The Good Turn by Sharna Jackson

Cover: Paul Kellham

Not the only word for it

The brief review quotes so often found on book covers are clearly selected to provide maximum hype and are sometimes to be taken with a pinch of salt. However Katherine Rundell describes The Good Turn as ‘a joy’, and, in this case, I can think of no better word. The book is indeed an absolute joy. But it is also an important and moving lesson in humanity.

High-rise achievements 

It is great that we are finally seeing a considerable improvement in diversity and inclusiveness  in children's books, in terms of both their authors and illustrators and of the characters represented; books that far better reflect the wonderful richness and heritage of our British society. Supported by outstanding publisher Knights Of, author Sharna Jackson made a very substantial contribution to this with her brilliant and deservedly popular 2019 debut High-Rise Mystery, and its sequel, Mic Drop. What she did so inspirationally was to put Black British children from a low-income background front and centre of an intriguing mystery/adventure. In this she massively helped other recent writers to finally dispel the spectre of Enid Blyton’s white, middle class, ginger-beer-quaffing children as the quintessential protagonists for this type of book. 

Mismatched trio 

However, her latest children’s novel, with a different publisher, is a rather different book too and, I think, an even better one. From a high baseline, she is already developing as a remarkable writer, without in any way diminishing her wonderful commitment to diversity and inclusion in children’s literature.

Whilst she keeps three Black British children as her principal characters for The Good Turn, this time they are a very contrasted trio of individuals. The whole story is essentially more character-driven than plot-driven, and, for me, revolves around witty, hugely entertaining dialogue and interaction between sparky kids of a type I more readily associate with American children’s fiction (for example, in Laura Ruby’s delicious York trilogy) but is a delight to see here in a Luton setting. 

Josie, the book’s narrator, is a bright eleven year-old with big ambitions. One might say she is pretentious, certainly precocious, as demonstrated by her current collecting of university prospectuses so that she can decide which institution will suit her future self best. Although her heart is in the right place and she desperately wants to do good in the world, you could perhaps describe her as bumptious, if bumptiousness can ever be considered amusingly endearing, which Josie certainly is. Her long-standing friend Wesley is far more pragmatic, sometimes cynical. He can lack confidence, even be timid, in some situations, but perhaps it is just that he assesses risk more realistically. The third of the trio, Margot, has only recently moved from London. The fact that she eats sushi and goes to clarinet lessons, much to the bewilderment of the other two, in both cases, gives a good indication of her rather more affluent background. In their different ways these three each have much to say for themselves, and usually do, which makes for delightful and frequently funny banter that is a joyous highlight of the book. 

Pledges and badges

In pursuit of her intention to improve, herself, her friends and the world, Josie follows the example of another Josephine, who founded the first Girl Scout troop for Black girls in America, and starts her own, ‘youth group for good’, albeit with only the three members. Her club has an ambitious, decidedly lofty code of moral behaviour. It also has more achievement badges than even Hey Duggee. Even though her club’s early attempts at activities do not really amount to much, the constant delightful banter between its three members is more than enough to keep the reader hugely entertained and engaged.

Despite the lightness of much of the early part of the story, a background of reality is established in that each of the children has a degree of difficulty in their home life,  from which their club activity is a partial escape. Josephine, an only child until now, is feeling very put out by the imminent arrival of a new baby brother. Wesley lives in one-parent family with a sickly mother and  several siblings, carrying quite a burden of care for the household. Whilst for Margot, who has moved with her father from an extremely well-heeled home in London, following a separation from her mother, Luton is something of a come down, even though she is trying hard to accept it.

Real issues

About half way though, the story segues into something rather more serious. Although the narrative still remains essentially character-led, events do intrude to move those characters on.When the children encounter older residents of their area in rather surprising circumstances, real jeopardy increases considerably for all concerned. As the narrative is drawn out with consummate humanity by this super writer, the children come to learn more about injustice in their society and, indeed, succeed in doing more real good than they may have thought they had. If, by the end, they may seem to have returned to their initial level of club,  badge-obsessed activity, it is not really so. In the course of events they have learned more about themselves and grown as individuals. Perhaps their readers will have too.

