Here are the occasional reflections of a joyful traveller along the strange pathways of fantasy and adventure. All my reviews are independent and unsolicited.

I started this blog intending to write only about children's fantasy ('magic fiction') but have since widened my scope to include any work of children's fiction that I have read and enjoyed. Fantasy will still probably predominate, as it remains a favourite genre, but I cannot now resist sharing thoughts on other wonderful books too. (MG and occasionally YA.)

Here you will find only recommendations, never negative reviews. If I read a book which I feel is less than wonderful (which happens far more often than not) then I simply don't write about it. I want this blog to be a celebration of some of the truly great books authors are currently writing for our children and of the important, life-affirming experiences these offer. It is but a very small thank you for the wonderful gifts these writers give.

Monday, 21 January 2019

The Peculiar Peggs of Riddling Woods by Samuel J. Halpin

‘Fairytales are always wrong. If you want to be truly brave, listen to your heart - then ignore it.’ (p 261)

Fresh as a . . .

I love my reading to be steeped in the tropes of traditional fantasy. Yet, perhaps because I read so many children’s books, I quickly lose interest with those who simply re-churn the same jaded characters and scenarios. So it is a real pleasure to welcome to the canon of children’s fiction a debut writer whose novel is as fresh and lively as Samuel J Halpin’s. 

. . . fairytale?

Of course, modern children’s novels drawing on much older fairy stories are many, some good, some less so. But this author does manage to pull off a very original and entertaining take on them, capturing much of the potency of the genre whilst still producing something as surprising, and indeed shocking, as the originals must have been in their day. That he also manages to be quirkily funny, spookily scary and warmly touching at the same time is a considerable bonus. If the book reminded me of anything at all, it was of Adam Gidwitz’ delightful series A Tale Dark and Grimm. Howeverwhereas those books draw much more directly on the stories of the famous German brothers, Samuel Halpin is far more eclectic in his references and does not simply dress older tales in redesigned clothes but weaves some of their powerful elements into a richly hued bolt of his very own stuff. 

Zany but not vacuous 

After an intriguing, if disquieting, opening, which certainly grabs from the offset, the author drops protagonist Poppy, and her new friend Erasmus, into a world with names, characters and  and scenarios that are rib-tickling in their childish wackiness. We seem almost to be in a crazy, cartoonish world, and this is beautifully caught in Hannah Peck’s highly entertaining illustrations. Yet the text itself has an underlying wit and wry intelligence that distinguishes it from many simply populist comedy titles. 

Very then, but very now

Even more remarkable is that, in and amongst all this, are to be found some very real children’s issues, together with sensitive and touching treatment of them: the loss of a parent in tragic circumstances, a boy ‘on the autistic spectrum’, social ostracism and the declining health of a much loved grandparent. In many contexts this intermingling of comedic fantasy and stark reality would feel uncomfortable or incongruous. But here the author pulls it off brilliantly. Each element provides a most effective counterfoil to the other - and is the source of more welcome humour too. 

‘There weren’t many scenarios in life when your friends’ lives depended on speaking to a catfish.’ (p 280)

Into the woods

From a little way into the story, our protagonists ‘enter the woods’ and the tale takes on a much darker tone, sometimes even a rather frightening one. But then, of course, this was always an integral element of most original fairytales too. The narrative also becomes grippingly exciting with no few twists and turns. It is quality writing in terms of both its language and its plotting, and the payoff is an excellent read. 

A place on a fine shelf

This is a very clever piece of work. It has much that will immediately appeal to its young readership (echoed in its design and presentation by the publisher). Yet it also envelops much that is richly thoughtful in its humanity. It is a book about valuing others, looking beyond the superficial, and thus about acceptance and inclusion as much as it is about silly names and scary excitement. 

In the end, this new novel rates justified comparison with other books that cleverly explore children’s issues by slipping into fantasy. It deserves to be shelved alongside fine works such as Anne Ursu’s Breadcrumbs  Karen Foxlee’s Ophelia and the Marvellous Boy  and Piers Torday’s There May Be a Castle. That is not to say it is in any way derivative.  It is its own unique and very entertaining book. 

At one point the contents of Erasmus’s mind are described as:

‘humming with a sweetness known only to bees, peppered with the fire of stars, moulded by the wisdom of an ancient library, twisted with the cunning of snakes and the loneliness of the twisted shadow.’ (p 314)

This could almost be a distillation of Samuel J. Halpin’s startling and delicious new novel itself.  

Wednesday, 9 January 2019

Books by Sonya Hartnett and the Greatest Children’s War Stories

Going with the flow 

Sometimes one thing follows on from another. And sometimes one reading interest follows on from another. In this instance, it seemed to flow on naturally that having just spent a period exploring the wonderful books of Ursula Dubosarsky, I went on to look at those of another justifiably lauded Australian children’s author, Sonya Hartnett. Although Ursula Dubosarsky was a new discovery for me, I was, already a big fan of Sonya Hartnett and had read some of her books before. Perhaps not surprisingly she has won enough major international awards to have a well deserved reputation in this country too. But, for some reason, I had not read anything particularly recent of hers, so picked up these two novels, both of which are set during WWII, but which in many other ways could not be more different. What does unite them, however, is quite breathtakingly wonderful writing. 

