that the main character of Jacqueline Kelly’s Newbery Honor Book The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate commits the atrocious sin of speaking and thinking in contemporary ways – and I loved this novel anyway. In other words, I’ve finally come across a novel that I’m willing to forgive for its historical inaccuracy because it’s so wonderful in so many other ways. Calpurnia Tate is the story of a young Texan girl living on a cotton plantation at the turn of the century who chafes at traditional female activities and duties and longs to study insect and animal life. While I was initially interested in the fact that the protagonist is interested in science (which I feel is somewhat unusual – please correct me if I’m wrong), this element of the story turned out to be only one of many reasons to love Kelly’s novel.

First of all, Calpurnia Tate is quite funny. I don’t tend to laugh too much when I am reading historical fiction, except when it comes to Lucy Maud Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables and its sequels. I’m trying to recall any other historical novels that have made me chuckle as much as Kelly’s novel and I’m coming up blank. Calpurnia and her grandfather are both intelligent, very quirky characters that do and say amusing things and find themselves in some entertaining situations. The novel was much lighter reading then I thought it would be from the summary, which pits inquisitive and intellectual Calpurnia against her mother and the world of traditional feminine domesticity.

But despite its humor, the novel does justice to the serious topic of a scientific-minded young woman who is expected to set aside her interest in biology and research in order to learn how to bake pies and knit stockings. As Calpurnia realizes that her chances of becoming a scientist are slim, her feelings of discontent, despair and isolation are realistically portrayed (other than the contemporary speech) and struck me right to the heart. I may not be a scientist at heart, but most people can understand or at least sympathize with the pain of being forced into a role that makes you terribly unhappy. In some ways, this is a similar tale and a similar heartache to that of Maddy in Jennifer Connelly’s fabulous novel A Northern Light, but I really enjoyed the more unusual aspect of Calpurnia Tate that the protagonist was interested in science. Like Gary D. Schmidt’s Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy, the main character is exploring the concepts in Charles Darwin’s The Origin of Species and finds herself at odds with the more traditionally-minded members of her community. No one understands poor Calpurnia – no one except her grandfather.

And it is Calpurnia’s relationship with her grandfather that is the final and shining reason that I loved this novel. Grandfather Tate is a gruff, distracted old man who hides away in his library and his lab; his grandchildren find him quite intimidating. Yet when Grandfather discovers a budding scientist in his only granddaughter, the two develop a special relationship. They go hunting for bug and plant specimens together, and he teaches her about all the scientific wonders of the world. He cultivates her interest in not only botany and insect life, but in all kinds of knowledge, giving her a copy of The Origin of the Species and access to his collection of Charles Dickens novels. When Calpurnia demonstrates clever business acumen, though, his reaction is one of disappointment – it is obvious that he wants her to become a scientist. He teaches her the scientific method and includes her in his experimental attempts to distill a new type of liquor from pecans. The two discover a new type of plant, which they submit to the Smithsonian Institution to be cataloged and christened with the family name, since they are the plant’s discoverers. They share many interests and activities, and they understand each other in a way that no one else seems to understand either of them.

While Calpurnia’s interest in science is what makes this novel unusual and interesting, it is her relationship with her grandfather that made it particularly poignant for me. I recently lost not only my grandpa, but also my grandmother, both of whom were very special to me. Consequently, this novel hit on many of my emotions. I found myself chuckling – even laughing out loud sometimes – and insisting that I read a few sentences to my husband every once in a while. Then, minutes later, I found myself sniffling a bit.

Clearly, because Kelly was able to entertain me in such a way, I have to forgive its lack of historically accurate speech. In truth, the attitudes and ideas that are communicated are not that far from what a young girl might have felt at the time – it is really only how those ideas are communicated that strike me as inaccurate. But in the overall picture, it stopped mattering to me as I fell in love with this novel. I recommend this even for those who don’t normally enjoy historical fiction and I am much indebted to MJ over at The Woodland Library for her excellent review of this novel, which inspired me to go out and get myself a copy of this book.

This post participates in my Women's History Month Reading Challenge. It's easy to participate - just read and review a historical fiction novel (YA or not) with a female protagonist, then leave me the link to your review on my original Reading Challenge post.

Book Review: The Giver

Note: I list a lot of details from the dystopian world of The Giver in this review, but I have tried to refrain from giving up anything that Lowry includes as a surprise reveal in the novel, and as always, I do not spoil the climax/end of the novel.

