The streets of New York in 1893; an enigmatic Ringmaster; a man named Maximillian Wolf and another named Phineas T. Pimiscule; Selznick’s masterful mix of words and art; a Katsa-esque girl fighting to survive – I found something to hang my hat on with each of these upcoming titles.
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Publisher’s Summary:
“When Trei loses his family in a tragic disaster, he must search out distant relatives in a new land. The Floating Islands are unlike anything Trei has ever seen: stunning, majestic, and graced with kajurai, men who soar the skies with wings.Trei is instantly sky-mad, and desperate to be a kajurai himself. The only one who fully understands his passion is Araene, his newfound cousin. Prickly, sarcastic, and gifted, Araene has a secret of her own . . . a dream a girl cannot attain.
Trei and Araene quickly become conspirators as they pursue their individual paths. But neither suspects that their lives will be deeply entwined, and that the fate of the Floating Islands will lie in their hands. . . .”
Who are you? If someone were to ask me that question there are books that I would go to, that I would pull down from the shelf, hold out and answer: You’ll find a piece of me in here. The Floating Islands is one of those books.
From the moment I turned the first page there was no question: I had found my way home. I was among characters I loved, in a world I wanted very badly to explore, and reading writing that painted vivid and vibrant pictures, that pulled my strings; writing that was so right to and for me.
“There were a dozen of them – no, Trei saw as they approached: fourteen. Fifteen. They flew as geese fly in the fall, in a formation like a spear point. At first the shape the winged men made was stark as a rune against the empty sky, but as they approached the ship, they broke their formation, wheeled, and circled low. The morning light caught in the feathers of their glorious wings, crimson as blood, except for one man whose wings were black as grief.” [p. 4]
The Floating Islands is told in the alternating voices of Trei and Araene. One of the many strengths of the novel is how well and skillfully it was accomplished and that each was equally captivating. As I read, I never found myself wanting to be done with a chapter, not once did I want to skim or skip ahead to get to the other character. Trei and Araene were both living lives full of heartbreak and discovery, but their individual paths were woven together tightly. What’s more, each chapter built one upon another, assuredly drawing the reader closer to the story’s resolution.
Regarding character more specifically: I wanted to hug Trei and not let him go throughout the entire book, and Araene, well, she reminded me a bit of Tamora Pierce’s Alanna, exhibiting a forthright, courageous nature that won me over in short order. There were several among the supporting cast that helped cement my love for this title in their own way, too. These were people I’d want to meet, I’d want to study with, fly with.
Another strength is the world-building and perhaps for a surprising reason: what is laid out in the story only scratches the surface of the Floating Islands. Araene walks the streets of Second and Third City, and you just know that if she were to turn down this alley rather than that one she’d find something remarkable. There was a strong dose of history and culture, and the scent of enticing foods wafted on the air; I was satisfied completely with what I found on the page, but appreciated that there was still so much I could learn about the Islands, the kajuraihi (winged fliers), and the hidden school.
So what does that leave? The pace. I raced through this novel – though not so quickly as to not enjoy each word – and only hit one small lull where the story slowed a bit. Beyond that the only thing I can say is that I loved this book, that I will re-read it over and again, and that it has found a permanent spot on my keeper shelf.
Should you read The Floating Islands and, further, Rachel Neumeier’s other novels? Yes. Wholeheartedly, yes.
You’ve perhaps noticed that I mention Laini Taylor here. A lot. But she’s always doing, writing or saying things that I want to happily and excitedly shout about, see. Like delivering a two minute speech that included this remarkable, YES! bit:
“I write because, as wonderful as life is—and it is truly wonderful—it isn’t enough. It does not, for example, contain dragons. I find this unsatisfactory. So I read. And I write.
I write for the urgent and wishful girls and young women who are still in the grip of that powerful yearning for the extraordinary. And I write for the inner Kizzies, because although we gradually grow into a kind of pragmatism about our lives, and our dreams mature—I wouldn’t really want to ruin someone, for example (unless they really deserved it)—I don’t think they ever really go away.
The books I love are still the ones that she would have loved, my younger self: the books that make me want to climb inside of them and live in them. Those are the kind of books I try to write.
With Daughter of Smoke and Bone, that was my touchstone at every turn. Would I want to live this, be this?
The book began as a writing day stolen from another work in progress that was turning out to not be fun. I wanted to remember how dazzling writing can be, I wanted to try to write the book I want to read, so I went for pure wish-fulfillment for my inner Kizzy.
I think that the books that make us readers leave an imprint that will always seek to be filled, and that the dreams that fill us and haunt us during our most powerful years of becoming, stay with us, in some form, forever. I think that the reason I write what I write is because of the passion and urgency and hunger of those younger years, the intensity of that period of becoming, when we are dreaming ourselves into being, and hoping with a hunger strong enough to draw goblins, that our lives will be BIG.” [via This Post]
It’s like she’s living inside of my head. Or wrote this speech just for me. (And everyone else who has ever felt that exact same way.) Obviously I urge you to go over to her post (linked to above) to read the rest, but there’s more, far more to enjoy about it beside.
