Book Review: Fly by Night (2005) by Frances Hardinge

At an early stage in Fly by Night the reader stumbles upon this passage:

"The path was a troublesome, fretful thing. It worried that it was missing a view of the opposite hills, and insisted on climbing for a better look. Then it found the breeze uncommonly chill and ducked back among the trees. It suddenly thought it had forgotten something and doubled back, then realized it hadn't and turned about again. At last it struggled free of the pines, plumped itself down by the riverside, complained of its aching stones and refused to go any further. A sensible, well-trodden track took over."

That anthropomorphized path has nothing to do with the plot, and objectively speaking it's a superfluous piece of writing, but it's what marks out the divide between the average writer and an exceptional writer. Hardinge is firmly in the latter camp. Fly by Night is an alternate reality yarn set in an English-y country of the 18th century in which a plucky young orphan, Mosca Mye, becomes a Victim of Fate and Circumstance at the hands of Scheming Vagabonds, Rebels and Monarchs. Harsh Words are spoken, Dastardly Plots uncovered, Appalling Crimes committed, and Revolution fills the air. And there's a goose.

Considered as a whole, the novel doesn't break any new ground in YA fiction. Orphans, plucky or otherwise, are a staple of this kind of story, and, just as inevitably, this particular orphan plays a key role in the unraveling of various baroque plots. Hardinge's plotting is top-notch, but what sets her apart is the sheer recklessness of  her imagination and her ability to put her creative thought bubbles into prose. I don't read books like this to add to my knowledge of the psychology of female orphans; I read them for fizzy explosions of brilliance like the passage above. Hardinge doesn't stint with the clever, artful prose, and the reason I quoted that section is that it's a good example of her intemperate imagination. It doesn't influence the plot, but it brings joy if you have any taste for witty, clever prose. Hardinge clearly got an idea that paths can seem to have a will of their own and decided that this concept needed to see the light of day on the printed page. Is it necessary? No, but beauty in literature should always trump utility..

Fly by Night is another YA title that cries out to be read by an older audience. Some of the sharpest writing today is being done in the Teen and YA field,  but, unfortunately, too many adults would rather be seen reading a James Patterson novel than be caught with a "kids" book in their hand. Go ahead, take a chance on Hardinge, Philip Reeve, Geraldine McCaughrean or Melvin Burgess.

Book Review: Goblins (2012) by Philip Reeve

In the field of steampunk literature (Teen division), Philip Reeve rules with a brass and mahogany fist. His seven-volume Mortal Engines series is simply one of the best achievements in imaginative writing in the last few decades. With Goblins he's taking a crack at fantasy (Young Adult regiment), and if the result isn't likely to be as seminal as Mortal Engines, it's still head and shoulders above the usual standard of YA fantasy titles.

Goblins could be described as fan fiction in the sense that Reeve has taken a sideways look at Tolkien's Middle-Earth and decided that someone needs to write a humorous story from the the point of view of the goblins. Reeve's goblins are foul and fell creatures, but since they're raised from birth (hatched, actually) according to the maxim of spare the mallet, spoil the goblin, one could say that it's a case of nurture rather than nature that accounts for their anti-social behavior. The goblins live in Clovenstone, a massive and ruined city/fortress that was once ruled by the dreaded Lych Lord. They spend most of their time beating up on each other, with the occasional raid on human settlements to relieve the monotony. Skarper, a young goblin, learns to read, which makes him unique amongst goblins, but it also leads to him being catapulted off the battlements of Clovenstone after an unwise display of his literacy. He then meets Henwyn, a teenage boy and wannabe hero who's left home after an unfortunate cheesemaking accident. The two join up and experience more adventures than is good for their health.

While the landscape and architecture of Goblins has echoes of Tolkien, and it's style and comic tone has resounding echoes of Terry Pratchett, the wit and imagination is all Reeve. The world-building in Goblins is first rate. With a minimum of fuss and verbiage, Reeve is able to create a rich, interesting world peopled (creatured?) with cloud maidens, twiglings, boglins, and giants that get smaller as they get older. I compared Reeve to Pratchett in terms of humor but what both share is a distinctly British form of humor that revolves around the subversion of anything or anyone that seems overly proud, serious or powerful; the self-important and mighty typically find themselves humbled or embarrassed by common sense, the unavoidable facts of life, and bureaucratic inflexibility. Think of it as the revenge of middle-class values. It's a comic philosophy that seems in tune with thoroughly British concepts like "muddling through" and "the Dunkirk spirit." It's also the perfect form of humor for "a nation of shopkeepers."In contrast, American humor shows the high and mighty being flattened by anarchic proletarian violence: think the Three Stooges and Adam Sandler.

Goblins is the first in a projected trilogy, and I'll be there for each one of them. The only thing I ask for are some maps. I want a map of Clovenstone. Maps, please.