Joyous and more

This text has a high level of readability that  results from a great deal of authorial skill in both language use and narrative construction. Combined with a genuine understanding of children, an awareness of how they think and respond, these qualities make the book highly accessible to a broad readership, who will identify easily with one or more of its vividly drawn characters. The very credible lives, aspirations, strengths and vulnerabilities of its protagonists are all too human. Young readers will enjoy it enormously, be entertained and amused hugely, but still discover and absorb much, about themselves as well as others, in a completely non-didactic way.

When a book contributes significantly to the representation of Black children in fiction it is an excellent thing for all. When it also contributes sensitive insight into scandalous social injustice it is doubly so. When, additionally, it is an fine work of children’s fiction in its own right, engendering the growth of both empathy and self-awareness, it is very special indeed. The Good Turn is everything a contemporary novel for young readers should be and do.

Dragon Skin by Karen Foxlee

One of Australia’s finest

Some books are great because of their complexity, their richness, their intricacy, but others can be great because of they are simple, or at least deceptively simple. Dragon Skin is one of these. Karen Foxlee is a very talented Australian author, one of a number of wonderful children’s writers from that continent. Sadly books published in Australia are difficult to get in the UK, but we are fortunate that Karen Foxlee’s children’s novels have also been published here Her first masterpiece for this age group, Ophelia and the Marvellous Boy, was brought out by Hot Key Books and the heart-rending Lenny’s Book of Everything (one of my Books of the Year 2019) is published by Pushkin Children’s, as is this, her latest. And Dragon Skin is another absolute gem of a book. 

Deep trauma with a light touch

For starters it gives a vivid and evocative picture of a mining town in outback Australia and of the life of a child growing up there. But Dragon Skin is far more than this. Bereavement, and the way a child deals with it, is a recurrent theme in Karen Foxlee’s books and it features again here. Ten year-old Pip has suddenly lost Mika, the boy who has been her very close friend for two years, and is struggling to cope without him. The often highly entertaining, and touching, story of their friendship is interleaved with the narrative of her most recent few days without him. But Pip has other huge problems too. Her mother is in an abusive relationship, as indeed, it appears, Mika’s mother has been too. The author uses the novel to explore how deeply children are affected by such abominable home situations. Yet even with these twin themes, Dragon Skin is not in the least maudlin or depressing. Karen Foxlee’s genius is to communicate trauma and deep emotion with a light touch. She treats Pip and her situation with profound sympathy, but also a good deal of humour, and captures her young voice perfectly. However, Karen Foxlee understand boys well too. Her conjuring of the overtly resilient, but inwardly vulnerable Mika is equally brilliant. It is just the behaviour of some men that appalls her - and quite right too. 

Simply huge 

All of this is told through the ‘fantasy’ of  rescuing and adopting a baby dragon,  a potentially clichéd idea, but which is here handled with masterly effectiveness. Despite dealing responsibly with some very real horrors, Dragon Skin is touchingly simple and simply very touching. It is also, ultimately, supportive and encouraging. It will be accessible for younger children from about 8 yrs, although this certainly does not imply that it should only be read by the young. It may be a short, simple book, but it is ‘Sky-huge. Galaxy-huge. Universe-huge,’ (p 318). 

Dragon Skin was one of my Books of the Year for 2021. Anyone who has missed it so far should not hesitate.

It has just deservedly won the prestigious Aurealis Best Children’s Fiction award in Australia.

My Own Lightning by Lauren Wolk

Cover: Dawn Cooper

‘All around me, the world whispered its secrets, and I felt myself listening harder than I ever had before.’ (p 55)

Following on

US author Lauren Wolk’s Wolf Hollow is one of the all-time great works of literature for young readers. Deeply rooted in the time and place of its setting, ruralAmerica in 1943, it is one of those novels whose themes are so important and whose writing is so outstanding that it is of international stature. It has been compared to To Kill a Mocking Bird and, although inflated parallels are often thrown out as part of the hype for contemporary books, in this case the comparison has a good deal of validity. Wolf Hollow is very much its own book, but its quality and importance are indeed something close to Harper Lee’s classic.