I wasn’t familiar with Plain White T’s – much; I’d heard “Hey There, Delilah” and it wasn’t my cup of tea – but then I listened to “Body Parts” (from their latest release, Wonders of the Younger) and was curious enough to check the album out from the library.
So I listened. And then comes this song that conjured so many images in my mind, recalled the atmosphere I latched onto in The Prince of Mist, reminded me of Carnivale, and begged for a story all its own. “Cirque Dans La Rue” is in turn maniacally gleeful, subtly menacing, creeping, and all around stuck-in-your-head-for-hours awesome.
Publisher’s Summary:
“Hondo Lane was a man who’d come to terms with the hard land in which he lived. He rode dispatch for General Crook through the Arizona desert – a severe and beautiful landscape where one mistake could lead to a quick and lonely death. It was on the way to deliver an important message about an imminent Apache raid that he came upon an isolated ranch defended by a lone woman and her young son.But Angie Lowe wasn’t just any woman. She was a fighter with as much grit and determination as any man. She, too, had carved out a place in this hard and beautiful land, and she wasn’t about to leave it without making a stand – for her beliefs, for her son, and for the future.”
When it came time to choose a secondary title for the western genre study I’m participating in, I considered steering clear of Louis L’Amour. He’s been around for so long; he’s written an astonishing number of books, so many that, to my mind, he’s easily cast as the Nora Roberts of western literature; and, honestly, if someone were to ask for a western, whose name would be on the tip of your tongue? William Johnstone, maybe; Zane Grey, probably; Louis L’Amour, definitely. The man sells himself. But after trying a different author and finding the book to be cliché-ridden and bordering on campy, I gave L’Amour another look and came up with Hondo.
The first paragraph of L’Amour’s forward to Hondo reads:
“What do we have here? The story of a lonely man hiding his loneliness behind a cloak of independence, a man as bleak as the land over which he rode, yet beneath the harshness and the necessary violence, a kind man, a just man, a man who had come to terms with the land in which he lived.”
A dime a dozen: that type of man has no doubt made his way across a thousand deserts, drawn his gun so many times his holster’s worn through, but by all appearances he’s a trademark of the western genre. And that type of man, when done right, never fails to win me over. Hondo didn’t have the same presence as Shane, but he had principles he stood by, believed that in order to learn how to swim you maybe needed to sink first, and was sentimental enough to realize that he actually wanted more out of life than to live alone, the lessons he learned untaught. I liked Hondo Lane and he saw me through his story with a sure, unrelenting hand.
Having never experienced L’Amour’s writing, I was mostly pleasantly surprised. The story was concisely told, but he didn’t keep from showing his hand: the desert, very much a harsh character in its own right, was more than adequately described, and there were moments of introspection that turned out a polished phrase or lovely observation. Like this, though this is perhaps one of the more simple examples:
“It was dark now, and the wind stirred among the leaves and moaned softly around the roof. She knew that sound. It was a lonely sound, a sound that always frightened her, because it made her know her aloneness. But not tonight. Tonight even the wind had a comforting sound.”
It’s relatable, that experience, and worded simply enough to strike a chord, but there is, to my mind, something lovely about it. Especially, I suppose, in light of Hondo being the reason for that comfort. His nearness, the safety he promised for a woman and her young son on their own in the middle of nowhere.
My one complaint about the writing – and it hits upon one of my biggest pet peeves – was the repetition. For instance, Hondo’s appreciation of Angie as being “all woman” was noted over several pages. Several. The repetitious inner monologues weren’t enough to truly put me off, but I took notice of it – and may have grumbled a bit after each instance.
Hondo may have fallen short of the standard set by Shane, but it was still a very good choice for me. I might even some time down the long, long road pick up another of L’Amour’s many titles.
It hardly seems like spring is upon us – at this very moment, snow is falling outside my window – but Carl’s Once Upon a Time reading challenge is a harbinger of that much-needed season, and since he’s just launched it for the fifth year running, spring it must be.
For those of you unfamiliar with Once Upon a Time, this reading challenge focuses on fantasy, fairy tales, folklore and mythology.
After reading Danielle’s wonderful interview with Gini Koch, several thoughts pushed to the front of my mind: 1) I would love to get my hands on Gini’s iPod for a day or two (to compare and find new music) and 2) the urge to put together a playlist of my own for Touched by an Alien and/or Alien Tango was strong. Very strong. And then, not a day after mulling over the possibility of going ahead with the latter, I was listening to one of my more recent finds, and one song in particular made me want to give in and get that playlist done right then. But that’s another post. (Maybe.)This post is just that one song, which I’ve come to think of as Chuckie’s theme, and a giveaway. I’ll get to that in a minute.
