Took a while to get immersed in the story, to the point where I left it languishing for months. But once you hit a certain point around the quarter maTook a while to get immersed in the story, to the point where I left it languishing for months. But once you hit a certain point around the quarter mark – over 200 pages in for this doorstopper – everything falls into place and the book becomes unputdownable....more
"Some people might have mistaken this for simplicity. But is it not a sort of genius to cut always to the heart?"
4.5/5 stars
When I fell in love wi
"Some people might have mistaken this for simplicity. But is it not a sort of genius to cut always to the heart?"
4.5/5 stars
When I fell in love with Madeline Miller's Circe about a month ago, I knew I had to go back and read her debut novel. While Circe is and likely will always remain my personal favourite, The Song of Achilles is no disappointment. A moving, heartfelt tale of love and loss, it presents a refreshingly smart and gritty retelling of the Iliad.
Patroclus has always been an overlooked, underrated character when we think of Troy. Ask me before this novel, and I could have spoken briefly about Achilles, Paris, Helen or Agamemnon, but Patroclus--who? It's similar in the glamourised 2004 movie, which shines the light on the campy grandeur of the siege's greatest warriors and rewrites Patroclus as Brad Pitt Achilles's cousin. Blockbusters obviously are not obliged to be culturally faithful, but they reflect popular perspective. You couldn't be faulted for buying into Troy's sanitised presentation of the war.
Miller's Patroclus is not a charismatic protagonist. He has little talent or gravitas, and is more likely to shy from a crowd than to embrace it. That's exactly what makes him such a powerful narrator. Surrounded by men who wish to etch their reputations in blood, Patroclus's quiet perceptiveness and compassion make him uniquely sympathetic.
Compared to Circe's world-weary wit, Patroclus's voice is far less refined, which is only to be expected considering how many more years the immortal Circe has had to live. The two narrators share some similarities, their rather modern senses of justice amongst them, but the fact that one is a goddess and one an ordinary mortal shapes their stories in distinct paths. Constantly aware of his numbered days, Patroclus knows to live in the moment. The Song of Achilles is thus dogged by frequent, oftentimes jarring switches between the past and present tense, as Patroclus's narration catches up to the point at which he's telling the story.
The book's themes are terrifyingly human. Terrifyingly so, because glimpsing humanity from The Song of Achilles is like watching humans through a soiled glass. The figures of the Iliad are larger than life, their virtues exaggerated into vices and their vices accentuated until they become fatal flaws. Such makes an epic tragedy. In that sense, Miller's novel can be quite hard to stomach; aside from Patroclus, Achilles and Odysseus, most characters feel tightly constrained by their roles in the canon. The development of secondary characters isn't as strong as it is in Circe, by which time of writing Miller had found her own voice to be confident diverging from Homer.
Additionally, The Song of Achilles's heroes are trapped by Fate. That's the capital Fate of Greek mythology, personified in the omnipotent Moirai. Their divine law is inviolable, their prophecies guaranteed to pass despite--often, in a cruel stroke of irony, because of--mortals' best efforts to thwart destiny. Miller's debut does not shy away from engaging the question of whether heroes can ever achieve happy endings when they are trapped by fate. For sure, it's when her protagonists are most trapped by circumstance that they show their strongest selves, Patroclus and Circe alike in this regard. The Song of Achilles may be a tragedy, but it's certainly not devoid of optimism, as evidenced by a perfectly fitting ending.
The main reason I don't love this book as much as Miller's second is its first half's plodding pace. While her ex-boyfriend's long-ago criticism of the novel's first iteration as "Homeric fan fiction" is much too harsh, The Song of Achilles's beginning chapters do carry a few resemblances to the conventions of fanfiction. For some hundred odd pages, the story remains startlingly innocent, filled with occasionally explicit romance and sparse action. That changes by the second half, in which the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus is better realised and emotionally richer.
One of the highlights of that second half is Odysseus. I wouldn't be surprised if Miller has a soft spot for the character. At the very least, she has a gift for writing this Odysseus, who, especially when knowing his future from Circe, is no hero. This Odysseus is instead endlessly fascinating, with always another ruthless trick up his sleeve. This Odysseus is one of the most alluring figures of Miller's books.
As I've come to expect, Madeline Miller writes in stunning detail, transporting the reader to the world of mythological Ancient Greece with an ease drilled in by years of passionate research. It's an ugly world, and her siege of Troy is a painful amalgamation of pride and greed, a war without winners that consumes thousands of lives because everyone wants to have the last word. And in the midst of it, an intimate love story between two people who brave fate to stay together. Thanks to the accepted convention that romance novels must have happy endings, The Song of Achilles would never be mistaken for a romance novel, but it's nothing if not achingly romantic.
