Unlike so many other books I read, this was not an arbitrary choice. I read this because it was recommended to me. I believe the recommendation was something along the lines of "first-person fantasy done right."
Well... yes.
It's the first of a trilogy, and it would feel odd talking about it in too much detail before having read the next ones. For now, the fact that I fully intend to read the next ones should say a lot.
You know, it's funny how the tail end of a book can make you change your mind on the quality of the rest of it.
Okay, so, this book is good, but it's not the same "good" as I might use with other books. The Blade Itself belongs in the upper tier of fantasy novels. It's "good" in the sense that, when compared to really great books, it doesn't deserve to be called "really great"--it deserves to be called "good." When compared to "good" books, however, it clearly outshines them.
Obviously I need a wider breadth of adjectives, because when I say "good" how can you know whether I mean "good for an average book" or "good for a great book"?
Anyway, it was a nice change from the kind of fantasy I tend to read, as it's heavily plot-based, not character-based. That's not to say the characters weren't strong; they're very well crafted and Abercrombie is good at making you change your mind about whether you like them several times over. It's just that every so often they do something that is blatantly in the service of the plot, not something the character would naturally do. This is, in part, because of one aspect of the characters Abercrombie does have trouble with--change. Several times, when any given character changes in some important way, it's sudden (over the course of a chapter, maybe) and a few times it feels terribly contrived. The whole thing ends up feeling like the characters are lacking their own free will and just do what some omnipotent manipulator has them do... which, you know, it would be pretty cool if it turns out in later books that that's the case, but somehow I think said manipulator is Abercrombie himself and he's just not hiding his fingerprints all that well.
So it's plot-based, and the plot... is, for most of the book, too slow. Some interesting things happen at the start, and then there's this long period where there's the hint of interesting things soon but it takes entirely too long for those interesting things to arrive. Once they do, it's great stuff to the end, but the middle could really have used some tightening.
Fight scenes! The fight scenes are one of Abercrombie's major selling points. Well, one of the ones people use on his behalf, anyway. Everywhere you look, when people recommend the trilogy, they almost always mention how good the fight scenes are. I found them to be... adequate. It's actually somewhat impressive I'm willing to give them that much, 'cause there are a few early on that really annoyed me. One flat-out broke my willing suspension of disbelief, and another had me utterly unable to visualize the action. The rest of them, though, worked fine--nothing much special about them, but I had no complaints, so: adequate.
There's not much else to say, I think. Despite my not-so-glowing words above, I did really enjoy the last, oh, hundred pages or so. And now you might be wondering--if that's the best I can come up with, how exactly is this book in the "upper tier" of fantasy novels? Well... it really is a very well-written book. Even with all my problems with it, I can easily see that. And so I say it's good. No more, no less.
For the first half of the book or so, I was thinking that I'd describe it as "good enough to be a really bad Dresden Files book." Then it made me angry.
Most books don't ever make me angry. Some, if they're bad enough, make me sad. Death's Daughter wasn't really bad--it was, as above, good enough to be a bad Dresden book. But... okay, let's pretend you're reading a Dresden book right now. And then let's pretend that you loathe Harry Dresden with every fiber of your being. Wouldn't reading that make you angry?
Lest anyone think the constant Dresden comparison is out of place, let's take a look. The Dresden Files are urban fantasy novels narrated in the first person by a slightly-more-than human who tries to solve mysteries while being witty and flippant about what he encounters. Death's Daughter is an urban fantasy novel narrated in the first person by a slightly-more-than human who tries to solve a mystery while being witty and flippant about what she encounters. The differences? The obvious one, Dresden is male and Calliope is female. (You may think this is trivial but it matters! Oh, does it matter.) Dresden is a wizard and Calliope is, um, Death's daughter. Dresden is funny, Calliope is not.
Dresden is smart. Calliope is so, so stupid. But not in a way that makes the book all "this is about a stupid protagonist!" ... the book thinks Calliope is competent. (Calliope herself doesn't think so--an important difference.)
Still. I can usually handle protagonists who aren't all that smart. It helps, of course, when there are other characters around to balance that out; Calliope spends most of the novel working alone. And being in first person means it's not just in what she does, but in what she thinks. And really that's where most of the pain comes from.