The Midnight Zoo 

Cages come and get you’ (p 158)

Another great Australian writer, Morris Gleitzman, is quoted as saying, ‘Stories are rarely what they seem to be at first glance,’ This could not be more true of The Midnight Zoo. An apparently simple wartime story about two displaced boys discovering a small, deserted zoo, is, through its extended metaphor of the the denial of life and liberty, one of the most devastating books I have read about the anathema of war and the inhumanity of man. 

It is also a most remarkable feature of Sonya Hartnett’s superlative writing that this bleak, and in some ways terse tale, is told through the most rich and ravishing prose. Sections of the book are close to prose poetry, not in any sense of florid verbosity, but in terms of deep, challenging thought,  caught through the most vivid use of language and imagery. 

The story is set in Eastern Europe during WWII, where two young brothers, Andrej and Tomas, have just witnessed their immediate and extended Rom (‘Gypsy’) family ‘removed’ by invading soldiers, and their homes destroyed. 

The monster that had escaped its chains had countless arms and legs and eyes and mouths, innumerable shapes and disguises; and it was merciless even to mothers and children, even to the best of men.’ (p 154)

They find themselves rather aimlessly wandering the devastated countryside, seeking only to try to keep themselves alive. Further intensifying their plight, not only does the elder boy, Andrej, feel totally responsible for his younger brother, but the two have to carry with them their tiny baby sister, Wilma, caring for her as best they can. Everything that was their life has been taken from them, for no reason other than the most prejudiced demonisation of the race and community to which they belong. 

‘Andrej stood amidst the wreckage, the last of the day’s sunshine beaming on his head and the birds chirping to one another, feeling as if his life had slipped off him like a coat and that his heart was exposed to the air.’ (p 145)

The boys stumble across a small zoo, where a disparate assortment of  animals have been abandoned by their keeper and are desolately close to starvation. At the astonishing heart of the book, the various encaged wild creatures speak with the boys and eventually tell them their devastating stories. In many ways its seems totally incongruous to find the fantasy of talking animals in the context of a gruesomely realistic story and setting. Yet Sonya Hartnett pulls it off wonderfully. The various animals ‘personalities’, whose histories speak again and again of unspeakable cruelty, provide a most telling parallel to the life and freedom stolen by those who perpetrate aggressive warfare and the abomination of genocide. 

The tale is harrowing and gut-wrenchingly cruel. It is compelling and heartrendingly beautiful. It is unspeakably moving. 

Much of the story, particularly its closing chapters, are too demanding and potentially confusing for younger children. This is therefore a book for experienced, sensitive readers of, perhaps, twelve upwards. 

Its ending swells with a vision of optimism, of freedom for boys and animals, and  seems to offer hope and comfort. But, it is quite possible that such freedom is to be found only in their own hearts, in their disparate desire for it. Their escape is, perhaps, only in death. Ultimately this merely adds to the novel’s devastating bleakness, another reason why this is not a book for most younger readers. However, for children with the maturity and sensitivity to take it, it is the most wonderful example of what fine literature, as opposed to mere fictional entertainment, can offer to the mind and spirit. It shows how, in the hands of a great writer, the artistry of artifice can, through rich language, powerful images and skilfully constructed narrative, bring us face to face with reality. It can also powerfully lead us in the direction of a better world. This cutting vision of the inhumanity of men, of our potential for grotesque cruelty - to animals, to fellow human beings, and thus, in the end to ourselves - must be a spur to our determination to be more humane. We must seek for them the freedom that Andrej, Tomas, Wilma and the creatures of The Midnight Zoo so desperately wanted. It is for us to find the keys to their cages. 

The Children of the King 

‘It seemed peculiar that the war, which was huge and serious and complicated, should bother to disrupt even the littlest life - like a tiger so bad-tempered it would crush a ladybird.’  (p 17)

Aside from being set during the period of WWII, the setting of The Children of the King could scarcely be in starker contrast to The Midnight Zoo and, to a large extent, the tenor and style of the story reflect this. Here two children, Cecily and Jeremy, from a clearly affluent background, move with their mother from bomb-threatened London to live with an eccentric uncle in a country mansion in northern England. Here the household also takes in an evacuee, May. So far, more Noel Streatfield than Morris Gleitzman.  But, yet again, first impressions are deceptive and Sonya Hartnett is clever and more original than this core scenario implies. This is another book about the realities of war, it just comes at it from a very different direction. 

A large part of the author’s inspired approach here is to combine this account of the experience of realistically drawn children with a recounting of the journey to the throne of the man who was to become King Richard III. The telling of this story-within-a-story is prompted by a nearby ruined castle and the girls meeting with two strange boys, who, it emerges, seem to be the ghosts of the murdered ‘princes in the tower’. Once again Sonya Hartnett draws together what might seem to be two disparate, and even incongruous elements, into a compelling whole, with the historical narrative providing an image of manic power-seeking that results, amongst many other negative consequences, in the killing of innocent children. 