"We are old They say that we shouldn't cry We are young They say that we're too young to die"
4.5/5 stars
Reminiscent but not derivative of contemporar
"We are old They say that we shouldn't cry We are young They say that we're too young to die"
4.5/5 stars
Reminiscent but not derivative of contemporary YA novels like The Hanging Girl and Genuine Fraud, We Are Young is a gutsy, compelling read that hooks you in and refuses to let go. With well-developed characters and conflicts that feel close to home regardless of your own experiences, Cat Clarke's new novel was a pleasant surprise.
We Are Young's emotional suspense is infused with startling intimacy, marrying an intriguing car crash mystery with an introspective domestic drama. For Evan Page, the achingly relatable protagonist, there's no conflict between the two: it's her newly minted, unsociable half-brother Lewis who's the sole survivor of the crash. With Lewis in a coma, it's up to Evan to dig up the truth--the entire nasty, shocking truth.
The mystery side of the novel doesn't disappoint. Red flags and textual clues gave me solid suspicions of how it would all pan out, but what actually happens is much better. We Are Young refuses to devolve into a cheap crime whodunit where the protagonist foils the villain at the eleventh hour; it's much more nuanced than that. In retrospect, the answer to what happened that night shouldn't be as shocking as it was for me, but maybe that's part of the problem: that we in general are still unable to fully grasp that something like this could happen.
Clarke doesn't leave it there, either; she has so many relevant things to say about contemporary issues affecting adolescents that are frequently brushed under the rug, from mental health to family pressures. She covers an impressive amount of ground in a relatively short novel, making every page count. It's the same good use of words that makes We Are Young hard to put down.
On the personal side of things, inter-character dynamics are splendidly written. In essence, this is an author who gets how people work. The unconventional trio of Evan, Daze and Sid (unconventional mainly because Daze and Sid are Evan's exes and best friends) are already head and shoulders more positive than most YA portrayals of friendships in its frank integrity, both in its faithfulness to real life friendships and the actual trust that defines it. This isn't a group who play games with each other, and they don't need grand gestures to show their love.
Conversely, the disquieting strain present in Evan's family is a fine portrayal of a situation that appears plenty in our world. Traditionally, there haven't been nearly enough YA novels focusing on the relationships between characters and their parents, not to mention divorced parents. After all, dead parents have long been a staple in YA fiction and don't look likely to go away anytime soon. But We Are Young doesn't shy away from tackling its fractured household head-on, providing a gritty and oftentimes painful family narrative that's every bit as important as the awaiting mystery.
In addition, Evan's sexuality is handled adroitly, written to be no more and no less than one part out of many comprising her personality. She's bisexual and nobody makes a big deal out of this, because it isn't a big deal. We Are Young is also one of those rare or nearly nonexistent YA books that explores its main character's sexuality without involving romance. While there's a time and place for romance, it was largely a wise choice not to force it into a book that aimed to put a spotlight on so many other pressing issues.
There are many, many characters who appear briefly throughout We Are Young and are later referred to again. Sometimes it's easy to get confused or forget who someone is, but it doesn't take much time to go back and find their first mention. None of the characters are wasted; practically everyone who appears feels like a complete person while still fulfilling a role in the story.
Timely, perceptive and emotionally mature, We Are Young is not to be missed.
*Thanks to Hachette Children's Group and NetGalley for providing a review copy of this book! All opinions represented remain my own.*
Doubtless the synopsis of The Smoke Thieves will remind seasoned readers of various other fantasy series with rotating third person limited POVs, set Doubtless the synopsis of The Smoke Thieves will remind seasoned readers of various other fantasy series with rotating third person limited POVs, set in a high fantasy pseudo-medieval world with warring kingdoms and some greater looming threat. Yes, The Smoke Thieves slots comfortably into this genre. Although the lack of innovation may feel underwhelming, Sally Green hits on the high points of YA fantasy and smooths out the rough bits with her compelling, intensely readable style to deliver an above average novel.
Her writing possesses a rare level of clarity that makes all the tropes easier to swallow. The tropes themselves are plentiful, beginning with the rebellious princess that YA authors love. Ironically, many YA speculative novels are about the underdogs rising up or the oppressed taking a stand, yet those same novels inevitably wind up taking the POV of a wealthy heiress. Fortunately, Princess Catherine is a scrappy heroine worth rooting for--in a society that treats its women worse than the KSA, her strong will and perceptiveness shine through. She may be representative of a problematic trope, but Catherine is no cliché.