There was a specific point that killed the book for me; everything after that point I was reading only to see if it ever redeemed itself, which of course it didn't. Oh well.
I'm going to step away from the ranting for a bit, now. Things that don't involve the main character:
I would have loved to see more of the world the story is set in, with immortals and gods and such. To give it credit, it's not actually lacking--it explains just enough for the story to make sense at any given point. I like details, though, in excess of the strictly necessary, and I didn't get them.
Descriptions... for the most part, fine, but for the entire book I had no mental image of Calliope, which is... a bit of a problem. (Oops, this kind of involves the main character.) I'm not sure if she ever properly described herself--if she did, it didn't catch, and it certainly wasn't reinforced later on. It's a tricky thing to manage, really, describing the protagonist of a first-person novel... I will admit I get rather annoyed at all the "I stood in front of the mirror and examined myself" cheap fixes. But it is possible to do it naturally, without breaking the flow! Here's a quick rule: if the first-person narrator has to describe themself, make it relevant, and when possible, let other characters do the work for them. ...That totally could be reworded to be a pithy and stuff, but it serves.
Plot... weak. I'm not going into detail because I don't want to spoil (because you know you're gonna run out and buy this book after reading this) so I'll leave it at that.
...Yeah. There you have it. I really wanted to like this book, too.
Whatever "meaning" Epic had... Kostick cheerfully ignored it this time. Instead he just went for a "What if?", which normally would be fine (good, even) but it's a little odd for a sequel to completely ignore the previous book's meta-text.
Actually this doesn't work as a sequel for a number of reasons. Most of the characters in Epic are never seen or heard from... except the main characer, who becomes a supporting character at best. The setting is completely different. With a few very small exceptions, it takes place entirely within a game--a new, different game--instead of bouncing back and forth. Even then the game loses some of its mysticism, as this time the method used to play the game is described. Basically everything that made Epic interesting is missing in Saga.
There are also some issues with its internal logic that I won't get into because it's really not worth it. Saga is just plain not as good as Epic was. He's writing a third book, but somehow I doubt I'll read it.
This is not the first of the Shakugan no Shana novels. It's the second. I tried to find the first, but none of the bookstores I looked in had it, and I was entirely too lazy to order it online. It's okay, though, I know what happens well enough. I knew what happened in this one, too, before I read it.
I'm familiar with the story because I've seen the anime series based on the novels. I really liked said series. When I really like a series based on a series of novels and some of the novels have been translated into English... of course I'm going to seek them out.
If you're wondering, Wikipedia tells me "Shakugan no Shana" translates into "Shana of the Burning Eyes." And to be technical, they're not novels, they're light novels. But the "light novel" doesn't really exist in American publishing excepting the translated Japanese imports, so using the term might be a bit confusing.
This isn't the first time I've talked about a light novel here. This time, however, I have none of those complaints. Despite the situation being superficially identical (i.e., I saw the anime first, then read the novel, and so I knew exactly how the plot went beforehand) I this time really enjoyed it.
Shana has two things going for it that Haruhi didn't. Well, three. First, I was comfortable while I read it; when I read Haruhi I was half-sitting, half-lying on a picnic table, trying to keep papers from flying away in the breeze, giving half my attention to my friends nearby. Second, the animation studio (J.C. Staff in this case) wasn't as exactly faithful in their adaption; there were little things here and there that weren't in the anime (or the other way around!). And third, the writing style is just plain more enjoyable to read.
The narration in Shana has just the slightest touch of constant humor. The POV jumps around a lot, and has no problem showing the thoughts of whoever it's following, but the actual narration remains independent and there are times when it feels like the narrator is getting a little exasperated by the characters.
But as your typical high school kid, Yuji didn't have an appreciation for this kind of artwork. Even if he did sense the mastery and subtlety of the pieces in front of him, he didn't know how to express himself.
Gazing at the graceful curves of a sculpted hand, all he could say was, "That's beautiful."
And at a cube filled with sparkling glass bubbles, "That's beautiful."
He was just culturally unskilled.
[...]
And Kazumi, poor Kazumi. She was so nervous around Yuji, she had trouble talking as well.