 Much the compelling fascination of the book comes from the exploration of character and relationships, particularly those of Cecily. Her uneasy friendship with the more independent minded May is beautifully drawn and developed through action and dialogue, as is her equally turbulent, if loving, relationship with her slightly older brother. Jeremy is particularly angry and frustrated in being corralled off to the safety of the countryside when he feels that, despite his fourteen years, he should be back in the thick of the war, ‘doing his bit’. 

‘“A sweet boy talking about killing people . . . That’s what this war’s done.”
“Jem couldn’t kill a butterfly.”
“But that’s the thing, see? A boy who can’t kill a butterfly wants to kill a man. Where’s the good in that? Where’s the victory in that?”’

Whereas The Midnight Zoo is more directly about the victims of war, the characters in this book experience war from a distance. But it is still there. In fact the chapter describing the start of the London Blitz is just about as powerfully devastating as any in children’s fiction. The threat to life and liberty posed by man’s lust for power over man is ever harshly present, in both strands of the narrative, and it is deeply frightening. 

‘She had the dream of being encased in a skin of glass: everything, so far, was happening outside the glass and could not touch her. But glass is breakable, and Cecily knew that the moment it broke, a river of fear would gush in . . . fear for the world she would grow up in.’ (p 200)

As always, Sonya Hartnett tells her tale through ravishing prose . Her many long descriptions never seem to slow the story, as could be the case, but instead seductively pull the reader further under its spell. It is a lyrical book, rather than an action-packed one, but packs its own compelling punch nonetheless. 

More than anything, perhaps, it is about that feeling of smallness and uselessness that we all feel when faced with the horrendous issues on a societal or even global scale. Ultimately, however, it reminds us of a wonderful and wonderfully important thing: when the problems of the world seem just too daunting, when there seems to be nothing that we can do,  amidst all the horror and cruelty and injustice, it is really only necessary that we do something. One action is sometimes enough. One change. The beating of a butterfly’s wing. ‘One change changes everything.’ (p 232)

Remember this writer

Both of these books were critically acclaimed when they were published, and rightly so, but, even a couple of years on, I don’t see them around very much. Teachers, parents and others who recommend books to children should not neglect one of our finest contemporary authors of children’s literature - and particularly for those children who are ready for more challenging and thought-provoking reads.

Greatest children’s war stories

These are a good many children’s novels set in one or other of the twentieth century’s ‘World Wars’. A remarkable number of them are very fine books and these have been added to recently as a way of marking various significant anniversaries. This is an excellent thing as, now that those dark days are beyond the living memory of even the grandparents of most children, such books have a most important part to play in awareness, understanding and remembrance. 

However,  if I was asked to nominate those that I see as the greatest of the great amongst such titles, (as I seem, in fact, to be doing) these present two books by Sonya Hartnett would certainly be up there, along with Ursula Dubosarsky’s The Blue Cat (recently reviewed here). They would most emphatically be joined by Hilary McKay’s recent The Skylark’s War (also reviewed on this site). Alongside these would then need to go a few earlier books: Morris Gleitzman’s Once (and its sequels), Judith Kerr’s When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit, Robert Westall’s The Kingdom by the Sea*, Lois Lowry’s Number the Stars, Michael Morpurgo’s Private Peaceful, John Boyne’s The Boy In the Striped Pyjamas and, of course, Michelle Magorian’s Goodnight Mister Tom. 

All of these are inevitably challenging reads for children, emotionally even more than intellectually. However we must never forget what yet another fine writer said:
‘Children are demanding. They are the most attentive, curious, eager, observant, sensitive, quick, and generally congenial readers on earth.’  E.B. White
To these readerly qualities I would also add empathetic and courageous. 

*His The Machine-Gunners and Blitzcat would also be strong contenders. 

Sunday, 6 January 2019

Earlier books by Ursula Dubosarsky


During this last year I was thrilled to discover two truly wonderful books by Australian author Ursula Dubosarsky. (See my post on The Blue Cat and The Red Shoe from September ‘18, and also my recent ‘Books of the Year’.) She was a previously unread writer for me, but such an exciting one that I have spent much of my Christmas reading time exploring as many other children’s novels of hers as I have been able to get hold of in the UK. It has been a truly exciting revelation. 

Living the game 

‘What had happened to each of them had happened to all of them and they knew it for ever.’ (p 134)

Like many of Ursula Dubosarsky’s books this is a challenging  but richly worthwhile read. 

Three children from immediately neighbouring houses live largely  separate lives, knowing very little of each other, and understand even less. They are self-centred through enforced isolation. Dramatic changes are, however, precipitated when their parents decide to replace their old fences and their three gardens (‘back yards’) temporarily become one. As the children start to explore joint rather than separate lives they play a version of an ancient board game, the ‘Game of Goose’ of the title. One by one, they are pulled into the fantasy world of the game. 