Book Review: Scrivener's Moon (2011) by Philip Reeve

With this, the third and concluding(?) prequel to the four volume Mortal Engines series, Philip Reeve has created what has to be the gold standard in steampunk literature. Or perhaps I should say the brass standard. One of Reeve's best attributes as a steampunk writer is that he's not self-conscious about it. The seven novels in his imagined world aren't overly barnacled with the bling of steampunk, such as quirky, Victorian-themed nomenclature; heroes and heroines who are more ripping yarn archetypes than real characters; cameos from famous individuals, both real and fictional; and an obsession with all things that produce steam and smoke and are covered in brass. Reeve reverse engineers his novels, as it were, by starting with some dazzling creative concepts, adding in clever plots, and finishing off with well-rounded characters. With those building blocks in place the steampunk elements are never made to feel like the main attraction. Too many writers make the window dressing of steampunk the entire purpose of their novel.

Scrivener's Moon, which is set in the far, post-apocalyptic future, finishes the story of Fever Crumb, a teenage girl who's witness to the birth of London as a mobile, heavily armed city. It's almost impossible to do a synopsis of the story without launching into a lengthy outline of all seven volumes, but rest assured that Reeve's skill and imagination are undiminished in what might be his final outing in this genre. What's particularly pleasing is that his sense of humor remains intact. The term "post-apocalyptic" doesn't usually go hand in hand with humor, but Reeve knows that a largely grim story needs a bit of balance, and his sharp wit provides that contrast. And bonus marks for the subtle and natural way in which he shows Fever discovering that she's gay.

And now for a word about steampunk. There are endless, geeky arguments about what steampunk is or isn't, but my simple but comprehensive theory is that a steampunk novel is always set in either an old-fashioned future or a futuristic past. So there. This unruly bastard child of SF and the traditional adventure novel has attracted a lot of top-notch writers. Reeve, Nick Harkaway, Jonathan L. Howard and Toby Frost have all produced highly original, funny and exciting novels in the genre. What they all have in common, aside from talent, is that they're all British. Coincidence? I think not. I have a theory that the present dominance of UK writers in the steampunk field can be traced to TV shows like Dr Who, The Avengers, Quatermass, and all those Supermarionation shows such as Thunderbirds. The commonality in these programs is that anything goes, imaginatively speaking. Those shows mixed and matched all kinds of plots, characters and genres in the name of adventure and humor. Dr Who and The Avengers were particularly gleeful and energetic in this regard, and both were among the most popular and long-lasting shows of the 1960s and '70s. Today's steampunk writers grew up on those shows and I think it's fair to say that their ability to synthesize disparate genres into coherent, gripping stories owes a lot to Steed, Mrs Peel, the Doctor, and Captain Scarlet.

Book Review: A Web of Air (2010) by Philip Reeve

The term "young adult fiction" sends shudders down the spines of a great many readers. Even young adults. For a lot of people it means Twilight and its dozens of pulpy clones. For teens it often means issue-driven novels about bullying, drug addiction, sexism, prejudice, and so on, all of them frightfully earnest and educational. Adults like to push books like these on kids with the introductory phrase, "Read this, it'll do you good." It's the literary equivalent of a multivitamin, and just as palatable.

A Web of Air is the second prequel to the Mortal Engines Quartet (consisting of Moral Engines, Predator's Gold, Infernal Devices, and A Darkling Plain), and you won't like it at all if you insist on your young adult novels containing vampires battling puberty or teens dealing with thorny issues ripped from last week's episode of Oprah. Author Reeve somehow manages to make a wildly entertaining novel without angst or the undead by relying on those old standbys imagination, humour, and a lean, fast, exciting plot. The world of the Mortal Engines Quartet is set in the far future after the obligatory global apocalypse. Civilization is back, roughly speaking, to the Victorian age, although there are a host of mad differences, not the least of which is that cities are now giant (seriously humungous) tracked vehicles that patrol the Earth literally devouring other, smaller, cities. It's called Municipal Darwinism. The prequels began with Fever Crumb and they're meant to describe how Earth's cities went from stationary to mobile.

Web again follows the character of Fever Crumb, a teenage girl from London who's also a member of that city's Engineer class, a monkish group devoted to engineering and science. Fever has fled London with a band of traveling actors and they fetch up at a city by the sea where, I'm guessing, Portugal used to be. The city is Mayda (located inside a volcanic/impact crater) and one of its residents is Arlo Thursday, a young man who is rediscovering the principles of manned flight. Fever assists him in building a crude plane, but there are those who feel planes would pose a grave threat to cities, and they'll do anything to stop Arlo and Fever.

So there you have it: the building blocks for a ripping yarn. But that's only half the fun. Reeve is a superbly imaginative writer, and his talent shouldn't be hidden in the young adult ghetto. His ability to create new worlds and societies (always the litmus test for a top-notch fantasy writer) is outstanding. J.K. Rowling could take lessons from him. In fact, in Fever Crumb Reeve drops in a Harry Potter joke that's as funny as it is cleverly set-up. Humour is another quality that separates Reeve from the pack. When you hear the term post-apocalyptic your first thought isn't, ooh, that'll be a laugh riot. Reeve's storytelling can be very dark and very bloody, but he realizes that these moments work better when there are brief, but alternating, moments of levity.