All she could say was, "Yes, I think so too." She was just as bad as him.
But wait! Is this book really about a couple of awkward teens at a museum? Well, no; I picked that excerpt because it doesn't really give anything away. The novel does, however, spend a fair bit of time in said museum. It's not exactly long, so almost everything it mentions has to be important--that's one of the qualities of the "light" novel. But this book takes heavily destructive action from one character's POV and art galleries from the other, puts them together, and makes both entertaining. Part of it is narration like the above, but mostly it's a really good sense of when enough is enough. The action isn't so drawn-out it becomes monotonous, and the art gallery only goes on for so long before the awkwardness is interrupted by... well, I won't say. But the emotional pacing is superb.
Other than that, there's not much to say. The book tries to re-explain most of the basic concepts that make up the series's world, but it doesn't do a very good job. At least I think that if somebody started with this book with no prior knowledge of the series at all, they'd quickly become lost. Maybe I'm underestimating them, but personally I think the explanations were more for the sake of reminding people who may have forgotten since the first novel than they were for drawing in new people. I really didn't care; I understand most of the concepts in greater detail than the novel describes, thanks to the anime.
...Here's where I complain about needing pesky things like translations. See, this is the last book in the series to have been translated into English, at least officially. Do you wanna know how many there are in the series in Japan? Twenty one. With a twenty-second coming in September. And sure, I know the plots to most of those thanks to two seasons of the anime, but that just can't compare. I'm a book person, after all. I want to read.
Typical Stasheff--kind of fun, but really tedious.
He does, however, get points for using St. Genesius as a character.
Okay, so my biggest problem with this book is that most of it isn't a coherent plot.It's a lot of side stories connected only by the fact that some character asks St. Vidicon for help and the actual protagonist accordingly either watches the proceedings or helps in Vidicon's stead. Said protagonist also has his personal life to deal with in a subplot that's remarkably unsuspenseful. (Romance is really not Stasheff's strong point.)
I would have been really happy if all the side stories had ended up connecting in some way. There were hints of that at the beginning, but unfortunately my theories about what was connecting them quickly fell apart, and nothing replaced them. It could be argued that though they were disconnected in plot, they were connected in theme, but that's really not enough considering that's already the in-universe reason for them being part of the story at all. Does that make sense? It's justified within the story, but there's absolutely no reason for me, as a reader, to accept that justification.
Stasheff is always a little hard to get into--he likes connecting matters of the church with whatever other interest he has. If you don't share at least one of those interests, a lot will probably go way over your head. I can appreciate, if not enjoy, his church-play (as it were), but the same thing in all of his books gets a little tiring.
I really only read this book because it's been years since I read Stasheff. I guess it'll be a few more before I read him again.
One of the critic excerpts on the inside cover calls this book an allegory. I'm not sure I'd go that far, but the author was certainly trying to convey some kind of message. It didn't work terribly well...
There are, as the aforementioned critic says, two parts to the "meaning" in this book. The first has to do with politics. The second has to do with gaming. This works because the game is the government.
Okay, to explain: A group of people decide Earth is too violent and set off to colonize a new world, where violence is absolutely prohibited. To keep themselves occupied during the long trip over, someone somehow develops a game called Epic. Violence is okay in the game, so people use it instead of actually fighting. Over time, and after they reach their new world, they continue to use the game in that way, and naturally it develops that the people who are the strongest in the game get to make the decisions. Lah de dah, time passes, and everything revolves around the game. Want to earn money? Go kill monsters. It's not real money but the game's economy is more important than the real one anyway. Want to be admitted to the Academy? Prove your worth in a series of graduation tournaments in the game. Want to appeal a decision of the government? You'll have to win a battle in the arena to be heard.
The game itself, Epic, comes across as basically the ultimate MMORPG, except there's not exactly much role-playing. (Most people give their characters their own names to facilitate identification in-game.) The author was careful to avoid going too in-depth in the actual game mechanics, but characters have stat points, they have skills, and they have equipment. Nowhere is any mention made of levels, but there is one quick reference to having to gain skills... whether or not characters improve inherently over time (and experience) is never really explored, overshadowed by the dominance equipment holds.