Since Wolf Hollow, this author produced two further outstanding stand-alone novels for young readers, Beyond the Bright Sea and Echo Mountain, of which the second is a particular favourite of mine, a real gem of a book. (See my review from July 2020.)

Now, excitingly, Lauren Wolk has written a direct sequel to Wolf Hollow itself. And another truly wonderful novel it is. 

My Own Lightning is a true sequel, rather than another novel in a sequence, in that it follows on directly from the first, taking up the situation of its main characters only a short period of months after we left than in the first. Whilst it might be possible to read this second book out of sequence, picking up by implication something of what happened in the first, its true potency and importance really depends on having read the first. We already need to have experienced, alongside her, all that protagonist Annabelle went through in Wolf Hollow, which amounted to a very great deal.

Rural life and lightning

Whilst the setting of both books is during the Second World War, this is not a war story, in fact the war impinges on this second book, less even than in the first. There are no more than a few references to its impact on actual life in the American countryside. What this recent historical context does give Lauren Wolk is the opportunity to conjure, and conjure very vividly, what was still at that time the rather simpler, more rustic daily life of a small community. And where this really pays dividends is allowing both author and reader to focus very intensely on people, on their relationships with each other and with the natural world around them, without some of the complications of modern living. It acts as a fictional microscope providing a quite wonderful close-up on the core humanity that is her focus. Let other books be about contrmporary issues, this one is about the heart of who we are, how, in essence, we see the world.

The brilliant core concept of this novel is built around Annabelle being struck by lightning whilst caught outdoors during a severe thunderstorm. Atlthough not actually killed, thanks to the speedy intervention of a unknown rescuer who is able to resuscitate her , she subsequently experiences a startling intensifying of her senses, including a remarkable ability to interpret the thoughts and feelings of animals. However, it is when what her younger brother calls her ‘superpowers’ inevitably fade away, alongside her burn scars, that Annabelle begins to explore how being struck by lightning has truly changed her.

Writing skill

My Own Lightning is the work of a mature writer, a superbly skilled crafter with words, as well as with narrative structure. This is another ‘slow’ book (see my recent review of Kelly Barnhill’s The Ogress and the Orphans), again in a very good way. It allows the characters to seep into you, until they become a part of you and you them, in that very special way we are all part of each other. It is quite brilliant at evoking the days, hours, even minutes of Annabelle’s life; when she helps prepare a meal, we get to know what type the potatoes are, precisely how she cuts them, and, most pertinently, exactly how they smell. Through such details, of her thoughts and feelings as well as her actions, we live her story with her, vividly, intensely. And most miraculously of all, her lightning enhanced senses heighten our awareness of her vividly conjured world, and, in consequence, of our own world too. Lauren Wolk very cleverly echoes feelings and behaviours both in the characters’ relationships to animals, and in the ‘personalities’ of the  creatures themselves. Her implication that one of the truest ways of seeing people’s worth is by observing their response to animals often holds true.

One becomes two

Sequels to great books very often do not have quite the impact of the original. It is almost a necessary corollary. But if this is true of My Own Lightning then it is only because it has such enormous boots to fill. It is still an outstanding book. However, I do think there is good reason to now consider the two novels as a conjoined pair. For protagonist Annabelle, and indeed for the reader, the second book is very much a resolution of the first. If the first story is about trauma, then the second is about its healing. If the first is about some of what is very wrong about our world, then the second comes some way to helping understand how it might be improved. In learning how to harness her own lightning, Annabelle discovers at least a degree of understanding, forgiveness and acceptance, of herself, of others and of past events. She shows us a way forward. But although the narrative’s resolution is warm and hopeful, it is not simplistic or sentimental. Annabelle is ultimately a realist, albeit an optimistic one. Her story holds us with emotion in a way that moves us deeply.

This is not a book for those seeking the thrills and spills of rollercoaster fiction. This is quite a different ‘lightning’ story from Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief. But instead of excitement it has depth and subtlety, its own engagement, not with adventure but with discovery of self, of others, of a world with much that is difficult, but also much to be thankful for. 

Whatever age, gender, race, creed, colour, sexuality, we all, like Annabelle, need to discover our own lightning.