Now, stories of children entering and becoming part of gaming worlds are already to be found across a range of entertainment media. But any unoriginality on the part of this author ends there. The game world that these three children enter is built of powerful yet enigmatic images. The meaning of their dreamworld journeys is as elusive as it is disconcerting   Yet, what  they do eventually learn, as pieces in the strange race, is their need to depend upon each other, literally as a matter of life and death - and perhaps even of rebirth! This newfound sense of community, of caring for others, continues after the game, and even survives the rebuilding of the garden fences. This is a most important message for young readers, and my feeling is that this is one of those rare and special books that really needs to be a part of every childhood, along with other contemporary psychological fantasy masterpieces such as Anne Ursu’s Breadcrumbs, Karen Foxlee’s Ophelia and the Marvellous Boy and Piers Torday’s There May Be a Castle. 

Something to write about

‘Stories can only happen because of all the things that happened before, no matter how small and sudden those things may have seemed at the time. Or no matter how large and terrible, and no matter how much much a person might prefer to live as if such things had never happened.’ (p 5)

This is a comparatively early book* by this author, and it does show. However I do not mean this as a negative. Rather that the writing here is not as terse, the content not as enigmatic, the images not as elusive, as in many of her later works.  Of course this makes it more accessible, and perhaps a good book with which to begin, for young readers themselves at least. It is the story of three generations of a rather eccentric family, primarily as perceived and experienced by two half-siblings, Samuel and Theodora. As in many of her other works, this author has courage to face her young audience with the realities of life; it certainly pulls no punches in terms of some of the tougher consequences of failed and failing family relationships. However it also celebrates some of their most important and valuable bonds. More than anything, though, this novel demonstrates one of Ursula Dubosarsky’s finest talents, an ability to capture the world from the perspective of childhood. Her young characters often naively misunderstand and misinterpret the world in which they find themselves, but can, equality, sometimes display a surprising perspicacity. 

Although the family concerned is Jewish, both they, and the story itself are essentially ‘humanist’ rather than conventionally religious. For those who can pick them up, there are interesting allusions to the biblical Book of Samuel, but recognising them is not essential to appreciation of the story  The author’s rich messages are deeply and universally humanitarian. Much more important than religion per se is history and heritage, particularly that centring on the horrors of prejudice and hatred. Samuel’s sister, Theodora, is a habitual, even a compulsive, writer, but Samuel himself is not able to begin to write his ‘first book’ until he starts to discover more of the story of his holocaust survivor grandfather. The First Book of Samuel is a novel which is often amusing, always warmly charming, frequently moving and ultimately richly rewarding. 

Lost and found

‘And at that moment, Cubby realised she was not going to turn into the person she had thought she would become. There was something inside her head now that would make her a different person, although she scarcely understood what it was.’ (p 156)

A book, perhaps, for slightly older readers than the others here (early teens plus?), The Golden Day combines remarkable lyrical prose with a story that moves from being a highly amusing comedy, to an intriguing murder mystery and ends in almost metaphysical enigma. Overall, however, it encapsulates perfectly a girl’s growth into the potential of life with all its unfathomable strangeness. 

It begins as something approaching a delightful and delicious Australian equivalent of The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, with a small class of young schoolgirls under the sway of a supposedly free-thinking but decidedly eccentric ‘artistic’ teacher. Her initial act, for example, is to take them ‘out into the beautiful garden’ to ‘think about death.’ (p 11). However the said Miss Renshaw subsequently goes missing, possibly murdered, after involving her girls in her clandestine meetings with a young, bohemian, possible criminal, gardner/poet, only to reappear years later as a possible ghost. When the story and its telling are not hilarious, they are deeply chilling. When the tale is  not hitting hard with reality, it is refulgent with romantic fantasy. When it is not mundane in its details, it is deeply mysterious in its import. And, through it all, the thoughts and feelings of young protagonist, Cubby, are quite wonderfully caught. So too are her relationships with a diverse range of classmates and teachers. The book is original, imaginative and, in it its illusive potency, quite stunningly written. 

Life after life

‘In an alcove was a globe of the earth the size of a large bouncing ball. Gussie twirled it around . . . . Everything is a circle, thought Sarah watching it . . . . The world and everything in it is round. There are no edges to things.’ (p 53)

This is the most odd, and certainly the most disturbing of the books here, although not altogether in a bad way. It is a story of girls with a ‘privileged’ but isolated upbringing, playing with dolls in a dolls’ house, who may themselves be playing with dolls in a dolls’ house. It is often unclear as to who are the children and who are the dolls, which is the house and which the dolls’ house. The interrelationship becomes ever more complex and ambiguous. A girl makes up stories about the dolls, but are they imagined, or real,  or do they,  in fact, segue from one to the other? 

And then again,  is one or more of the characters actually dead? Did they die, or will they die? Is this a ghost story of sorts? It certainly touches on a the possibility of a kind of reincarnation, or perhaps it’s just that life goes on and a life lost in one place is replaced by a different life in another. 