The reason the government is seen as oppressive is mostly because their character have the best equipment around, allowing them to easily defeat anybody who challenges them. The people on the government are merely those who have the best characters, and the people who have the best characters are those who are on the government, because they have the resources to give their characters the best stuff. Doesn't seem terribly fair, does it?
I should note that there's a very, very important difference between Epic and every existing MMO when it comes to equipment, and that is: there's no top tier. Unique weapons are actually unique, but the game is so expansive that there are a whole lot of them; they vary in power, but just because you find a sword today that's the best in the whole game doesn't mean tomorrow someone else won't find one even better. Not even the government can just give themselves equipment--they have to find it or buy it from NPCs like everyone else.
(Side-note: Perhaps another important difference is that nobody's maintaining the game. There are no developers or GMs or anything of that sort. It maintains itself. And is, apparently, bug-free.)
So the lives of people who want to improve their lot in life are spent in the game, grinding away, improving their characters with the hope that if they can get strong enough in the game, a better life out of game will naturally follow.
So. Meaning. To quote the review in question: "[...] the pointless wastefulness of a government too big to correct its course or even know its true nature, and, on a slightly more trivial note, the waste of time gamers spend in their online 'second lives.'"
Oh, no. No no no.
Too big? A government consisting entirely of roughly a dozen people is too big? Or possibly not entirely, as presumably they have people below them to handle fun things like paperwork, but otherwise they are the government all by themselves. And anyway, it's not the government's inherent flaws that bring it down. They drive the protagonist, they push things towards the climax, but the final confrontation ends up being about something else entirely. No, the fall of the government is because of one corrupt member who ruins things for everyone. He wants to be the single most powerful character in the game so he will be, effectively, a dictator... Okay, so maybe it's trying to warn against that kind of corruption, except what exactly is the warning? Don't make it so easy for one person to take control? Yeah, thanks, we don't.
I mean, there's probably a fair bunch of stuff someone more politically-minded could pick out as being all deep or something, but I just don't see it. So instead I'm going to talk about the one that actually interests me: the gaming.
It's possible the author intended the "meaning" here to be just what the critic thinks it is: a condemnation of wasting time playing games. There's a problem with that, though. At no point does anybody in the story waste time playing games. In fact a big part of the problem is how it's become necessary to play.
There are people who play MMORPGs the way most people play Epic--with the sole goal of getting more and better stuff. In our boring little real world, it is possible to look down on them for investing too much time and effort into non-real gains, especially if you can't imagine that style of playing as being fun. In Epic, however, the time and effort spent is for real gain.
The book does spend a decent amount of time talking about the expansive world inside the game which nobody bothers to explore anymore--people stick to the places and classes they know lead to slow but steady gain. They play a fighter, say, and go grind monsters outside the city; meanwhile there are a bunch of classes that could gain money other ways but nobody takes the risk of experimenting. So the book's "meaning" here could be an attack on those gamers who get stuck in their method of playing, who condemn any playstyle which isn't their own. It could be an exhortation to gamers to actually have fun while playing. It could be... any number of things, really. Except it really can't be that people waste too much time playing games, however true that may be.
Getting away from the whole "meaning" thing, I'm kind of impressed by how lightly the book handles a lot of the gaming stuff. I come from a position of being very familiar with MMORPGs, having played a ton--several subscription-based, several more not. I could easily fill in the blanks with what I imagined Epic being like... but I think someone who's never played one in their life would be able to follow the gaming stuff just fine. I can't be sure, obviously, but it left enough vague that most of the missing details aren't confusing.
I have to take a moment, however, to be annoyed that the book randomly starts doing something near the climax--it puts "heal" in quotes. Heal as in "I need a 'heal'." It's the only bit of gaming terminology singled out as abnormal, and I have to wonder if some editor got antsy about it, because I can't think of a justification for it otherwise.
Anyway, what about the actual story? Abandoning everything about "meaning" and all that, speaking purely from an entertainment standpoint... it entertained. It was fun, it really was.
And the blurb about the sequel is so weird I'm really going to have to find and read that one, too, just to figure out how it makes any sense.
This book wasn't boring. That's pretty much the highest praise I can give it.