Web is Reeve at his imaginative best. The acting company Fever travels with (echoes of Nicholas Nickleby) is neatly described, and the city of Mayda is a brilliant creation with its stately homes and pleasure palaces mounted on funiculars traveling up and down the inside of the crater walls. Add in a cult that worships an aquarium ornament from our own time and some talking seagulls, and you have one more in a series of novels that will undoubtedly become a modern classic.

A Reader's Guide to Book Reviews

Between reading a ton of books myself, and handling several tons more thanks to working at the library, I can say with confidence that the reviews and blurbs printed on the front, back and insides of virtually all books are worthless, mendacious, misleading, written-to-order, toadying, and not worth the 14pt, bolded Impact font they're written in. Is that last sentence hyperbolic and filled with outlandish claims? Yup; just like a lot of book reviews.

I do find that blurbs and reviews can actually make me pick up a book and give it a skim, but I've also learned what kinds of reviews can be safely ignored and which are warning signs of literary crap. To begin with, there are a whole category of books that don't have any reviews. This is usually hardcore genre fiction such as Harlequin romances and novels based on video games. These books don't need reviews because their readers are the reading equivalent of crack addicts. They're happy just to get their fix.

The next rung on the review ladder is occupied by Publishers Weekly and Kirkus Reviews. They are publishing industry whores. I'm sorry, but there's no other way to describe them unless, oh, let's see, I called them publishing industry crack whores. But that would be going too far. Those two entities give positive reviews to everything. They would give a glowing review to a letter bomb: "SURPRISING!", "PACKS A PUNCH!"

Next we encounter reviews by bloggers, fanzines, and various online sites devoted to different genres or authors. These are tricky reviews to judge. On the one hand they're not tied into the publishing industry, but on the other hand they are, first and foremost, fans, and not usually critical ones. These reviewers do have an acute sense of where to place a novel within its particular genre, so if a fanzine says that an author's new work is a cross between H.P. Lovecraft and early John Updike they're probably bang on.

Now we come to reviews by other authors. This is a minefield. The most obvious problem is the quid pro quo factor; authors give generous reviews in the expectation that the favour will be returned. The giveaway that you're reading a quid pro quo review is that the reviewer will only mention the positive aspects of the novel, leading the prospective reader to imagine that the novel is without flaw. If the author/reviewer does say something negative it will be prefaced with remarks like, "one minor problem is...", "if I have a quibble with...", "the only thing that could make this novel better is...", and so on. These footling objections are inevitably tossed-off in a sentence or two in the last paragraph, usually just before one last burst of effusive praise. Some authors seem particularly prone to doling out four star reviews to other authors. The leader in this regard is Lee Child, who seems to spend his free time between counting his millions with reading other thriller/mystery writers. Lee has a good word for everyone. This brings up another point about author/reviewers. They have a fondness, I believe, for praising writers they know to be inferior to themselves. My theory is that they take a perverse glee in directing readers to books that end up making their own works look that much better. Like I said, it's a theory.

And why are authors' reviews featured on books? Film studios don't plaster their print ads with quotes from directors and scriptwriters. Did Green Lantern have blurbs from other directors? "Jean-Luc Godard says, 'Tense, gripping, capitalist filmmaking at its best!'" Godard is undoubtedly a big fan of comic book hero films, but it's interesting that studios don't bother to solicit praise from other people in the industry. The music industry is the same. Does Rhianna post fawning reviews about Lady Gaga's latest CD? Incestuous self-promotion seems to be a feature of the book world and no other.

Finally we come to reviews by major newspapers and magazines. Generally speaking they're a better guide than the others I've listed, but keep in mind that these reviewers are often authors as well so the usual warnings apply. The thing to watch out for with reviewers for the big papers is that they're often trying to make a name for themselves as masters of the perceptive, incisive, quote-worthy review. In short, they're actually more interested in how they sound to the reader rather than how well they communicate the merits of a book. Here's a reviewer from the Independent talking about David Mitchell's The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, "“The book leaves a reader, as Ghostwritten did, in a space beyond "belief or disbelief", citizen of several worlds but tyrant or serf in none..." I'll be left in a space beyond belief or disbelief? Is that death or a coma or utter confusion? Clearly, the Independent reviewer is mostly interested in promoting himself.

The most foolproof kind of review is provided by the author in the first few pages of whatever it is he or she has written. When I used to review film scripts for a living the rule of thumb was that if a script didn't grab you by the throat within the first ten pages you should toss it aside. The same applies to novels. Read the first ten paragraphs of a book and you should get a clear idea if the author can write well and whether they have anything interesting to say. It's no coincidence that the best writers often have great openings to their novels. Here's an example from Mortal Engines, a young adult steampunk series by Philip Reeve: "It was a dark, blustery afternoon in spring, and the city of London was chasing a small mining town across the dried-out bed of the the old North Sea." Now that's a first line that grabs you by the throat and a few other places.