Rebel Skies by Ann Sei Lin

Cover: Amir Zand

‘Do not walk the earth

For you are of cloud and sky.’ 

(p 229)

Fresh skies 

After more that a hundred years of fantasy/sci-fi stories, it has become increasingly difficult for authors to come up with  a concept of truly startling originality, and this applies in the field of children’s fiction just as much as in the adult. However, the remarkable Philip Reeve has done it twice recently, with his world of predatory traction cities, in the Mortal Engines sequence, and again with his network of space-busting sentient trains, in the Railhead trilogy. One of the remarkable things about both these scenarios is that they are almost laughably improbable in themselves, but are made totally convincing through the astonishing power of their writing and storytelling. 

Now a new author has done much the same thing again. Although it is indubitably novel, the idea of origami skill as a superpower could easily be, shall we say, somewhat hard to take seriously. Yet Ann Sei Lei creates a brilliantly imagined world so powerfully that its compelling credibility is breathtaking. In fairness, the power of her ‘crafters’, although clearly inspired by origami, involves a magic of creating from paper that as far exceeds the simple folding of flapping cranes as does a lightning storm from the striking of a match. It is a rare and considerable, if sophisticated talent. Similarly the paper monsters, known as ‘shikigami’, that maraude the world of Mikoshima, where the narrative is set, may sound ridiculously vulnerable. However, they are, believe me, in the context of this vividly evoked fantasy, every bit as terrifying,as any ‘Ring Wraiths’ or ‘Baldrog’, both to its characters and to the reader, 

Fresh winds from the East

Additionally, although set in a purely imaginative world, the whole story and its telling are grounded in Japanese culture. This not only permeates the tale’s ethos, as in the naming of characters and places, but also the language of the writing itself, particularly in its idiosyncratic imaging and metaphor. To this Western reader at least, this gives the whole book a fascinatingly distinctive and excitingly novel feel.

When her companion describes the destruction of her lifelong friend Haru as ‘a waste’, protagonist Kurara responds:

‘“Waste!” . . . . Haru was not a thing accidentally thrown out with the trash. Stains on a silk kimono, ink spilled on a carefully composed haiku: they were a waste. Haru was a person. The only person that had ever meant anything to her.’ (p 57)

The oriental feel to this speculative world is totally compelling. 

Trauma and treachery

The driver of the narrative involves Kura’s quest to restore to life her long-standing friend, Haru. After he is destroyed in a monster attack, she is shocked to realise that he too is a shikigami, a magical paper construct, but manages to save his ‘core’. From this, she comes to believe, he can be re-made, but only by powerful crafter magic, something currently way beyond her own abilities. She therefore needs to find those who can teach and help her. It is an intriguing twist on a key fantasy trope and one which the reader has no difficulty investing in alongside her.

‘Kurara had always loved making paper dance - the tingle of power through her fingers, the soothing rustle of paper - but this time she was not using her abilities for fun. She was doing it to save Haru.’ (p 119)

There is also a rich, if disturbing, context to Kuara’s personal story. In this breathtakingly different world of airships and sky cities, a belligerent Empire is fighting to expand its territories. Further there are two rivals to the succession of the Emperor, sibling prince and princess, whose supporters are involved in deadly intrigue and treachery. 

Whirlwinds

Above and through all this Ann Sei Lin’s plotting and her control of the narrative are superb. It is complex without being complicated. Around two-thirds of the way through the book comes one of the most startling, even shocking, twists of recent fiction. It is at once both  devastating and even more powerfully involving. As it develops, her story evolves from something excellent into a creation quite breathtakingly superb. There is awesome beauty, exciting action aplenty, but also depth of character and rich emotion, with all its strands weaving together towards an utter gripping, cataclysmic climax.

The final third or so of the narrative transforms outstanding young children’s fiction into literature of real quality. It is a novel that has much to say and provides a great deal to think about, not through didacticism, but in and through the power of story itself. It treats the profoundest themes, friendship and loyalty, found in many tales for young readers, with more complexity, more nuance than is often the case. Far more than this, it is  about our unstable world community, about what may or may not be ‘artificial’ intelligence, about the monsters we, perhaps unintentionally, create, about prejudice and, more than anything about power over others, ownership, slavery. It is a story of humanity and inhumanity.

