Two Boys Kissing (2013), by David Levithan

This is another guest review from Rob Bittner, who is doing his PhD on trans and two-spirited youth and youth culture in the Department of Gender, Sexuality, and Women’s Studies at Simon Fraser University. Thanks for sharing this, Rob.

NOTE: This review is written based on an unedited bound galley provided by Random House on request. Quotations in italics are from this unedited galley, and may change in the final edition.

Two Boys Kissing

If you are a teenager now, it is unlikely that you knew us well. We are your shadow uncles, your angel godfathers, your mother’s or your grandmother’s best friend from college, the author of the book you found in the gay section of the library. We are characters in a Tony Kushner play, or names on a quilt that rarely gets taken out anymore. We are the ghosts of the remaining older generation.  You know some of our songs.

Two Boys Kissing: a simple title for a novel that is anything but. I came to this novel eager to see what David Levithan had in store, and was not disappointed. His writing is still poetic, his characters so filled with brittle humanity that it was difficult for me to put the book down. The cover itself has provoked much discussion, but it fits the plot like a glove, and I have to admit that I was delighted to see it released earlier this year.

Two Boys tells the stories of a number of young men, each separate, but revolving (and evolving) and ultimately connecting in surprising ways by the final pages. We are first introduced to Neil Kim, who is about to have a movie date with his boyfriend, Peter. We are then shown a glimpse into the worlds of Tariq Johnson, finally able to dance without judgment, surrounded by others like him; Cooper Riggs, who spends most of his time on the web, chatting with anonymous men for kicks, but still feeling that something is missing; and Ryan and Avery (whose pink hair says more about him that you might think), who find each other at a gay prom. And finally, we meet Craig Cole and Harry Ramirez, ex-boyfriends whose narrative, I should note, is based on a true story. These two boys are at the center of the story, planning the kiss that will break the current world record of over thirty-two hours.

The novel is narrated by a Greek Chorus of past generations of gay men lost to AIDS. While some cynical readers may find this style to be emotionally manipulative, these voices are crafted with such tenderness that I challenge you, the reader, to make your way to the end without being moved. This chorus of voices bridges a gap and will remind readers what past generations endured, and how current experiences for queer young people is both much more hopeful and yet still brutal and difficult at times.

The narrative weaves through each sub-story, revealing the past and present to us with consistent tenderness, eventually bringing all of the stories together for an intense and emotional conclusion. Although the plot does become quite full in the middle, and some might find it to be overwhelming, I found that Levithan was able to pull the story back from the brink, saving it from being too busy and too big for its own good. There were times when I thought a certain scenario was just too emotional, or another was manipulating me with overly intense emotion, but then I look back at my own life and remember how emotional I was as a teen, and it came back as feeling realistic, though definitely raw.

Craig and Harry are probably my favourite characters overall (possibly because I watched the actual events their story is based on), but it is difficult to play favorites since each young person has his own difficult and joyous story. The tale is universal, exploring diverse and very familiar subjects, from coming out to feeling trapped and alone, from the beauty of a kiss to the hatred it can inspire.  These characters feel and desire, and hurt, and find happiness, and they, like the current generation of young queer people in the world, can overcome bigotry and ignorance.

Possibly the best of Levithan’s work to date, Two Boys Kissing is a truly amazing piece of literature that will hopefully stay with you for a long, long time.

We watch you, but we can’t intervene. We have already done our part. Just as you are doing your part, whether you know it or not, whether you mean to or not, whether you want to or not.

Choose your actions wisely.

The Children of the New Forest (1847), by Captain Marryat

This is, of course, a modern cover… I unfortunately do not own a 1st edition, much as I would love to.

Captain Frederick Marryat (1792-1848) is well known as a Victorian novelist as well as an officer in the Royal Navy. His semi-autobiographical Mr. Midshipman Easy (1836) and his later Masterman Ready (1841)—both naval adventures—are perhaps his most famous works, but he wrote a total of 26 novels beginning with The Naval Officer in 1829. His final two novels—The Little Savages and Valerie—were published posthumously in 1848. It is interesting to note that Marryat spent time in both the USA and Canada, and in fact took part in the British defense during the 1837 Rebellion in Upper Canada. His novels set in North America thus exhibit far more authenticity than those of, for example, G. A. Henty’s later “Boys’ Own” style Imperialist adventure tales.