When I picked up Lois Lowry’s Newbery-winning novel The Giver for a re-read, I was reminded of something that C.S. Lewis once wrote: “No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally (and often far more) worth reading at the age of fifty.” I am often struck by the truth of this statement when I re-read classic works of children’s literature, especially when I return a book that I haven’t touched in at least a decade. The memories of a novel come rushing back; the significance that the story held for me in my childhood intermingles with my “adult” reactions, adding layers to the experience of reading the book. Lewis’s quote came particularly into my mind as I re-read The Giver, since I have actually experienced the death of loved ones and wrestled personally with some of the questions in the book since last reading Lowry’s novel. Now, The Giver is no longer just a well-written work of dystopian fiction, but a reflection on events that are personally significant.

I remembered the basic plot of the novel: twelve-year-old Jonas is living in what seems to be an ideal society where no one experiences pain of any depth, but once he is chosen to be “The Receiver of Memory” for his community, he begins to learn the price of that idyllic existence. While his friends and peers start training for their new occupations as Doctors, Teachers, Nurturers and Recreational Assistants, Jonas begins to meet with the previous Receiver. The elderly man’s job is now to pass on the memories to young Jonas – and so the man becomes The Giver of the novel’s title. Through Jonas’s relationship and work with The Giver, he begins to perceive many new things about the world around him – both beautiful and painful things, the emotions and experiences that make us fully human.

But as Jonas learns about these many exciting, wonderful experiences, he realizes that his family and members of his society are completely unaware of them. They do not understand the depth of both affection and sexual love that human beings are able to feel for one another because they are medicated to remove sexual urges. His society has sought to eliminate the horrors of physical pain and emotional anguish, but have also robbed themselves of the emotions at the opposite end of the spectrum – joy and passion. But The Giver must teach Jonas about physical pain and death in its many forms; the knowledge and experiences of these things will now be his burden to carry in order to shelter the community from such horrors. But once Jonas realizes how the people of his society have handicapped themselves, he wants to devise a way to restore memories and emotions to the individual members of the community so that they can once again experience human passions.

The society that Lowry has created is becomes more and more obviously insidious as the novel progresses. “Sameness” stretches across all aspects of their community: the society dictates acceptable behaviors, occupational choices, spousal selection, family planning. Everything is masterfully controlled – even climate, genetics and death.

As I re-read the novel, I was particularly fascinated to notice the community’s use of language; there is often a prescribed script which the members of this society must follow and so it is through language that the people police themselves and control is maintained. As someone who loves words and phrases and stories, I noticed more and more the ways that the social and individual narratives were controlled: the use of a number instead of a name when a child misbehaves, a name designated as “Not-to-Be-Spoken” if a person of that name has been a particular disgrace, the prescribed apologies and standard responses for every social situation, the required family ritual of dream-telling, the importance that is placed on the precision of language – and Jonas’s resulting preoccupation with the accuracy of his expressions. All of these things create parameters for the individuals of this society, which shows just how powerful language and narrative can be. The creators of this society felt that they must standardize even a simple apology in order to ensure safety and happiness.

It is obvious that while this “sameness” was intended to provide safety and happiness, it has removed people’s free choice and the vibrancy of their lives – yet upon re-reading The Giver at this juncture of my life, I must admit that there were certain aspects of this society that appealed to me. Last year, I watched both of my very special grandparents rapidly deteriorate physically, then die – and so it seemed somewhat attractive to me that in this society, the elderly were treated with so much respect, cared for so diligently and made so comfortable, then “released” before they started to suffer. Euthanasia is a touchy subject – one of many in The Giver. Reading the novel again, I have realized just how complicated many of these issues can be.

But The Giver does not attempt to preach – it simply presents these very complicated social issues in a context that readers can see the trade-off. There are reasons that this society has relinquished many of their rights – and in certain ways, they are better off. I don’t think that they just seem to be better off – they are better off. It is not a total illusion. But ultimately, we have to ask ourselves, is the illusion worth it? The answer to most of us, even with all the attractive aspects of this society, is still a resounding “no.”

This post participates in Presenting Lenore's Dystopian February Reading Challenge.