Ann Sei Lin joins the ranks of authors like Ursula Le Guin and Isaac Asimov in showing us that speculative fiction can make us reflect upon our selves and our own world whilst involving us intensely in imagined ones.  And, crucially,  do this at the same time as providing the most intensely compelling of reading experiences. 

Sky high and flying

The end of this book leaves many tantalising questions unanswered. But then how else would the first part of a continuing sequence end? This is planed as the first of a trilogy, something for which all readers will be unspeakably grateful, if somewhat frustrated by the impending wait.

This novel  is remarkable, by any standards, and as a debut is, I can only say again, breathtaking. We may be something less than half way through 2022, but I feel absolutely certain that this older children’s/YA title will be one of my Books of the Year. If there is any justice, watch out for multiple awards coming its way.

Wonderfully, Amir Zand’s cover art is as stunning as the book’s content, the world of Rebel Skies just as brilliantly imagined and caught in visual image as it is conjured in its language. 

A final plea to the publisher: a book of this quality and importance deserves a hardback. It is to be treasured long. 

Hedgewitch by Skye McKenna

Cover art: Saara Söderlund

Comfort not challenge

The finest children’s fiction is often highly original, thought-provoking and relatively challenging. However there are also times when children want, and need, comfortable escapism. (Me too sometimes.) It is a good while since I discovered such enchanting ‘comfort’ reading for children around 7-10 yrs as Skye McKenna’s Hedgewitch.

As an added bonus, this is a very handsome volume. The cover art by Saara Söderlund is attractive, and the dark green boards are beautifully embellished in gold. However, it is the brilliant interior line drawings by Tomislav Tomic that are the physical book’s crowning glory. They seem to capture the feel of the story perfectly, ‘old fashioned’, in a very good way; somehow reminiscent of pictures that might be found in an old book of Fairy Tales, yet charmingly warm at the same time. 

In this, her debut novel, Skye McKenna mixes a recipe of the familiar ingredients from children’s fantasy, yet does so with such captivating skill, that she produces a dish of reading delight. Here we have lonely Cassie, a supposed orphan; escape from bullies at a dreary boarding school; an encounter with a talking cat; a determined quest to find a mother only she believes is alive; discovery that her aunt is a famous witch,  training sessions for a group of would-be young witches; a magical test to be passed; mysterious dangers in a deep, dark wood. The list is endless. Yet it is all a glorious indulgence in magical enchantment, 

Delightful world-building

Much of the story’s magic is very gentle. Apart from the proximity of the dark ‘Hedge’, the border between the real world and that of faery, the village of Hedgely, where Cassie comes to live, is something of a cross between Diagon Ally and a hamlet in the Cotswolds. As a little bonus, the delicious description of Widdershin’s bookshop is enough to send the heart of any book-lover soaring. (Independent bookshops for ever!)  Excepting the odd goblin, most of Hedgely’s inhabitants are charmingly quaint,  Despite its uniform of black cloak and pointy hat, the Coven of Young Witches, is far more of a Brownie Guide pack than an indoctrination into occult practices. The competitive exhibition of spells, in which Cassie and her young witch friends are expected to participate, takes place at what is essentially a village fete.

On top of all the incident of life in this magical village, the tale is threaded through with evocative description of nature and the the countryside, which pulls everything even closer an idyl of rural life. This quality of writing also goes into the conjuring of its characters, particularly protagonist Carrie, so that the reader quickly engages with her and invests in her story.

But then, as befits a good tale, which this certainly is, darker forces begin to put in an appearance and events become gradually more sinister, building towards an exciting climax, before the eventual warming resolution (for now!).

One for the shelf of cherished books

You might say that this new novel will fill the sort of reading need that Enid Blyton provided for the children of the 1950s. However, this is a far finer book. (In fairness there was far less choice around in the 50s.) With its ethos of rural magic, rather than high fantasy, it reminded me slightly of Terry Pratchett’s glorious Tiffany Aching books (although those are for slightly older readers), but it is perhaps even more akin to Michelle Harrison’s brilliant Pinch of Magic series, and particularly James Nicol’s delightful Apprentice Witch trilogy. Readers who enjoyed any of these will likely revel in  Hedgewitch, and vice versa. 