The other protagonists are less emblematic of fantasy stock characters and boldly unique to their own backgrounds and identities. If there's one thing to say about Sally Green's cast, it's that there'll be no conflating them. Remove the names of Catherine, Ambrose, Edyon, March and Tash, and it would be a moment's work to tell who's who.
That said, not every character is shaded with equal care. Ambrose is far and away the weakest, the connection between him and Catherine too tenuous to serve as the heart of their story arc. Compounding the problem is Ambrose's acute lack of motivations, goals and personality traits that can't be traced back to Catherine, unfortunately a common issue with YA authors when writing love interests. However, when said love interest is a main POV character in his own right, his lack of development is all the more jarring.
Edyon and March are a decent storyline, if predictable. March's desire for revenge is a well-executed take on a classic literary theme. The same goes for Edyon's struggle with his illegitimacy, but Edyon stands out for his kleptomania and his relationship with his mother, both of which are highlights to what would have otherwise been an ultra-conventional raison d'être.
Tash, the cheeky waif positioned to steal readers' hearts and emerge as a fan favourite, may be The Smoke Thieves's brightest star. She and Gravell are Arya and the Hound all over again, a relentlessly entertaining partnership that you can't help but feel drawn to. Luckily for us, Green recognises the potential in her youngest and wiliest protagonist, and gives her the attention she deserves.
The five protagonists, who begin the novel in four different locations, are cleverly juggled and brought together with few contrivances. Their movements are geographically sensible and easy to follow on an illustrated map. Although I don't give much credence to the marketing that's already comparing The Smoke Thieves to Game of Thrones (as is done with practically every new YA fantasy series nowadays), Green's adeptness at managing multiple storylines is one of her strongest points and one of the areas most reminiscent of A Song of Ice and Fire.
The Smoke Thieves may not stand out that much in the crowded field of its genre, especially with similar releases such as Ash Princess hitting shelves this spring, but it carries a certain je ne sais quoi that intrigues more deeply than most other high fantasies. Perhaps it's the concept of the mysterious demon smoke. Perhaps it's that the importance of the central teenagers is eventually justified by narrative reasons, rather than leaving you scratching your head wondering why all the adults aren't intervening. There are many little things that, combined, make The Smoke Thieves an above average read.
Overall, an immersive series opener, if one that could have used an additional 100 pages to round out its numerous characters and settings. Should the sequel expand on the world of Pitoria, Calidor and Brigant, The Smoke Thieves could become a promising successor to YA fantasy's current big names.
*Thanks to Penguin Random House UK Children's and NetGalley for providing a review copy of this book! All opinions represented remain my own.*
"To be the holder of other people's loss is to be the keeper of their love."
I Have Lost My Way is basically a New Adult Breakfast Club, but set in
"To be the holder of other people's loss is to be the keeper of their love."
I Have Lost My Way is basically a New Adult Breakfast Club, but set in NYC. So, it's pretty awesome. This is an intriguing glimpse at one fateful day (more like 12 hours, really) in the lives of three teenagers. Didn't think magic could happen in that short a time? This book might just change your mind.
It's one of those books where there really isn't much to review, aside from throwing out a "HEY IT'S GOOD AND ONLY 250 PAGES, IT'LL TAKE, LIKE, THREE HOURS OF YOUR TIME MAX, SO READ IT, OK?" and letting the story speak for itself.
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Simply put, the premise works. You care about Freya, Harun and Nathaniel's lives, and at some point or other you're going to want to hug/protect/cry with each one of them. Or maybe deliver a solid punch in the face to the assholes in their lives, who knows.
Gayle Forman calls the first draft a "train wreck" in her acknowledgements, which actually gives a lot of reassurance to everyone who's struggled to move past the garbage heap we initially vomited out that we can someday write something as flawless as this book. The doubtlessly astounding amount of time that was put into refining I Have Lost My Way is evident in the lush, thoughtful details throughout, which show the full extent to which each character has been envisioned. Between the three protagonists and the sprawling supporting cast, there's hardly a weak link.
Unlike many novels where they almost feel there to pad out the length, I Have Lost My Way's flashbacks have been given the same depth of attention and contain many of its best scenes.