‘In the circle there can be no gaps, no spaces. Loss and gain, a child for a child.’ (p 47)

Once again the author’s handling of character voice is superb, her prose mesmerising. Like so many of Ursula Dubosarsky’s books, Abyssinia asks more questions than it answers. Her helpful explanatory postscript is illuminating but ultimately unhelpful. The book most certainly gives its readers a great deal to ponder on, and to dream about. And that is no bad thing. In fact, it is a wonderful gift. 

This may be a strange book, but a strangely magical one. It haunts in more senses than the one. It will strike a chord with anyone who has ever asked, ‘Just who is playing with who here?’

International importance

Overall, the quality and range of these books has confirmed for me that Ursula Dubosarsky is a children’s writer of international status and importance. Many of her books will lift those young readers who are ready for them beyond the realms of entertainment fiction and into that of the highest quality literature for children. They are potentially life enriching, perhaps even life-changing. As an adult interested in children’s literature, it is fascinating to see how threads and themes developed in earlier works have come to gather in her recent masterpieces, The Red Shoe and The BlueCat. It is a tragedy that her novels are not better known in this country and I sincerely hope that a UK publisher of vision and integrity will recognise the need to make them more readily available over here. 

Both The First Book of Samuel (originally published by Penguin Australia in 1995) and Abyssinia (ditto, 2008) have recently been republished independently. Unfortunately the new editions have some slightly disconcerting formatting problems, but it is far better for these outstanding books to be available thus than not at all. 

Friday, 21 December 2018

The Lost Books: The Scroll of Kings by Sarah Prineas

The Magic Thief

Were I to list my top ten children's magic fantasy sequences from the 'post-Potter' era, then Sarah Prineas' The Magic Thief books would certainly be up there. They may not be amongst the more profound of such works, but they are certainly amongst the most enjoyable. They have all the qualities of first rate fantasy entertainment. 

Now she has struck gold again with The Lost Books. Precisely the same accolades apply, and they apply to this recent offering largely because of two outstanding qualities. 

A librarian and a queen

This book shares its core premise with most other children's fantasies; a young boy discovers a special destiny and has to grow his way into it. His dramatic journey is paralleled by that of a young girl. The setting of a broadly 'mediaeval' fantasy kingdom is very familiar too, although no less convincing for that. However Sarah Prineas' most recent take on these tropes is both original and highly imaginative. Young Alex's discovery is not that he is a wizard, but a librarian, albeit one who has to contend with enchanted books, many of them violently hostile to boot. There have been many books about books over the years, but this one is certainly fresh and vivid. It explores, both explicitly and implicitly, the many potentialities of books, their power to be a source of evil and of good. 

At the same time, it charts the journey of young queen, Kenneret, from domination by her self-seeking, former regent uncle, to acceptance of her own authority and responsibilities. It is a tale which very successfully marries an exciting and engaging plot with many prompts for thoughtful reflection. And of course any book that celebrates libraries and librarians is, in the present climate, warmly to be welcomed. 

Irascibility and bickering 

Yet it is not the narrative context that is the real delight of this novel, but its characters and relationships. Alex is far from the usual fantasy hero. Rather he is moody and petulant. Quick to anger, he often opens his mouth inappropriately, when he would do far better to keep it closed. And yet he has a basic honesty of demeanour which is refreshing and his unswerving determination to become a librarian and protect his books is richly admirable. He manages to be hugely engaging despite his many flaws. Similarly his relationship with Kenneret is far from an easy friendship. Their bickering and even outright hostility are frequently entertaining. Witnessing their gradual growth towards grudging mutual respect is possibly the highlight of the novel. 

More to come?

Although it appears that Sarah Prineas has a new novel, Dragonfall, in the pipeline for this coming year, it does not look to be a sequel to this. It should, of course, be well worth looking out for in its own right. Yet it would seem from several clues that The Lost Books is being set up as the start of a new sequence. I do hope so; it has much potential to be an outstanding one. However, either way, there is clearly much to look forward to from this excellent children's writer. 

Thursday, 13 December 2018

The books I am giving my (second) granddaughter for Christmas

A brief seasonal diversion from my usual reviews. 

Last year we experienced the tremendous joy of our first grandchild and, believing passionately that there are only a few things more important that growing up a reader, at Christmas we gave her a parcel of books. They were not baby books as such (she already, thankfully, had a basket full of them) but what I thought of as 'books that she can grow up with and through'. (See my post from December 2017.) This summer we were equally thrilled by the birth of our second granddaughter, so have been eager to do the equivalent for her. After much enjoyable searching and reflection, there are the books I have chosen. 

Two things I would dearly love our granddaughter to grow up with are a deep love of the natural world and an equal love for language and poetry. With the parents she has, I think there is every chance of both, but hopefully these two volumes will help a little too. The first was an easy and immediate choice, The Lost Words by Robert Macfarlane & Jackie Morris. Robert Macfarlane is undoubtedly one the the greatest (nature) writers of our generation and Jackie Morris is one of my all-time favourite children's book artists, far more than simply an illustrator. As a result, this volume is quite simply one of the most ravishingly beautiful and inspiring I know. The writer's 'spells' and the artist's large-scale images are together an irresistible invitation to get to know and appreciate the natural world around us. 