This is a book lots of children should have on their own shelves (as I’m sure future generations will too), not just to read once, but to return to when the need arises, as it surely will. Despite, or perhaps because of, its moments of excited trepidation, it is a warm and comforting read. It is ideal for any youngsters just coming to fantasy, as well as the myriad who are already fans. It is also made for those many, of any age, who still look for a book to snuggle down with on a (metaphorically) cold or rainy day.

Clearly there is more of Cassie and her friends to come, a prospect for which we should all be hugely thankful.

A Game of Fox and Squirrels by Jenn Reese

Illustrations: Jessica Roux

‘Sam had not lost everything. Not yet. Not when she still had a chance to save her family and her old life by being a little brave.’ (p 48)

UK paperback release

The paperback of this book from US author Jenn Reece has just been published and will soon be available over here. This will, hopefully, bring a deserved larger UK readership to this poignant novel. However, as someone who enjoys the physicality of books as well as their content, I must say the hardback I already have is itself a most pleasingly attractive volume, with the strength and impact of its story well reflected in Jessica Roux’s powerful illustrations..

Jenn Reese’s great skill is in capturing authentically and very affectingly the thoughts and feelings of a child going though a time of trauma. Protagonist Sam and her slightly older sister have, with the involvement of a social worker, suddenly been removed from their home and parents and sent to live with an Aunt Vicky who they have never met, in a State they have never even visited before. One of the strengths of the writing is that the circumstances of this disturbing change only gradually become apparent as the story develops, although the fact that Sam’s sister, Caitlin, arrives with a broken arm in a sling is an early clue; there is no crude exposition here, only subtlety and sensitivity. Although not completely mute, Sam is extremely quiet and withdrawn in response to the drastic changes in her circumstances. Her wild mental swings between her passionate wish to return home, her response the nature of the countryside in which she finds herself and her habituated escapes into reading and fantasy, convey her intense insecurity most disturbingly.

A game and not a game 

The principal narrative driver involves Sam being given a box containing an old card game, that of the book’s  title, the characters and actions of which soon begin to permeate her ‘reality’. When squirrels in human clothes start to appear there is a brief fear that this story is becoming twee. But nothing could be further from the case. Prompted by a manifestation of the highly unreliable fox character, Sam is soon pursuing the goal of discovering the  game’s ‘golden acorn’, which she believes will grant her deepest wish of returning home to her family and friends. She is also learning the demanding and disquieting cost of the fox’s ‘help’.

Alongside the game, Sam struggles with the relationships of her new situation, with her newly-discovered aunt, with the boy who knits (you’ll see!) and even with the changes in her own sister. And the brilliance of the writing comes fully clear as the relationship between Sam’s game and her reality emerges. Both the structuring of the narrative and the language of its telling are exceptional in their skilled control, leading the reader into intense emotional involvement with Sam and her story.

Dark to light

As the narrative slides in towards its climax, the game becomes increasingly dark, horrible even. When the storm rages and the fox hunts the tale takes on a terrible intensity. It is disturbing, shocking; but then so is the domestic situation it shadows. It does not matter whether Sam’s playing of the increasingly compulsive and heart-rending game is her own fantasy or ‘magical reality’. It is a deeply potent metaphor. It is her working through of all she and her sister have suffered in the most insidious of circumstances, perpetrated by the very people who should have been her protectors. 

Fortunately Aunt Vicky knows the way to start healing. The only way.

‘I want you to know that I love you, and that you can trust me. You don’t have to do anything to earn these things. If you mess up, I will still love you. If you lie to me, you can still trust me. You are worthy of love, Sam. Just as you are.’  (p 156)

The Bishop’s Candlesticks. Love to the loveless shown. A golden dawn with the real ‘golden acorn’.