Published in 1847, The Children of the New Forest was the last novel released while the author still lived. Unlike his more swashbuckling naval and military adventure novels, Children of the New Forest is historical, set during the English Civil War and Cromwellian rule in England. A Victorian historical novel appeals on a number of grounds, but I must admit that I had long put off reading Children of the New Forest, thinking that it would be a significant investment in time and energy, Victorian boys’ novels being what they are: wordy and often unnecessarily pompous or overly didactic in tone. Those that are not, I have found—per Henty and Haggard—are often almost offensively Imperialist. This renders them fascinating to study, but not so enjoyable to read. Still, when I was at a loss for what to read on the bus coming home from the office a few weeks ago, I pulled Marryat’s novel off the shelf and began at the beginning. By the time I reached home an hour later, I was a quarter of the way through the book and thoroughly engaged. I finished it within three days.

The story tells of the four children of the loyalist Colonel Beverley, who is killed defending King Charles I against the Cromwellian army in the Battle of Naseby in 1645. His home is subsequently destroyed, and the

This frontispiece of the Beverley mansion burning was created by Marryat’s son (http://www.bl.uk/collections/early/victorian/children/childn3.html).

children presumed dead. To keep them safe, however, a loyal retainer has taken them to his woodsman’s cottage deep in the New Forest, where they grow to semi-adulthood before his death of old age. The eldest son takes a post as secretary to a sympathetic Forest Warden, and eventually becomes embroiled in the Royalist plans to restore the monarchy. Hidden identities, love affairs, politics, loyalties and legalities: Children of the New Forest has it all, presented in prose that is fluid, with descriptions that are lush and poetic. Perhaps it is because I do start out liking Regency and Victorian novels—when I have the leisure to devote to them—but despite expectations I found The Children of the New Forest a lively, entertaining, yet informative tale that I strongly recommend to any modern reader—of any age—interested in British history, childhood studies, or just a well-written tale of honour, loyalty, and survival in hard times.

Post-Human (2009), by David Simpson

Accepting that Post-Human is self-published by David Simpson, a young Vancouver author, we can overlook a number of publishing and editorial mistakes.  The plot itself is original and interesting: humankind has approached physical perfection through the introduction of nanobots into our bodies.  When a universal update goes devastatingly wrong, a few scientists momentarily off-line on Venus are saved.  The plot revolves around their search for other surviving humans, and their battle against the A.I. (Artificial Intelligence) that has taken over control of the nanosystem.  Concepts in the story remind one strongly of M. T. Anderson’s Feed (2002) melded with William Gibson’s Neuromancer (1984), but Simpson has introduced a number of interesting elements that bear consideration by those readers interested in contemplating where modern and futuristic technology will take the human race.  The strongest success in the novel is the characterization; Simpson’s ethnically interesting mix of characters avoids stereotypes and allows us to engage readily with individuals on both sides of the human conflicts that develop.  Overall, a very interesting novel that suffers most from a lack of professional editing and publication.

Jackanapes, Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot, and The Story of a Short Life (1895), by Juliana Horatia Ewing

In my other life, I work for the Canada’s Early Women Writers (CEWW) project, headed by Dr. Carole Gerson at Simon Fraser University.  The project aims to construct an online database of all Canadian women who published—in any genre, in any forum—before 1950.  CEWW is one of the seed projects for the larger database project, the Canadian Writing Research Collaboratory (CWRC), run out of the University of Alberta, and headed by Dr. Susan Brown.

Connecting my love of early Canadian literature with my love of children’s literature, I have been reading through the children’s texts written by some of our authors, with the intent of sharing them—if only superficially—with others.  The first such text was The Bells on Finland Street, by Lyn Cook; this is the fourth.