The anthology I Am the Seed that Grew the Tree compiled by Fiona Waters and illustrated by Fran Preston-Gannon is a superbly rich resource of nature poems by a diverse range of fine writers. It serves both my aims here perfectly . Hopefully, with these books,  our granddaughter will be able to revel in looking at the stunning images and hearing the evocative language even before she is able to read for herself. 

Related, although slightly different, the wordless picture book Footpath Flowers by JonArno Lawson and Sydney Smith is another kind of poetry. It is essentially the poetry of ideas, of thought,  expressed through simple but telling images. It speaks of finding beauty in small  things as we move through life, and of making our world better through simple giving. It is deeply touching and conveys a most important message to grow up with. Our granddaughter will perhaps be able to access this book a little earlier than the others here, but hopefully its simple images and honest sentiment will last a lifetime. 


Another thing I would wish our granddaughter to grow up with is her full inheritance of Folk and Fairy Tales from across the world. This collection is only one of many wonderful ones I could have chosen. However this particular edition of East of the Sun and West of the Moon edited by Noel Daniel is distinguishing by the most stunning art work from justifiably renowned Kay Nielsen. Her luxurious, almost Beardsley-like, Art Nouveau images make this another ravishing volume, a delight in its own right and a superb invitation to dream and to wonder. 

As children's author Cornelia Funke recently wrote*, even though many Fairy Tales do not reflect the social attitudes we look for today, they 'still enchant profoundly. For in their imagery of monsters and magical things they preserve many forgotten truths. Sometimes we lost the key to decipher them, but the images keep their power nevertheless '. Fairy Tales are an important  part of our cultural and literary heritage. Children need to know them, even though they do not need to think or behave like some of the characters in them. A girl cannot understand that she need not be a fairytale princess unless she knows what a fairytale princess is in the first place. 

And on which matter, my last choice was as easy to make as it is important to give. Last year I gave my first granddaughter the unspeakably wonderful and rightly trendsetting Goodnight Stories for Rebel Girls by Elena Favilli and Francesca Cavallo (illustrated by a host of contemporary female artists from around the world). When a follow up '2' came out from the same team it was a must for our second grandchild. The two cousins are close enough in age that hopefully they will share and compare some day. I inscribed last year's gift with, 'Be a rebel,'  so I just cannot resist signing this book from Grandma and Grandpa with, 'Be a rebel, too.'

In Through the Water Curtain & Other Tales from Around the World, Introduction, page 12   (This is itself a fine book that I hope to review in full very soon.) 

Tuesday, 4 December 2018

My Books of the Year 2018

Long list

I read hundreds of children's books each year but only write about a handful of them, those that have really excited me and that I can wholeheartedly recommend. Consequently, all the titles I have reviewed this year constitute a long list of my best books of 2018. They are all wonderful stories by staggeringly talented writers; if I did not consider them so, they would not be on my blog at all. 

Of course there will also have been amazing new books that I have missed, or that are still waiting in my enormous reading pile. I very much hope that I will be able to catch up with many of them soon. 

The best of the best

However, I have been able to pull out my ten favourite favourites without too much difficulty; they are truly outstanding. All of them are highly engaging, hugely entertaining books, but they are far more too. Each, in its different way, shows that originality and imagination, that richness of thought and language, and, above all, that depth of resonant humanity that makes for a truly great children's novel. 

Some are from amongst the best-sellers of 2018 and alrighty heaped with accolades. Others are, as yet, perhaps less well known. I sincerely hope that recommendation here will encourage at least some of you to seek them out, if they are new to you.  The richest of rewards lie in wait if you do 

My books of 2018

Here they are then, not in any order of preference. If you wish, you can look up my full reviews in the blog archive. 

The Endless King (Knights of the Borrowed Dark, Book 3) by Dave Rudden (Post April '18)
This final instalment of Dave Rudden's sequence is every bit as good as might have been hoped. There are very few  more exciting, involving, terrifying or affecting reads currently to be found. His writing is masterly and this trilogy, crowned by The Endless King, is one of our finest examples of exactly what children's fantasy fiction can achieve. 

Twelve Nights by Andrew Zurcher (Post April '18)
With its rich language and extended description, its long apparent diversions into older stories, its complex plotting and its extended metaphors, this is not a quick, easy book to read. But, then, what truly great book is? Andrew Zurcher weaves us a story that is breathtaking in its imagining, masterly in its realisation and profound in its resonance.  We must wrap its fabulous fabric around us and live for a while cloaked in its enriching mysteries. 

Station Zero (Railhead Book 3) by Philip Reeve (Post May '18)
I am tempted to say that Station Zero is by far the finest book of a very fine trilogy. But it is more that. It is the work that brings its predecessors into full focus and illuminates the greatness of the whole trilogy. Many works of children's fiction centre on their protagonist discovering their own self. Railhead, rather, is about discovering how many selves we can be. Those who read Railhead, with its superb culmination in Station Zero, will be left with a head filled with multiple worlds, multiple lives, and, always, the image of those incredible sentient trains. I promise you that nothing could be further from Thomas the Tank Engine. 