So the viewpoint character is a 16-year-old girl pretending to be a 12-year-old boy. I do have to give the author credit, because the narrative voice ends up sounding like a 16-year-old boy--which works because of how deep she's pushed her female self into the back of her mind, or however you want to explain it. And a lot of the details of what's required for the masquerade (and a bunch of its ramifications) are well thought out and executed.
The reason for it is because she's trying to be a Dragoneye, and they're yet another magical society that doesn't accept females. If she's discovered as female, she'll be killed... or so we're told, and this comes up late in the book where she kind of has to let some people know and it should be all suspenseful because they might kill her--but it's not because it's not really set up properly. Last time this happened, the book at least included conversations among people who weren't [talking to] the main character about how women = shouldn't be in magical society. Here, I didn't have much reason not to think she was being unduly concerned. Which, guess what, she doesn't get killed for it. Sorry for spoiling.
The political stuff in this book was pretty watered down, as political stuff goes, but I suspect that that's because of its intended audience's age range. (Not too young--there's a lot of stuff that would go way over the head of kids--but not too old. Early teens, I'd say.) No, the focus was mostly on one specific guy as a villain... except he went too far into villainy, by my reckoning, for what happens at the end. I wouldn't be too bothered except I don't think the things he does that send him that far really serve any purpose except to make him seem evil. In other words, the author had him cross the Moral Event Horizon and then tried to pretend he hadn't. Or perhaps the author didn't consider him having crossed it yet... either way, something was not quite right.
I've pretty much already forgotten how it ends, and I don't think the sequel is out yet, so I doubt I'll ever read it.
The first book (The Time Travelers) was an impulse buy. If you know me at all you can probably figure out why--I mean, hello, with a title like that it would have been really difficult to not buy it. Other points in its favor: it was a thick book in the Young Adults section (meaning mostly it wasn't one of those hilarious 100-pages-with-huge-font books that litter the section), it had a cool cover with two kids in what could conceivably be old-fashioned clothing (except, amusingly and relevantly, for their sneakers), and it was "Originally Published as Gideon the Cutpurse." Originally published suggests re-publication, which suggests quality! ...Well, I can come up with nearly any reason to justify an impulse buy.
I almost got both books then, in fact, but I managed to restrain myself. ...Only to actually be in the bookstore when I finished reading the first one, so I just went and bought the second. But a sequel is not an impulse buy when I've just finished reading the book before it!
Anyway, the books are good enough to not be in the YA section, which I guess is a mean thing to say about the YA section... and anyway the books were obviously written with that genre in mind, though this is a case where the "YA genre" does not hinder the storytelling at all--that is, the intended audience of children does not force the author to dumb it down at all. Rather, in fact, I found the books surprisingly deep and candid about some things... not, like, horrible violence or anything, but emotional trauma. Though more on that later. (To be honest, though, I don't know how much of it was this author and how much was just how long it's been since I've really read a good YA novel--The Phantom Tollbooth notwithsanding.)
Um... I'm going to be a bit more plot-spoilery than usual, 'cause there are some things I want to mention that would be really cumbersome to talk about without spoiling. So yeah.
Okay, so this jumps ahead to the second book technically, but for a trilogy called--at least in its U.S. publication--The Gideon Trilogy, the character of Gideon is really not central to the story. He's really important, mind you, but only (well, mostly) because of Peter. He's barely even in the second book. (By barely I don't mean he spends a lot of time off-screen, by barely I mean he doesn't even show up until the last chapter.) That said, he's going to be more important to the third (it's fairly obvious) and possibly the plot may end up more centered around him by the end. Meanwhile, while it would be fair to say that the main characters of the series are Peter and Kate (and of them, Peter more in the first book and Kate more in the second), this is one of those series that employs a whole bunch of characters well.
In fact, one of the things I found rather distinctive about these books is the freedom they took with point of view. The narration never actually slipped into omniscient mode, but it jumped heads a lot. It didn't even always wait for convenient things like chapter breaks--something as simple as a scene break, and the narration might suddenly be from the point of view of someone entirely different--someone somewhere else or even, because of the nature of the story, somewhen else. It actually works really well, I think in part because the narration never actually gets close enough into the heads of the characters to be bogged down by anything like establishing unique and distinctive modes of thought for each of them. The narration is its own style, merely tinted by whoever is doing the viewing at any given time.