Juliana Ewing was a well-known British children’s author, with an extensive bibliography. She falls onto my radar for having lived for two years in Canada (1867-1869). Elizabeth S. Tucker’s Leaves from Juliana Horatia Ewings “Canada Home” (1896) is part biographical, part autobiographical, and contains a number of photos of the author and her life in Canada. Given this connection, I thought I would read at least Jackanapes, one of her most successful children’s stories.
My copy of Jackanapes (published in 1895) is bound with two other of Ewing’s children’s books: Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot (1884), and The Story of a Short Life (1885). All three are unquestionably written as instructive moral tales, but where Jackanapes and to a lesser degree Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot retain the reader’s interest, The Story of a Short Life is tedious and we wish that young Leonard’s life had been shorter… or, more compassionately perhaps, that the author had not chosen to write about it. Leonard is a spoilt, demanding child who, when crippled by a fall from a cart, becomes even more spoilt and demanding. Despite the author’s intent of showing how he tries to live up to the family motto, Lœtus sorte mea (“Happy in my lot”), we spend the entire short text wishing that the adults around him practiced some of the logical moral discipline that Victorian children’s texts are generally known for. Instead, when after years as an annoying cripple, Leonard inexplicably succumbs to his injuries and dies, we are shown his parents later blessed with a new family, and who remember and honour the valiant young boy who strove so hard to be like the noble soldiers around him. But failed! Perhaps I should have stopped after Jackanapes and Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot, which have similar morally intent, but are far more enjoyable to read.
Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot is an pleasant story of a young orphan who is taken in as a servant, strives to do well through honestly and hard work, and ultimately succeeds, inheriting his master’s dovecot and doves. The story achieves its goal of showing material gains resulting from moral behaviour, and is an engaging story at the same time. Its success lies both in the simplicity of the story and in the interesting characters, peppered as it is with country accents and quirky characters. The popularity of both Daddy Darwin’s Dovecot and Jackanapes were undoubtedly augmented by Ralph Caldecott’s illustrations, which are sprinkled throughout the stories.
          Jackanapes is the nickname of young Theodore, son of the “big house” in the village. While the story begins with his birth, and ends with his death, it is much more the story of the whole village, the relationships that develop over the years, and how Jackanape’s life is intermingled with all of those around him. (One commentator notes a similarity to Elizabeth Gaskell’s Cranford (1853), which I think is not inappropriate.) The plot of his life is stereotypic: he leads his less adventurous friend Tony into all sorts of mischief as children; Tony follows him into the military but Jackanapes is by far the better soldier; Jackanapes dies saving Tony on the battlefield; the entire village honours him and Tony is a better man for the sacrifice of his friend. What is engaging about this story is that—unlike young Leonard—Jackanapes is an honourable lad who deserves the respect and love he garners. He is repentant when he is wrong, honest about his activities, and he loves his horse: a better advertisement for the cult of muscular Christianity can only be found in Tom Brown himself.  So in the end, when Jackanapes dies, we are saddened, even to tears. Ewing has excelled in this story: her characters are more well-rounded and interesting than in her other two stories included here, and the picture she paints of village life in the mid-Victorian period is rich with pastoral imagery and honest human emotion. The diction is somewhat heavy at times:  no more than many other novels of this period, but perhaps more than the average child reader—even then—would want to bear for long. But the story itself pulls the reader through, in a way that justifies Jackanapes’s position as one of the minor classics of Victorian children’s literature.

A Troublesome Boy (2012), by Paul Vasey

Paul Vasey is identified on the back cover as “a boarding school survivor” [my emphasis], which suggests perhaps too subjective a perspective in his fictional representation of life at an abusive Catholic boarding school. A Troublesome Boy is an extremely well-written novel, but also extremely disturbing, as it is intended to be. What is most problematic, for me, though, is not truly knowing the boundaries between reality and fiction. I would like to think that the abuse rampant at “St. Iggy’s” is fictional, but I know it is not. I would like to think that the systemic willful ignorance—even acceptance—of such abuse is fiction, but I know it is not. I would like to think that the extent of the corruption that allows Church officials to remain untried for their crimes (even the local policeman covers for the guilty priest) is fiction, but I think it is not. Still, Vasey’s novel leaves me feeling that the degree and frequency of the physical—as well as emotional and sexual—abuse that the Fathers at St. Iggy’s are responsible for is excessive: while no single incident rings false, overall Teddy and Timothy’s experiences are too much to take in. The mind (my mind at least) screams that this must be over-dramatized. Which leads me not to want to recommend this text except with the strongest of caveats against emotional trauma for the reader. And in the end, while Teddy and Timothy’s stories are told, there is no hope given.  In 1959, when the story is set, there is nothing to expect except an inexorable continuation of the criminal and damaging status quo. This, too, we know to have been true until very recently.