The Storm Keeper's Island by Catherine Doyle (Post July '18)
Catherine Doyle's is one of the most devastatingly exciting new voices in children's fiction that I have encountered in a long time. Her protagonist, Fionn, is not quite a Harry Potter or a Percy Jackson. He is far more. His story is deeper, richer  and more genuinely dark. It is linked to the power of an island, to the power of the elements, and resonances with the power that lies within us all as human beings. His story is a great fantasy, and is surely the opener of a great fantasy sequence yet to come. 

The Turning by Emily Whitman (Post August '18)
There have been many children's novels about Selkies. There have been even more about a young person's journey towards finding their true self. There can have been few of either more affecting than this one. It is a work of rich imagination and superlative language, a very fine novel indeed.  It is about anyone who has two identities, two lives, which are both their true self.  As the author says in her own final note: 'We've all got the ocean inside us. beautiful, mysterious, and untamed. Like Aran we are two everythings.' 

Bone Talk by Candy Gourlay (Post September '18)
This is not only a gripping read, but a hugely important book too. It is also an exciting, terrifying, moving and deeply disturbing one.  It is a story that made me reflect profoundly on the world in which we live, where it has come from and where it is going. It took me to a place I have never been, a culture I have never known - and it helped me to realise, with shock and with grief, that all along it has been part of me, and I of it. 

The Blue Cat by Ursula Dubosarsky (post September '18)
This author is my discovery of the year, a world class children's writer that I am only just getting to know. Her latest book is not an easy read, but it is a revelation. No book relating to the Second World War and its horrors has moved me more . Although those horrors are only conjured obliquely, through metaphor, they are no les affecting. It is not a particularly long book, but it is one that needs to be read slowly, to relish its captivating detail, to pick up its delicate nuances, and to spot the rare glimpses of the elusive blue cat amidst the seemingly commonplace experiences of a war-haunted childhood. 

Dragon Daughter by Liz Flanagan (Post October '18)
Some books you can wrap yourself in, like a cozy duvet. There is something very special in the idea of a dragon hatchling imprinting on a human child, and of the two developing a lifelong, emotional, almost physical, bond. I think it is, perhaps, a perfect metaphor for the desire in all of us to bond with the world of fantasy, of imagination, of magic; to discover its power and its freedom; to fly our own dragon through life. Liz Flanagan capitalises upon our need for such a dragon as convincingly and captivatingly as any children's writer I have encountered. 

Bluecrowne by Kate Milford (Post November '18)
Kate Milford is one of my all-time favourite children's writers and the world she creates across her several linked novels is truly wondrous, original, imaginative and deeply compelling. This title, formerly only available as an e-book, is not only an engrossing read in its own right, but also a key link between her other books. It is therefore a truly wonderful thing to at last have Bluecrowne in book form. Hopefully it will attract many new readers, not only as a follow up to the very popular Greenglass House books, but also to her other fascinating works. 

The Skylarks' War by Hilary McKay (Post November '18)
This book is a fine commemoration of WWI and a telling reconstruction of what it meant to grow up through that deeply troubled period of our recent history. It is about many other important things too. However, more than being about the Great War and its terrible waste, more than being about girls' abilities, rights and needs, more than being about the rights and needs of sensitive, emotional and gay boys, this book is about how kindness and love can transcend even the most grotesque of horrors. And that is a wonderfurl message for any children's novel. It is truly heartwarming - and a real gem of a book. 

And to round off

In finishing,  I would like add two final recommendations, that are, in a sense, more retrospective. Alan Garner is one of the finest ever children's writers as well as one of the most innovative. First Light (post June '18) is a remarkable anthology in which a whole host of contemporary writers pay tribute to his remarkable genius and helpfully elucidate some of his often challenging work. 

The most recent publication by the author himself, a short memoir, Where Shall We Run To? (post August '18) is far from a major work, but nevertheless a fascinating example of deceptively simple writing conveying remarkable human truths. Both books provide invaluable insight into the author and his work and are surely essential reads for any interested in children's literature, past or present. 

Sunday, 25 November 2018

The Skylarks' War by Hilary McKay

'Away from the front, where the supply lines ran. . . you could hear skylarks over the fields. Soldiers remarked how strange it was that the birds should be there, but in fact the birds had been there for centuries. The really strange thing was that the soldiers were there.' (p 194)

100 years on

Here is another of my occasional digressions from my usual practice of reading and reviewing fantasy books. I simply had to write this one up. 

Often, when  I finish a good book, I trawl about for ages trying to find the 'right' one to read next. The last time this happened, though, was 11th November, the exact one hundredth anniversary of the 1918 armistice, so it seemed appropriate to pull out from my reading pile this historical novel, charting a family's lives through what we now call WWI. I did not regret the decision for a minute. It is not only a truly wonderful  but also a very important one, one that will certainly feature amongst my children's books of the year. 