This novel proves that brief word counts can carry more insight than the wordiest epics. I only wish there were more of it. Maybe even a sequel a few years in the future, to answer a few of the questions left up in the air and follow the next chapter in their lives. It's a challenging task in the way that making any sequel to a book originally intended as a standalone compelling is, but if anyone can pull it off, it's Gayle Forman.
In the meantime, If I Stay, I Was Here and a whole bunch of similar titles have found their way onto my TBR.
"Once upon a time, there was a marketing genius. And this marketing genius noticed that boys wouldn't play with dolls, so dolls for boys needed a new
"Once upon a time, there was a marketing genius. And this marketing genius noticed that boys wouldn't play with dolls, so dolls for boys needed a new name. He decided to call them action figures, and because of this, boys began to play with dolls. That marketing genius must have been proud."
I appreciate that this book tries to say something deep, I really do, but the message gets drowned out in an ocean of booze and confusion. Combined with messy stabs at humour that fall flat most of the time, there were times when I actually couldn't figure out what in the world was going on, let alone what the point of all this drunken partying was.
This book is very "quirky". By which I mean there's a lot of weirdness that just makes me go huh? Most memorable is a guy who, as far as I can figure, is a ventriloquist who speaks exclusively through the hand puppet he wears permanently and considers to be his own person.
Now I've seen some weird shit in YA novels, and this could have been a great opportunity for character development, but it's just there for the duration of the book. After an initial moment of shock, the characters all seem to get over it and accept that this guy talks through his puppet. I don't know about you, and I know even less about New York hipsters, but if I was there, alarm bells would be ringing all over the place. Yet his...condition is never explained, not even in an Author's Note. In fact, I'd be interested if anyone has a concrete answer to my question--what's up with the puppet boy?
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The plot itself is simple: Sam and Ilsa's grandma (who's called Czarina for some presumably "funny" reason that's never explained), a cosmopolitan Bohemian world traveler, is about to move out of her rent-controlled apartment in the super-fancy Stanwyck building for good. The twins have always used that apartment for their crazy underaged raves, and they figure it's time to go out with a bang.
The guests (three secret invites from each twin) arrive, and the party begins. Then stuff happens. And more stuff happens. Some stuff about Liberace and Dolly Parton, alcohol, the power goes out for a while, during which there's a particularly disgusting hookup that gets exposed when the lights come back on, more alcohol, anxiety and depression and a mountain of other mental health issues, and did I mention there was a lot of alcohol.
The amount that these 17- and 18-year-olds were knocking back, I found it a miracle that any of them were able to make it home. Except for ultra-rich KK, one letter short of some unfortunate initials, who lives in the Stanwyck's penthouse and tries to be a subversion of the spoilt rich girl trope, but ends up acting exactly in line with it.
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Despite what I may have made it sound like, I don't have a grudge against drinking. Sorry, teetotalers. But here's the thing: the one life-changing day narrative, à la The Breakfast Club, is damn hard to pull off. Because you only get the space of a few hours to tell a complete story, from exposition that makes us care about the main cast to dramatic buildup culminating in the momentous realisation or the lesson learned, the one day (or evening) you choose to capture has to actually be life-changing. When all of the characters are shitfaced out of their minds, it's simply difficult to take the epiphanies they're supposedly experiencing seriously.
Sam and Ilsa's Last Hurrah tries to be a They Both Die at the End or a Gayle Forman-style book, but it misses the mark more often than not.
*Thanks to Egmont Publishing and NetGalley for providing a review copy of this book! All opinions represented remain my own.*
I received Derailed as an auto-approval from Monster House Books via NetGalley, and it being a shorter novella already on my dashboard, I figured I miI received Derailed as an auto-approval from Monster House Books via NetGalley, and it being a shorter novella already on my dashboard, I figured I might as well read it. As a disclaimer, this was my first experience with Eldredge's Circuit Fae series, so I've evaluated at this prequel without consideration of its place in the overarching narrative. This evaluation being that urban fantasy fans will likely enjoy this LGBT take on the traditional urban fantasy forbidden romance, but personally, the tropes were played too straight for me to take the story seriously.
Syl Skye has the "different from other girls" attitude down to a tee, spending much of the book complaining about how her friends are mean girls and she's just too weird to fit in. Honestly, this trope is no fault of this book/author in particular, but it's just one I've long learned to be wary of. I've been in several schools in multiple countries myself and have yet to find an environment that actually supports the petty sniping that goes on with Syl, Fiann and the rest of the "squad", who for that matter don't behave like a squad at all and have the personalities of cardboard. I hate it when stories include girl-on-girl hate just because, especially if the protagonist acts like she's above it all while continuing to sling mud at her supposedly stuck-up rival.