Book Review: Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy

Malaga Island lies off the coast of Phippsburg, Maine, at the mouth of the New Meadows River, and it was once the home of a small interracial community founded after the Civil War by former slaves. The good citizens of Phippsburg felt that Malaga was an eye-sore, and local newspapers printed stories about the “degenerate community” on the island, attracting even more ire. So when Phippsburg wanted to attract tourists to their town in the early 1900s, Malaga residents were forcibly evicted by a “clean-up party” and sent to a mental hospital in Pownal, Maine. Their freedom ripped away from them and their homes destroyed, many of the residents of Malaga died shortly after being fraudulently committed to the School for the Feeble-Minded – and it was only in April of 2010 that Maine legislators officially recognized the gross injustice.

Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy, Gary D. Schmidt’s young adult novel that won both the Newbery Honor and Printz Award, is based on these historical events. The story traces the friendship between a Phippsburg newcomer named Turner Buckminster and Lizzie Bright, a young African American resident of Malaga. Turner’s initial tale of woe is one hat is common to many main characters in Children’s/YA Lit: the new boy in town feels out of place and isn’t able to make friends. The Phippsburg boys quickly put Turner to the test, watching to see if he can he hit a baseball and jump off a cliff into the sea – and Turner miserably fails. His isolation is exacerbated by the fact that he is the minister’s son and so expected to wear starched white shirts and behave in certain proper ways at all times. It does not take Turner even a day to realize that his new life will be a lonely and miserable one, especially when his parents begin sending him to read and play the organ for their cranky elderly neighbor Mrs. Cobb.

But then Turner meets Lizzie Bright. Down on the shore, they begin tossing around baseballs and working on Turner’s swing. They search for crabs and clams, then take them home to Lizzie’s grandfather who makes terrific chowder. Lizzie introduces him to the other children who live on Malaga Island, and they all play like they are sea gulls – free from the constraints that Turner feels on the main land. The minister’s son has finally found haven that might make his new life bearable.

But when Turner returns home, he is greeted by disapproving deacons of the church who are pulling all of his father’s strings. The prominent residents of Phippsburg want to attract the tourists to town and so want to evict the African Americans from Malaga – and Turner and his father get in the middle of this historical conflict. Reverend Buckminster is at first unwilling to oppose the deacons and townspeople who pay his salary and so Turner incurs his father’s anger – but hopes that eventually the good Reverend will stand up for his new friends who call Malaga their home.

Of course, because the novel is based on historical events, readers know that the story is moving toward the inevitable tragic conclusion – the eviction of the community on Malaga Island. The real question of the novel, then, is how Turner will react to the injustice wrought by the citizens of Phippsburg, the destruction of his haven and the deaths of his new-found friends. The reader is left to discover how the historical events of the novel will shape the young man – will he become prejudiced? Jaded? Or will he continue to stand by his own moral beliefs?

Schmidt shapes this story into a beautiful coming-of-age novel, written in very poetic language that illustrates how both Lizzie and Turner have an appreciation and respect for life that the rest of Phippsburg seems to lack. Different passages bring the setting and the weather of coastal Maine to life with luminous descriptions and help us understand the connection that Turner and Lizzie feel with the stunning nature that surrounds them:

“The sea surge that had drawn up the coastal waters of Maine poured past the cliffs and tore along the ragged coast… When it had finished its fussing, it seethed back down the New Meadows River, sluicing between the mainland and the islands. It spent its last surge on one rock-shouldered heap just a spit or two off the coast, frothing over the mudflats, setting the clam holes flapping, and carrying a small, startled crab out from its weedy hiding place. It tumbled upside down up the island shore and onto a toe stretched toward the water.

“Lizzie Griffin, who belonged to the toe, grinned at the crab’s frantic turnings as it tried to sort out claws and legs. Its shell was so pale that she could see the mess of the inner workings. Another almost-spent wave came up behind and tumbled it off—claws and legs all to be sorted out again. Lizzie plucked her toe and the rest of her foot out of the covering mud… she turned and scrambled up the outcroppings, picking up the hatchet that was to have been splitting kindling all this time. But she could hardly help it if there was something so much better to do, like watching the tide come in.”