The cover of The Skylarks' War, by talented Dawn Cooper, is a telling reflection of its contents. It presents a striking evocation of a bygone era, capturing beautifully a colour palette of it period and bringing immediately to mind those attractive prints of old railway posters, now found on many a wall calendar. Yet the image is not exactly a holiday advertisement; the farewell it depicts has an air of poignancy, especially in view of the uniform of the departing figure, and, indeed, the youth of those waving him off. 

Living through a war

The book inside this cover is just as evocative as its jacket, just as alluring and every bit as poignant. The story follows Clarry, together with her brother Peter, and some of their friends, relatives and neighbours, through from her birth in 1902 to sometime in the 1920s. However, the greatest focus is on the war years themselves. It is  a story  about growing up, about a time of war and, most particularly, about growing up in a time of war. 

Clarry's family situation is totally credible, even if it is not at all a conventional one, and the story of her childhood and youth is amazingly gripping for what is essentially a narrative of day to day domestic incident. Part of this engagement comes from the utter likability of its principal characters and our consequent empathy with what they have to endure and overcome. Part too comes from the way the war gradually impinges more and more on the lives of people we have quickly grown to care about. Time before the war is epitomised for Clarry by idyllic holidays staying with her grandparents in Cornwall. Soon, though, the presence of the war becomes almost a character in the tale. Its influence is initially peripheral, almost incidental. In its early days there is little real understanding of what is happening and will happen, even a naive romanticism about it. 

''Shells' was another word that became more often used. 'Shells' and 'shellfire'. Always when Clarry heard it , her mind jumped to the fans and spirals and fragile treasures she had collected on the Cornish beaches, summer after summer . . . 'A rain of falling shells': Clarry caught the phrase one day as she hurried home from school. It sounded entrancing.' (p 109)

However, the darkness of war begins to creep in, on Peter, as on the others, particularly once their beloved older friend Rupert, companion from the blissful stays in Cornwall, enlists despite being under age. 

'It was hard to hide the despair he felt, for Clarry in the comfortless house, for ridiculous Rupert, for summers that were so far away, for all the Ruperts and Clarrys caught up in this hardly understood war.' (p 106)

As the book develops,  the author does not shrink from war's horrors, or from the devastatingly grim realities of the trenches. It impinges devastatingly upon her characters, as indeed it does on us, her readers. This is strong, brave writing, disturbing  and moving as we share with its characters an incomprehensible nightmare. 

'It was a war where absolutely nothing made sense.' (p 194)

Yet Clarry's quiet passion and remarkable inner strength may well see her through, and us with her. 

The Skylarks 

When I first picked up this book I imagined it was going to be about a family with the surname Skylark. (Collectively, 'The Skylarks'. You know, rather like 'The Larkins' in Darling Buds of May), But Clarry and her family are actually Penroses. This title turns out to be much more subtle, more thoughtful, that I initially thought it. In fact you need to look quite hard to find the skylarks. Poignantly, they are mentioned once, singing above the battlefields of France. There is one further mention of the actual birds as a feature of Clarry's Cornish summers. Perhaps most significantly, her grandfather uses the term once to refer to his visiting grandchildren. The book's key characters are skylarks, if not by name. Ultimately, they rise above the battles, above the war. 

However, the war itself is not the only thing they rise above. Hilary McKay's novel treats of many things, many important things. The book rightly, but often disturbingly, reflects the attitudes of that period towards the role and potential of women. It highlights how many opportunities were considered 'only for boys', and the fact that Clarry determinedly pushes on through all this to get herself a higher education and a potential career is inspirational, providing a wonderful role model as well as a harbinger of the women's struggles to come. Similarly the character of Peter's schoolfriend Simon, sensitive, caring and wildly in love with the slightly older Rupert, is handled with wonderful sensitivity. We are brought up hard against more hurtful prejudice of the times. 

'Yes of course (Simon gets laughed at at school) . . . and so does anyone who isn't a silly, grinning, sports-playing, book-hating, first-year-tormenting, prefect-grovelling, hair-parted-on-the-right ---' (p 122)

Yet Hilary McKay contrasts these hateful attitudes most movingly with the empathy and understanding for Simon that she rightly engenders in us as readers. 

An abiding humanity

It is a book that champions the rights of both girls and boys to be who they are and become who they can become. It shows how far attitudes and opportunities have moved in the last hundred years, but also, by implication, flags up, too, how far we still have to go. There are just too many instances where the prejudices of 1918 still sound all too like some we might encounter, in at least some quarters, today. 

This telling story also has much to imply about the role fathers need to play in their children's lives, about the importance of educational opportunity and, indeed, about the power of books to help us survive and grow. More than anything though, more than being about the Great War, more than about girls' abilities, rights and needs, more than the rights and needs of sensitive, emotional and gay boys, this book is about how kindness and love can transcend even the most grotesque of horrors. And that is a wonderful message for any children's book. It is truly heartwarming. May it warm yours and that of many, many children. 

The book is published in the USA as Love to Everyone, a reference to Rupert's usual sign off in his letters home from the Western Front. I am delighted that such a fine novel is available over there too, although I think the UK title is, on this occasion, by far the better.