This leads to two interesting consequences. The first is that the narration sometimes stays truer to the reader than to the viewpoint character. For example, a section might be viewed through the eyes of a character never mentioned before nor after who has had no prior contact with the main characters, but the narration, after establishing that the character sees people of a certain description, will switch to using their names (rather than continuing with the descriptions as monikers or somesuch) even though the viewpoint character never actually learned them. Every time this happens, it's a little bump to the internal consistency of the story, but the nature of the narration (as above) lets it go by smoothly rather than seriously disrupting it. The second consequence is that whenever the narration shifts to someone new and it doesn't immediately identify who--and the author is fond of immediately using pronouns--it's hard to figure out just who the viewpoint character is. I get the sense that this was intentional--I really doubt the author merely forgot to replace one of the pronouns with the name that many times. Rather I think she did it to create a sense of mystery... but unfortunately only confusion results. It's not terribly serious, because eventually the identity is always revealed, but it's an annoying and somewhat simple flaw in a series good enough to let something like that stand out.
Though while I'm on the subject of flaws, the second book (but not the first) has another, more serious flaw. A flaw that, unlike the above confusion, couldn't have been eliminated with a little careful editing and patience if the author had wanted to. The flaw is that a major subplot in the second book is just not interesting.
I call it a subplot, but really it's supposed to be one of two main plot threads. I consider it a subplot because I don't think enough time was spent on it to be on equal footing with the other plot thread... and at the same time I think too much time was spent on it that could have been spent on said other plot thread (i.e., the interesting stuff.) But this "subplot" is kind of really important... it's where the title (The Time Thief) comes from, and its entire purpose is to lead into the post-resolution disaster that leads into the third book. It's also just a logical progression in these kinds of stories--first people from our time go back in time, next people from the past come forward to our time. And it's always so much harder to get right than the first part.
When you've got characters going back in time, you can really do whatever you want--you could conceivably not do any research at all as long as readers aren't ever led to expect a realistic past. Characters can react to being in the past pretty much any way you want, too--it's all been done--though that will usually be dictated by the genre. But when people from the past come to the present, suddenly you have to get details right... and the character from the past has to react believably to the state of the world (technology, social customs, et cetera). This was the "subplot's" first problem--I just couldn't believe that an 18th-century outlaw could so easily elude modern police (on horseback, no less) that many times... until he figured out how to blur, which changed the rules entirely and is a plot-relevant term so you don't know what I'm talking about anymore. But still, before he found his "guide" to help him live in the "future," how was he doing anything? I find it hard to believe that anybody from the 18th century, no matter how cunning, could so easily adapt to modern life without help--so it's good that he did eventually get help, not so good that he did so well before that anyway.
Anyway, that' enough dwelling on the flaws. Let's talk about the awesomeness!
It was evident pretty quickly that the author made some really good choices when she figured out her characters for the book. You've got two kids going back in time, and the YA genre is not one that generally welcomes long angsty narration passage about how miserable the main character is being stuck in the past and how much they miss their family, et cetera. But it wouldn't be quite believable for a couple of twelve-year-olds to be thrown into the past and not feel that way. Some books (I'm looking at you, Castle in the Attic/Battle for the Castle) kind of skip over the angst thing--and, for many, justifiably so; in CitA/BftC the main character(s) get to the past-like land by shrinking and walking through the gate of a toy castle, for cryin' out loud. They can go back pretty much whenever they want. No separation anxiety necessary! Peter and Kate, meanwhile, have at first no idea what happened to them, end up alone, lost, and scared, and even once they've figured everything out they don't know if they'll ever get back home. There's got to be at least a little of that stuff or the books can say good-bye to emotional realism--which, hey, can work, but thankfully the books did not go that route.