A powerful novel, containing perhaps too much truth. So what, then, is my problem? My problem is, I think, that beside all of the abuse, all of the sins of the Church, which are real, this novel does not show any of the very Christian, courageous individuals who also constitute the Catholic Church. I myself was smacked upside the head (granted not at boarding school) for insisting that mountains in a drawing of Jesus could be purple (defying visual logic), by a Nun who was known to enjoy hitting children; except for that one case, the Priests and Nuns who crossed my path were intelligent, compassionate, spiritually supportive individuals. Overall, the good people far outweighed the bad, positive learning far outweighed the injustices. The history of the Catholic Church as an institution is abysmal, unquestionably, but A Troublesome Boy troubled me mostly because its truth is not mitigated by the more complex reality that is, and was, even in 1959, Catholicism.

Stones in Water (1999), by Donna Jo Napoli

Stones in Water is a carefully crafted and poignant World War II story. While it is associated with the Holocaust, it does not fit into the usual Holocaust narrative categories.  Two young Italian boys—Roberto is Catholic, Samuele is Jewish—are abducted from a movie house and forced into the Italian labour camps.  The protagonist strives to protect his Jewish friend from detection, but ultimately fails.  After his friend’s death, he escapes and is left wandering, trying to find his way home.  His journey—the good and bad people he meets—is a fascinating look at other young people’s war experiences. We hear so much of the concentration camps, that it is often forgotten that other horrific things happened in Europe—and indeed Asia—at that time.

Napoli has managed to strike an unusually effective balance between the horrors of Roberto’s experience and what a modern adolescent reader can manage. While this is definitely a YA text, younger readers who have been previously exposed to the concept of World War II will find Stones in Water approachable while still believable, and sufficiently troubling to suggest the reality behind the fictional trauma it narrates.  This novel is an excellent transition from the simplicity of Lois Lowry’s Number the Stars (1989) and Elie Wiesel’s brilliant yet deeply troubling Night (1958, 1960). While this can be said of many texts lying between these two ends of the Holocaust narrative spectrum (and I understand that I am conflating fictional with more autobiographical accounts), I believe Stones in Water to be—like Number the Stars, Anne Frank’s Diary of a Young Girl (1947, 1952), and Night—essential reading for those interested in the Holocaust. Napoli has constructed a powerful narrative of survival and determination, as well as the trauma of adolescence at a time of political and cultural upheaval. This is by far my favourite of World War II novels for adolescent readers.

The Night Wanderer: A Native Gothic Novel (2011), by Drew Hayden Taylor

The young adult literary world has become inundated with supernatural beings: werewolves, zombies, and vampires abound, in a multitude of previously unrecognized forms. It seems the Twilight saga has much to answer for. Wading through the paranormal and mythical chaff, however, we occasionally stumble upon a brilliant, innovative use of the supernatural tropes so lately bent into any narrative form authors see fit: for zombies, Simon Pegg and Nick Frost’s movie Shaun of the Dead (2004); for werewolves, perhaps Annette Curtis Klause’s Blood and Chocolate (1997); for vampires, until recently, Scott Westerfeld’s Peeps (2005). Now we have a new player on the field: Drew Hayden Taylor’s The Night Wanderer: A Native Gothic Novel.

The Night Wanderer: A Native Gothic Novel

Initially given to me by a colleague who is teaching it at the university level, I was uncertain what to expect, but the novel is billed as Taylor’s “first novel for young people” (backmatter). Superficially, it provides a lot of what Twilight fans are looking for: a young female protagonist, an attractive male vampire who for unexplained reasons is abstaining from feasting on human blood, a forest setting near a Native community. What is positively, powerfully different is that Taylor’s heroine is herself Anishinabe, or what less-aware readers would call Ojibwe, as is our vampyric lead. This set-up allows Taylor to integrate into his mystery a significant number of social issues that face contemporary Native communities in Canada.