As it should be

As a bonus, when Sam and her sister arrive at Aunt Vicky’s house, it is to discover that their aunt has a wife. The  single-sex nature of this marriage is accepted without comment or question and this seems to me exactly how such a partnership should be treated in fiction for young children, as something perfectly normal and unremarkable in itself. Our hope and aim must always be that our children will help create a more inclusive world that our own.

Don’t miss this

This books sits thrillingly in an America heritage of sensitive and revelatory writing about children, for children; a line that runs through such greats as Betsy Byars, Katherine Paterson and Patricia Reilly Giff. It also reminded me of some of the amazing older children’s novels of Australian Ursula Dubosarsky*, a writer who is not nearly as well know here as she deserves, despite being revered in her native part of the world. 

A Game of Fox and Squirrels is a very special book, stunningly conceived and realised. It speaks from the heart and to the heart. It is surely a must for anyone in the U.K. who is widely interested in children’s literature, as well as for young readers seeking something that will engage both mind and emotions deeply.

Oh and one final thing. It is also the ideal book for egg lovers (you’ll see!). Although I’m sure vegans will enjoy it too. 

At about the same time as this is one published in paperback, Jenn Reese has a brand new MG novel out,  Every Bird a Prince. From a writer of this distinction, it has to be worth looking out for.

Note:

*If you can, get hold of The Blue Cat, The Red Shoe, or even The Game of the Goose, I strongly recommend.

The Imagination Chamber by Philip Pullman

It is remarkable how an author like Philip Pullman, who often writes at considerable length, can make so much out of so little. But then he is a very great writer.

How wrong can you be?

I have recently seen a leading bookseller describe this title as possibly ‘just for His Dark Materials completists.’  This is, I think, misleading. However, it could perhaps be said that this is a book for His Dark Materials enthusiasts. It is, almost certainly, for those who have already read the full works, those who know them well and reflect on them.

I have also seen the book described, in some reader reviews on the internet, as a ‘rip off’ or ‘scam’, often with the cynical implication that it is a publisher’s catch-penny to lure fans into a in-fill purchase whilst waiting for the next volume in the actual sequence. But this is to miss the point of this little book completely, to fail to see it for what it is. 

Cerainly anyone looking for a new story from Lyra’s world, even a short one, will be disappointed. Of this handsome little volume’s 85 pages (not including the brief author introduction), each left-hand leaf is blank, whilst the right contains just a small amount of print, sometimes as little as a sentence, only occasionally a near pageful. However, the richness and intensity of what is there is remarkable. Were this book a collection of poetry, then I think buyers would not be so inclined to moan about the amount of actual text it contains. And although this is not poetry, it is closely akin.

Less is more

The Imagination Chamber is not giving us more of the same in terms of the Dark Materials/Book of Dust universe. Superficially it is, in fact, giving us less of the same. But here Philip Pullman really does demonstrate that less is more.

Although we may well have already met some of this matter in context, being presented with these ‘lantern slides’, these individual pictures, in isolation from the ongoing story, and juxtaposed to other miniatures, throws them into much higher relief, makes them glow and their resonances refract and reflect brightly. They become the glass shards in a kaleidoscope, patterns that fall together, then slide apart again in the reader’s mind, only to tumble back into new formations. You could think of them as symbols on an alethiometer. They can hint at answers if you ask the right questions; give responses that may seem illusive but hide ever-deepening layers Who exactly is Lyra? What kind of creatures are dæmons? Where is Cittàgazze? What is Dust? The more questions asked, the more clues are revealed. These cuttings from a much larger story do not quite tell you things. They make you think them, imagine them, for yourself. In enigma, revelation; intuitive understanding.

Philip Pullman talks in his brief introduction, itself rather enigmatic, of these sparks of ideas generating stories in the imagination. And yes, they clearly do this. They subtly cut open doorways, showing the way the author himself has built, is building, a world and its story around such glowing particles. Equally remarkable is what these snippets reveal about this great writer’s skill with language, his ability to select the telling word, to construct sentences of breathtakingly simple elegance.

This is not a book for those wanting a new story. But anyone seeking imaginative insight into Lyra’s world and their own, into a great writer’s mind and his skill with language, need not, indeed should not, hesitate.

Here is Kendal Mint Cake for the spirit; to be nibbled, not chomped through.