No Cafés in Narnia (2000)

When her beloved grandfather dies, Heather tries to escape into her literary worlds: the world she creates through her own nascent writing ability and the world of the books she reads. Sometimes she wants to “push through the coats at the back of an old wardrobe,” meet Mr. Tumnus, and “even find Lucy in the forest and the three of [them] could sit at a little table at the café together eating Turkish Delight and discussing how to solve all the problems of the world” (28): problems like how to manage when her mother slips into depression, and she has to face her troubling adolescent world, seemingly alone.  To top it all off, she has thoughtlessly insulted “one of the only people at school who has spontaneously said anything nice to [her]” (70). With the problems in her family, and her trouble with friends, Heather is sure: there are No Cafés in Narnia.

Heather is fascinating, very real child protagonist: her mind wanders; she can’t focus easily; she struggles with being an outsider on the little island her family has recently moved to. She articulates her world through the eyes of her own protagonist, Writer Girl. Her alter ego’s attitudes and responses actually help her to see herself more objectively, to understand the balance she must create between being the child and striving to find the maturity her family needs from her. Her imagination blossoms in her self-assessments, in her diary entries, and in her letters to her best friend in Toronto. Her narrative ability is far more vibrant in her thoughts than she is able to get down on paper—but she continues trying. Ultimately, with the help and guidance of those around her—young and old—Heather makes the right choices, and the crises in her life become manageable.

What I like best about No Cafés in Narnia is Nikki Tate’s complete presentation of her characters’ lives. Even though in general “people like to read about danger, excitement, and romance,” Tate knows that “real writers take advantage of every moment, every experience, to enrich their work. They use all the mundane details…” (90). While this knowledge does not stop Heather from trying to write a murder mystery, it does reveal Tate’s belief about a writer’s goal, and the artistry of Tate’s own fiction.

The Golden Compass (1995 as Northern Lights)

—This novel can stand alone, although it does introduce some not-quite-fully answered questions.  Lyra, the protagonist, learns part of her real identity as she tries to protect those she cares for.  In Lyra’s world, as in ours, there is no simple division between black and white, right and wrong, and sometimes trying to help others leads ultimately to their betrayal.  The plot revolves around the discovery of “Dust,” mystical matter that attaches to sentient beings and all things created by them… Lyra’s “uncle,” the enigmatic and powerful Mrs. Coulter, and a number of politically powerful Church organizations all battle to control the acquisition of knowledge, which is ultimately power and control… The multiple factions all know that Lyra plays a significant role in their discoveries and their future, but knowledge of exactly how comes piecemeal and slowly.

The Subtle Knife (1997)

—In which we are introduced to Will, who stumbles through a window into another world when trying to discover who is hunting his mother, where his father disappeared to ten years previously, and why… Will and Lyra’s paths cross, and they learn, as we do, a little more of their roles in the progress of history… and the real identities of some of the players.  Will, like Lyra, has a significant role to play, roles which neither of them fully understand.

The Amber Spyglass (2000)

—In which Lyra and Will are pitted against time and those who wish to destroy Dust forever.  Pullman develops a Biblical analogy to the Garden of Eden, with Will and Adam, Lyra as Eve, and a scientist from Oxford on our (Will’s) world as the Serpent (temptation).  I am not sure this analogy works fully, but her conclusion of the series is well structured and satisfying.  No holes are left in the plot for logic to slip through.

The story is told from the point of view of Gwyna, a young girl who is coerced into delivering to Arthur a sword, pretending to be the lake-lady of Celtic myth. From there, the reader can see where the book will take us: Gwyna—who becomes the servant boy Gwyn to protect the astute Myrddin’s secret—soon learns the power of story in deception. The stories Myrddin spins of Arthur’s prowess, his nobility, his ability to unite the warring leaders under one British rule, are crafted with care, aimed at the single political aim of British unity and peace. Arthur, though, is cast as a warring chieftain, with all the faults of a warrior rather than the powers of a diplomat or politically astute ruler. In the afterward, Reeve tells us who in his story relates to whom in the legends we all know: most of them we will have guessed—Gwenhwyfar is Gueneviere, Cei is Sir Kay—but some names are a little harder—Medrawt is Mordred, Peredur is Sir Percival, and of course Myrddin is Merlin. The characters, as they are presented, create a far more believable narrative than the legends do, and we are as riveted by the story Reeve spins as Myrddin’s listeners were of his tales of Arthur. In the end, Gwyna articulates a knowledge that has been growing in her for years: “The real Arthur had been just a little tyrant in an age of tyrants. What mattered about him was the stories” (286). Reeve’s carefully crafted story makes us really think about the transmission of the legends that underlie our culture: for legends by definition have their basis in some historical truth, but have been altered over time to become almost mythic. Gwyna’s tale takes the reader back to a time that is hidden in the mists of romance and chivalry; it clears the air, leaving us feeling that perhaps—despite Reeve’s claims that he “did not set out to portray ‘the real King Arthur’, only to add [his] own little thumbnail to the sea of stories which surrounds him”—Philip Reeve’s version could be the closest we know to the truth.

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.

FaceSpace

Concerned that my opinion of Adrian Chamberlain’s Facespace was biased by my age and gender, I gave the novel to my daughter’s grade 8 classmate—let’s call him Lucas—to read. Lucas, a remarkably articulate critical thinker for a twelve year old, not only validated my position, but shared his own opinions regarding the actions of the novel’s protagonist, Danny.
I begin by not liking stories that are based on dishonesty, unless they are handled extremely well and to good purpose. While Chamberlain’s intent is obviously not only valid but important—to teach readers the necessity for honesty and integrity in their social media interactions—I felt that the delivery was lacking to such an extent that young readers would not engage with the message. To begin with, there is no legal reason, as far as I know, for not calling “FaceSpace” either MySpace or Facebook, which it is obviously based on. Young readers like veracity in their novels; they like to see what they know to be real, not a fictional representation of something as central to their lives as social media sites, when there is no reason to avoid that verisimilitude. And—as Lucas points out—such social media sites, regardless of what one titles them—are international. Danny’s British “friend” James would have had numerous British FaceSpace friends, had he been real, and no high school student would miss that oversight… but that is getting into the plot, which I have not explained.
The premise is that young Danny is unpopular, and longs—as many young teens do—to belong. He invents a British “friend” on his social media site, one who is as popular as he wants to be himself. His experiment is a success, until he is discovered. There is a subplot in which Danny takes images of his popular best friend and alters them in Photoshop into unattractive and even grotesque images, reposting them anonymously. His friend is extremely upset, but Danny never owns up to his authorship of the images, which is a problem, as this situation is never resolved. The most significant obstacle to enjoyment of this novel—for me—lay in the character of Danny, who is implausibly naïve and more, well, stupid, than readers would believe themselves or any of their friends to be. Lucas agreed, noting that Danny “seemed to jump into trouble almost willingly,” and that his actions “seemed like a sequence of convenient and unconnected events rather than a narrative flow” (his words: honestly). Even as part of the Orca Current series, which is designed to have an easier reading level, I feel that FaceSpace fails to engage: it feels far too much like a character like Danny would not exist, and if he did, we would have little sympathy for him.