...That was a very long-winded way of getting to explaining that, in order to keep the realism but avoid the angsty passages, the books let Kate be the one who freaks out. (A few times Peter notes, both in the narration and aloud, that Kate cries rather a lot in the first half or so of the first book. And wouldn't you, if you were a 12-year-old girl? Stuck in the past?) (I should mention that Kate's early crying fits, despite being a rather strong character (as in emotionally, not "good"), only serve to benefit her well-roundedness. Yay Kate?) Peter, meanwhile, is a lot calmer about the whole thing... because he feels estranged from his parents anyway. But rather than set that up to let him be all blasé or whatever, the author lets it stew for a while before having him start wondering things like whether his mother had even flown back from California yet--which, because the reader knows that she had to be convinced to wait even three hours after being told that Peter had gone missing, nicely propels his own emotional arc, independent yet not to the time travel angst Kate goes through.
Oh, the main bad guy gets a really effective introduction, too. He's all scary and stuff, and then... he almost cuts Kate's hair off. Though speaking of Kate's hair, it amuses me that it's red, if only because the number of female characters with red hair seems to be inversely proportional to the number of real live people with red hair... though to be fair, she lives somewhere where it's a little more normal.
To switch topics a little, in any story that uses time travel, I need to be satisfied by how the time travel is used or it will bug me long after I finish reading/watching/whatever. This ranges from explanation to execution to internal consistency. I'm very happy to say that this series gets full marks on its use of time travel! Let's go through this:
Explanation: First, what ends up being the time machine (to be colloquial) was never intended for that purpose, which neatly sidesteps the issues that come up when you have some guy trying to invent time travel and actually succeeding. Instead the time travel gets linked to dark matter, which seeing as it's one of those "who knows?" bits of modern science works very well at making it sound plausible yet completely made up. It certainly can't be disproven... yet... as far as I'm aware. Who knows, maybe dark matter-harnessing antigravity machines really will turn out to have time-travel applications!
Execution: One of the major problems that comes up in some time travel stories--mainly, the ones that rely on them being missing from home for an extended period--is "So, why couldn't they have just used their fancy time travel device to return home shortly after they left?" Many stories kind of ignore this, pretending that it's understood that the "present" is always moving forwards. Other (better, usually) stories actually take the time to explain why it might be impossible or impractical for the time travelers to return to right after they left, and/or why they're stuck returning to the "present" after the same amount of time has passed in the "present" as they've spent in the past. In this series, it never out and says it, but it's obvious to anyone who can read between the lines when the lines are spaced really far apart and the writing between them is huge: the "distance" travelled in time is determined by a particular setting on the antigravity device. It adds or subtracts that much time from its own "now"... they can't mess with the setting because they have no idea how to set it to any particular time. At least, at the start they don't...
Internal Consistency: It's internally consistent. Not much to talk about... hey, it lacks instances of breaking or changing its own rules, what fun!
But it all adds up to one of my favorite instances of time travel fiction in recent memory,and I eagerly await the [re]publication of the third book.
This book is timeless, in pretty much every sense of the word. I read it way way back, in third or fourth grade, and it was wonderful then; when I spotted it in the bookstore I simply had to get it to reread it and it's still wonderful. And apparently it was written back in 1961! If you didn't know you'd never be able to tell.
The plot, of course, is very simple, but it was never meant to be a book full of twists and turns... at least, not plot twists and turns. Language twists and turns, very much so. It does the same kind of playing with English expressions as Un Lun Dun (remember that?) except... better, to put it bluntly. And first. And you know how I said it was timeless? I really hope English never grows out of the particular expressions the book uses, because then it would be more or less incomprehensible.
Now, the plot, such as it is, is mostly just a chain of lessons for Milo with some crazy experiences as buffer. But as much as I, reading it now, can look at it and think "Man, this is so transparently a book of lessons," the book disguises them so well that it was really easy to forget for a while as I was reading. It's just a great example of the whole head-fake thing(see: Randy Pausch for details). And you know what else? The lessons are still relevant. In fact, a few times while reading I had to stop and say to myself, "You know, the book is right, I really should[n't] be ____." And the lessons aren't all about how to grow up, or anything, nor are they about ignoring responsibility to have fun, or anything particularly kiddy. In fact it's one of the most well-rounded life-lessons books ever, especially with the perfect ending. Absolutely perfect.
I really can't praise this book enough. If you haven't read it since your childhood, you should seek it out and read it again. If you've never read it... find it immediately. You won't regret it.