Tiffany Hunter lives with her father and grandmother, “Granny Ruth,” on the reservation at Otter Lake, Ontario. Granny Ruth represents the old ways, one of the community’s last fluent speakers of the Anishinabe language. Through her mixture of traditional ways and common human wisdom, we see hope for Tiffany’s future, despite her seemingly bleak present.

Tiffany has recently started dating a chuganosh, a White boy, which accentuates the tension building in her family since her mother left them, moving to Edmonton with her White lover. Tiffany’s relationship with Tony, like so much in the novel, could go either way. The result is thus neither surprising nor unbelievable; the deep realism of the novel lies more in the details, the little things that both her friends and family, and his, say. This realism coexists with a paranormal mystery that draws equally on Native mythology, contemporary YA literary tropes, and more traditional vampire lore. Readers aware of any of these will recognize early the nature of “monster” (4) that Pierre L’Errant (“The Wanderer”) has become; the mystery springs from being unable to predict what he will do, and how Tiffany will fit into his plans.

While Taylor is not as successful as some authors at entering into the psyche of his young female protagonist—his prose feels sometimes more like an adult male describing a teenaged girl, than the thoughts of a teenaged girl herself—his prose is lucid and at times beautiful. When Pierre describes his life, or forcefully reminds Tiffany of the joys in her own, there is a poignancy in the message that will, I think, reach the YA reader effectively. Similarly, when characters are in the woods of Otter Lake, there is no doubt of the power—for both good and evil—that the land holds. The final scene, in which the mystery is ultimately resolved, is a magical blending of Native belief with Taylor’s fictional narrative. More than just superior to Twilight and novels of its ilk, The Night Wanderer is a fabulous blend of realism with the supernatural, both Native and Non.

Grail: The Heretic’s Secret, Book II (2010), by John Wilson

This review was first published in Resource Links Magazine, Canada’s national journal devoted to the review and evaluation of Canadian English and French resources for children and young adults. It appears in volume 16.2.

Grail

Grail suffers from the plague that besets all great historical novels: the reader cannot determine with certainty where the history leaves off and the fictional narrative begins.  To say that John Wilson has done his homework is not, I think, giving him sufficient credit. He has not only researched both historical setting and historical incident, but manages to convey, through his densely packed narrative, what feels to be the reality of life during the Crusades.  The historian in me despairs that we can never know, for sure, how close his account comes, but for modern readers, I think it more than suffices.
His tale revolves around four main characters: friends and comrades who must choose their own paths through the tumultuous political landscape of Southern Europe in 1211.  John and Isabella seek knowledge and truth in the deserted libraries of Al-Andalus; their childhood friend Peter follows the Church leaders in the search for the Holy Grail and the persecution of heretics; Adso, their soldier companion, has his own troubles, which lead him to the brink of destruction.  Their stories are entwined in the history of the Knight Crusaders’ persecution of the Cathar heretics of Southern France, and the search for both the mythical Grail and the apocryphal Gospel of the Christ.  The characters are engaging and consistent.  We value the wisdom of he who became St. Francis of Assisi, and respect John’s search for learning as an artist, but one wonders how the modern young adult reader will respond to the voices in Peter’s head and the stigmata on his hands and feet.  In this instance, the confluence of historical fact and authorial narration becomes problematic.  Most of the archaic thoughts and beliefs—such as Peter’s opinion that “[i]f God wished us to see the moon and stars as if they were in our hands … [h]e would have given us the eyesight to do so” (236)—can be interpreted within their historic context; Peter’s voices and stigmata, on the other hand, we are asked to accept as real.  If one can set aside the wonder and questions that this raises, we are left with a tightly woven tale of intrigue and mystery, presented in the most authentic of medieval armour and cloak.  For the lover of historical fiction, a series to be savoured.