Bear in mind that during this entire time, Syl is the Cinderellaest Cinderella who ever Cinderella'ed. Daddy's no longer sending her money so she's broke and can't go out for concerts and drinks with her douchebag "friends" anymore. What a horror. To add insult to injury, after she makes her friends, a party of at least five other people, wait for her for half an hour so that she can try in vain to meet up with her idol, they decide they're done and ditch her to catch the last train of the night home. What terrible friends. I mean, I was just kind of incredulous reading that. Sorry, but they indulged your obsession for 30 minutes (x 5 people = 2.5 hours wasted) and then do the smart thing and leave so that they can goddamn make it home, and you have the gall to frame it as their fault for being selfish bitches? Really?
Then, when you get down to the writing, Syl is simply annoying in that her voice reads like a ten-year-old on her first crush. An example:
'Ugh, no. She'd think I was out of my mind.
No, she wouldn't because...Because she felt it too, my heart whispers.
Stop it, heart, ya darn traitor!
Being obsessed and acting all crazy bananapants over a goth-rock star isn't my jam, no matter what passed between us in those few moments.'
...Inner Goddess, anyone? Bellastasia say hi.
By far the best parts of the novella are the scenes between Rouen/Euphoria and Agravaine. Those are the only times where there's conflict, both internal and external, that I feel like I should care about. Part of it is the darker, more earnest tone necessary for Rouen's situation, which I think Eldredge works much better with than the forced "fellow kids" style used for Syl. To be fair, if that style of writing doesn't bother you, Derailed as a whole probably won't. It does get bonus points for portraying lesbian heroines who stand up for themselves and their identities (yay!), but other than that it doesn't work as a piece of fiction.
*Thanks to Monster House Books and NetGalley for providing a review copy of this book! All opinions represented remain my own.*...more
First and foremost, The Love Interest is a fun story. Intellectually, it doesn't demand much of you. Just suspend your disbelief, kick back, relax, anFirst and foremost, The Love Interest is a fun story. Intellectually, it doesn't demand much of you. Just suspend your disbelief, kick back, relax, and grab yourself a beverage, and you'll get on just fine with Cale Dietrich's drama-packed début. The book's a parody, meant to satirise at every turn, and it remains delightfully aware of the fact throughout--never trying to make you think too hard, never taking itself too seriously like the YA novels it pokes fun at are prone to do. The humour was on point most of the time. A few moments that were meant to be funny fell flat here and there, and some of the jokes could have been funnier, but overall the light tone was effective as intended.
A note on the ending: (view spoiler)[It felt a bit rushed--it feels like only a few pages from the time Trevor dies to one year later when Caden and Dyl are presumably living together in a HEA. I'd have liked to find out more about the LIC--what happened to its branches in other countries? What was the global fallout from such a huge secret being revealed? How's Natalie dealing with the loss of the love of her life? I get that TLI isn't meant to be realistic, but one line to address each of these questions would have sufficed. (hide spoiler)]
As a girl who's had to read far too many Anastasia Steeles or Katniss Everdeens, I LOVED JULIET. I don't think I've read anything quite like her in YA literature. I've never liked BBC Sherlock/Sheldon Cooper-style characters, and was immensely relieved to discover that contrary to my fears, Juliet wasn't typecast as a sociopathic genius at all. Sure, her inventions are mostly unrealistic and raise eyebrows for their plot convenience, but who cares? She's awesome.
[image] Give me more Juliet.
Natalie and Trevor were great supporting characters. I gasped at (view spoiler)[the big plot twist regarding Natalie (hide spoiler)], which was engaging and perfectly timed to up the stakes towards the grand finale. On the whole Natalie was just incredibly badass, and I loved that she wasn't simply the gossip mill best friend. As for Trevor, I may find him more sympathetic than other reviewers--he's a 17/18-year-old suddenly thrust into the spotlight of fame. I understand what he did, even if I don't agree with it.
Minor spoiler: TLI gets brownie points just for the subversion of the "murder our best and brightest" trope. Honestly, that's been a gaping plot elephant in a lot of YA dystopias, where a supposedly gifted and talented group of teens are taken and a majority are culled--Divergent, The Testing, The Maze Runner, I'm looking at you. In the words of Craike, that's just a waste of resources. Why throw away half of your rising stars just because they're not *the very best one*?
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Verdict: "I'm the protagonist, motherfucker!"...more
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