This connection with nature, this respect and maturity cannot save Lizzie – only help her to “see things straight.” But even though Turner cannot control the course of events, his respect for life helps him to deal with and react to the prejudices of Phippsburg’s prominent residents. Even before he becomes the more mature, realistic young man that he is at the end of the novel, Turner’s desire to learn from nature characterizes him as a more moral and upstanding person than even his father. He is filled with awe when he encounters whales and joyful at the discovery of Charles Darwin. He is still pure, still idealistic, still relatively untouched by hatred, greed and fear. He still tries to believe that the citizens of Phippsburg and the residents of Malaga can get along – which is why the inevitable tragedy remains heart-breaking even though it is the obvious conclusion.

Lizzie Bright is a novel that teaches how to be both realistic and idealistic – how to hope for something better while understanding what is. It is a great read for all ages, which is why it received both the Newbery and the Printz Honors. Check this one out for yourself, your kids and anyone else that you can think of…

This review participates in the Y.A. Bliss 2011 Historical Fiction Challenge.

Book Review: A Ring of Endless Light

As I have re-read and reviewed Madeleine L’Engle’s Time Quintet for my blog, I have to admit that I’ve found most of the series less than thrilling. The exception has been A Swiftly Tilting Planet, which I really enjoyed and gave a four star rating. I was hesitant to pick up another on of L’Engle’s novels, but A Ring of Endless Light is a Newbery Honor book and the reviews were so positive all around that I decided to give the author one more shot – and I’m incredibly glad that I did. Out of all five of her novels that I’ve read, A Ring of Endless Light is by far my favorite; it is a moving, well-written story about a young girl trying to come to grips with tragedy, illness and death over the summer before her sixteenth birthday. This isn’t the same kind of fantasy/science fiction novel for children as A Wrinkle in Time and the rest of L’Engle’s Time Quintet; this is a sophisticated novel that wrestles with a lot of questions about the meaning of life and the existence of God.

Vicky Austin feels surrounded and overwhelmed by death. She and her family have come to Seven Bay Island to spend the summer with her grandfather, who is dying of leukemia. Vicky realizes that her father, who is a doctor, does not expect her beloved grandfather to live longer than these few summer months. The idea of loosing someone so close to her would be difficult enough for any young girl, but Vicky is quickly confronted with the deaths of several other people. Commander Rodney, a close family friend, is killed in a boating accident only a week after the Austin family arrives on the island. The Commander’s son Leo quickly turns to Vicky for comfort, and although she doesn’t want to have a romantic relationship with him, she wants to support him as a friend. Then her ex-boyfriend Zachary comes to see her, revealing that his mother has been killed in a car accident and that he has tried to commit suicide. He, too, needs Vicky’s support, but begins to reveal a manic, self-destructive side that frightens her.

While both of these boys want Vicky’s emotional support, neither one of them is able to offer her the kind of comfort that she needs as she watches her grandfather deteriorate – but there is a third young man who steps into the picture. Adam works with Vicky’s older brother John and is studying to be a marine biologist; he seems to be a much more stable and supportive guy who understands Vicky’s confusion and grief. As Vicky begins to help Adam with his summer project, studying the communication between humans and dolphins, the two grow closer. But Vicky soon realizes that Adam, too, has experienced death and needs to grieve.

Essentially, Vicky is caught between all three guys as they vie for her attention – but this novel is far from being a turgid teenage soap opera. It is a thoughtful picture of how a stable, loving family must cope with the loss of a beloved grandparent as he comes closer and closer to death. Having just recently lost both my grandparents, with whom I was very close, this novel hit me right in the heart/gut. I was able to relate to the medical emergencies, the worry, the desire to make the person(s) that you love more comfortable, and to allow them to die with dignity. I was also able to relate to all the questions that this situation raised for Vicky – about the meaning of life, the acceptance of death, and the existence of God. She is also dealing with the normal questions of a sixteen year old girl throughout the novel – what kind of a relationship she wants with a guy, what kinds of directions she should pursue in her life. I deeply sympathized with Vicky as she struggled through all of this – and of course was rooting for her relationship with the stable and thoughtful Adam to develop in such a way that Vicky would find the support that she needed. I thought the way that she genuinely desired to be a friend to the other two boys in the midst of their own pain, and therefore found herself overwhelmed by all the tragedy and death, was a realistic picture of what happens when you step out into the world and begin experiencing these things for the first time.