The Taming (2012), by Eric Walters and Teresa Toten

Katie is invisible. She likes it that way. It’s safer than standing out, given her borderline-alcoholic mother with a history of bad choices in male companions. The one before last, for example, had been a real problem… But then Katie is cast as Katherina in her highschool production of The Taming of the Shrew. On the stage, she can be as strong as she knows she is inside, and it feels right. And she is good. Everyone tells her so, including the new boy, Evan…

Evan has come down in the world, from a life of private schools to a public highschool where he has little respect for his peers and none for his teachers or the administration. His privileged life continues: the clothes, the Audi, the attitudes that carry him through life and impress all the girls, including Katie… but also the psycho-emotional price he pays for having, as his father puts it, a “higher market value” (113).

Eric Walters and Theresa Toten take turns writing sections of the novel from the perspective of these two teens as they come together both on and off stage.  Seeing their carefully crafted relationship from both sides will be illuminating for young readers, who often wonder how the other gender functions.  But while Katie is an excellent example of a strong but seriously troubled teen struggling to come to terms with past abuse and present insecurity, Evan is initially—no, for most of the novel—little more than a Letch-in-Prince-Charming’s-clothing.  His actions seem to be all that Katie thinks they are, but his inner monologue foreshadows the pain he will cause her before the novel is over.  The way this dynamic is structured presents a strong warning to all young girls regarding many boys’ intent: the warnings our mothers and fathers give us, but we never believe.  Katie’s friends Travis and Lisa, too, are wary of the attention Evan showers on her, and—as similarly socially outcaste before the advent of Evan—are strongly supportive, even when their concern angers Katie.  The workings of these teens’ relationships are carefully and effectively constructed; we see these characters as real teens within their fictional setting. When Katie and Evan’s relationship reaches its climactic moments, we are left to consider seriously the two personalities, the social and familial causes of their several problems, and how they as individuals choose to respond to the traumas of childhood and adolescence.

In the end, unquestionably, Katie stands strong.  She tells Evan unequivocally: “You taught me so much, Evan. About myself, about … so much,” but she has grown beyond his reach: “You need help. Your father … Get help, Evan. […] No one will ever lay an hand on me again” (223-9).  Evan, always in control—taught control as the only acceptable modus operandi by his domineering financier father—has lost what he has fortunately come to realize is a prize worth keeping: Katie’s love.  We see Katie’s growth; we see the healing that goes on in her family, the potential for happiness that she helps to establish for herself and her mother. With Evan, there is less evidence of change. Certainly he does stand up to his father on behalf of his powerless mother, and he does finally admit to himself that he needs healing, needs Katie’s love as much as he used to mistakenly think she needed his mojo.  But in the end we are left with only the possibility of his seeking the professional help he needs, and standing up to his father once seems only too likely to create more barriers to healing. Evan is going to find only resistance, not assistance, from his family. Still, his moment of realization is strong, and we can only hope that Evan has learned as much, as effectively, from Katie as she has learned from him. What is certain is that teen readers have much to learn from both of them. The novel is so well crafted that the learning will come gradually, accompanied by powerful vicarious emotions that I think will help them prepare for real relationship dilemmas when—hopefully only if—they are encountered.

Crash Into Me (2009), by Albert Borris

The premise is that four highschool students who have met online in a chatroom devoted to teen suicide decide to travel across the USA visiting the graves of famous suicide victims, then drive to Death Valley and kill themselves. Not the most auspicious of beginnings.  The characters are well constructed, and knowledge of the narrator judicially presented, so that in the end, the plot twist that helps us understand the narrator’s history and thus psyche is extremely artfully delivered.  The ending, so carefully and successfully orchestrated, is the best part of the book, however; I never fully engaged with any of the characters or their problems. The author was for decades a school counsellor, and his expert understanding of teen psychology does come out in the novel, but his characters exhibit perhaps a little too much “me, me, me,” even for a teen angst novel.  The exclusion of any other perspectives did not permit for a balanced consideration of their positions, even when they were continually commenting on one another’s perspectives on reality, and ultimately did help to heal one another.  Overall, I felt the book was too focused inward, both in terms of characters and overall tone.  The fabulously crafted ending almost redeems the preceding story, but not quite.