Even though there are so many things going on in the novel, it is easy to follow and deeply moving at the same time. As I already mentioned, I am not fond of many of L’Engle’s novels, partially because the plotting and writing do not seem very coherent to me at times, but that is not an issue in this novel at all. It is as though with A Ring of Endless Light, L’Engle finally came into her own. She is writing to an older group of readers, which she is able to do quite well – I remember struggling with a lot of questions about life and God when I was sixteen, and it is wonderful to see an author take the uncertainties of an adolescent seriously. L’Engle has also toned down the science fiction aspects of her writing so that they complement the story, but do not overwhelm the emotional considerations or seem too incredible to swallow. Overall, I cannot reiterate enough that A Ring of Endless Light is a somewhat painful but beautiful novel – one that I believe can be appreciated by a much wider audience than her Time Quintet. Go pick this one up at the bookstore as soon as possible.

Book Review: The Graveyard Book

One dark and horrible night, the man named Jack breaks in to the Dorian house with the intent to murder the entire family. He kills Mr. and Mrs. Dorian and their daughter, but the young baby boy eludes him when he toddles up the hill to the graveyard and into the protective arms of the kindly ghosts Master and Mistress Owens. When the desperate specter of Mrs. Dorian appears to Mistress Owens, begging her to care for the baby, the residents of the cemetery decide to give the young boy the Freedom of the Graveyard and the kind of magical protection that only the dead can offer. When the man named Jack comes looking for the baby, the boy simply fades before his eyes and the vampire-in-residence uses his charms to convince the murderer that he is looking in the wrong place for his prey; baby Dorian is safe for the time being.

The Newbery-winning The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman follows the young boy, who is christened “Nobody Owens” and is raised in the graveyard by his new parents, the doting Master and Mistress Owens, and his solemn guardian Silas. Silas is the only resident of the graveyard able to go out into the world and obtain food and clothing for the boy, but he is also the graveyard resident who is the most truthful and straightforward with young Nobody, also known as “Bod.” The first half of the book is filled with Bod’s adventures as he grows up amongst the tombstones and mausoleums – he makes friends with the ghost of a young witch; he is kidnapped by ghouls who want to turn him into one of their own; he takes part in the eerie tradition of the Danse Macabre, the mysterious dance between the living and the dead that only occurs in the town once every eighty years.

These chapters of Bod’s life are fascinating in and of themselves – Gaiman does an excellent job of creating a paranormal world that is both familiar and unique, and characters that are quite charming for ghosts, vampires, werewolves and the like. Bod is quite comfortable in the world of the dead, and so is the reader – the opening scene of the Dorian family’s murder may have been quite chilling, but many of Bod’s other adventures are PG-rated. We are drawn into the story by the frightening mystery of the man named Jack wielding his sharp, glinting knife – but we remain engaged with the novel because of Bod’s disarming sweetness and desire to understand the graveyard – and the rest of the world – around him. As he bumbles and explores, we realize that this is not only a first-rate paranormal tale, but a well-written coming-of-age novel as well.

The subject of Bod’s maturity becomes the more obvious focus following the Danse Macabre, after which the young boy begins to realize that he is really does not belong in the cemetery, despite the fact that he loves and is loved by the graveyard residents. He is fundamentally different from Master and Mistress Owens, Silas and all the others – he has the potential to go out into the world and alter the course of events, to experience change, to truly live. Bod cannot remain in the graveyard forever – he must join the society of the living.

It is at that point, then, that he and his guardian Silas must deal with the fact that there is still someone who wants to kill him. If Bod is ever to live on his own, outside of the graveyard, the threat must be eliminated. The residents of the graveyard do not know the identity of the man Jack, nor why he was after the Dorian family and the baby boy, so Silas and some of Bod’s other protectors go off in search of answers. But while Silas is gone, the man named Jack and his cohorts come closer and closer to the graveyard, closer to discovering Body’s hiding place of the past thirteen years. Ultimately, Bod must face some of Jack’s associates himself if he is to become an adult, capable of taking care of himself.

As Bod slowly grows from a young toddler to a thoughtful, clever young man, the paranormal elements of the story do not grow any less creative and interesting – yet the focus of the story shifts to Bod himself. His fear, confusion and determination to face down both his school-yard enemies and his parents’ murderer seem realistic despite the fantastic world in which he lives; his desire for human companionship is touching. I love the way that Gaiman develops both his paranormal world and Bod's emotions with subtle language; his descriptions are engrossing and Bod's plight seems particularly vivid and realistic due to the craft of the author. I have never read anything else by Gaiman, but after twice through this novel, I’m eager to pick up some of his other books.