So, the song: “Waiting” by Royal Wood. (For whatever reason, this YouTube video has several minutes of silence at the end. The song itself is only 3:21. The entire album, by the way, is good. My favorite song – as of this moment – is “Do You Recall“. [The video's worth watching. Gorgeous scenery.])
It works for me. 
And now for the giveaway. I was wandering the desolate aisles of a Borders that will soon be closing its doors and noticed a lonely copy of Alien Tango sitting on one of the shelves. I couldn’t let that stand. I’d like to send this fantastically fun book – the second in the series, mind – to a good home. What do you have to do? How about…
Leave a comment. If you feel like it and have read the first book, share a song that reminds you of a character, scene, or the story in general. If you haven’t read the book, share one of your recent musical finds.
Open until March 31st. US addresses only, please.
I like a strong theme as much as the next girl, but I doubt there’s one to be found among this bunch. Unless, of course, you count catching my fancy as a theme. (Even then it’s scattered: a lovely cover, a beautiful tattooed boy, a classic masterpiece, etc.) All I know is that my wishlist just got considerably longer.
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Publisher’s Summary:
“Car mechanic Mercy Thompson has always known there was something different about her, and not just the way she can make a VW engine sit up and beg. Mercy is a shapeshifter, a talent she inherited from her long-gone father. She’s never known any others of her kind. Until now.An evil is stirring in the depths of the Columbia River-one that her father’s people may know something about. And to have any hope of surviving, Mercy and her mate, the Alpha werewolf Adam, will need their help…”
Proceed with caution – a minor spoiler for River Marked ahead. (Oh, and one more: This could be considered an ‘I want my cake and to eat it too’ review.)
River Marked presented a first for me with this series: I enjoyed it, but not wholeheartedly.
Silver Borne tied with Blood Bound as my favorite of the series for one simple, perhaps shallow reason: I finally understood what so many other readers saw in Adam, and the relationship that had slowly built between him and Mercy finally, thoroughly hooked me.
Obviously too much time had lapsed between reading SB and River Marked, because I couldn’t recall a marriage proposal at the end of the former, and was taken a bit by surprise with the wedding that ensued at the beginning of the latter. In any event – and it was a happy, lovely and welcomed one – the wedding was necessary as the couple’s honeymoon was the stage for the rest of the story.
I had, of course, anticipated something big and nasty getting in the way of their newlywed bliss, but taking the couple out of the pack dynamic and away from their friends carried the certain expectation for me that their marriage – and their time alone – would push their relationship more fully under a spotlight. Fresh as it was, it seemed reasonable to think that it would be a point of contemplation for Mercy (at least), which would then turn into sweet moments, tense moments, whatever moments between them. And it’s not that those moments were entirely absent, but Mercy and Adam – well-adjusted individuals that they are, I guess* – moved forward without much of a hitch: Mercy liked calling Adam her husband, and Adam was remarkably controlled considering the trouble that kicked up around them. I suppose I selfishly wanted more; perhaps too much, as it would seem that the Mercy and Adam of Silver Borne spoiled me.
*Or perhaps it was just that they had other bigger, nastier things to contend with.
Then there’s Stefan. I love Stefan. You know I love Stefan. (Right?) And so I was pleased as punch to find Mercy on his doorstep on page one. But instead of serving a role – pivotal or even peripheral – Stefan, it felt like, was shoehorned into a story that would have (grumblingly, but admittedly) fared just as well without him. Unless…and this is a big, hopeful unless…the state he was in and the few details we did pick up are to play a larger part in the next installment. In that case, sweet! I’ll take whatever scrap of Stefan goodness I can get. (And, really, this is again a case of me wanting to have my cake and eat it too. Hence the warning up there at the top.)
The pace. Reading River Marked didn’t quite resemble a snail inching along but, considering how fast I typically devour a Mercy novel, it’s a close comparison. There were a few scenes that seemed unnecessary to the advancement of the plot; there was a small bit of repetition (by way of example, Mercy said “Uhm” at least three times in the opening chapters); and the emphasis on her origins wasn’t as captivating as I had imagined it would be. (Oh, it was plenty interesting, and there were a few scenes I adored. It’s more of an overall thing.) And there was one time – one bit of dialogue – that Mercy completely, bafflingly dropped the ball on; I couldn’t believe she didn’t fit the pieces together. Perhaps marriage and Adam’s constant presence did wreak a bit of havoc on her. Hmm…
Reading that back, it comes across as though I didn’t enjoy River Marked despite my initial statement, and that really wasn’t the case; I did enjoy it. There were a few scenes that I loved and would read over (and over), and it is always, always nice to be back in the company of Mercy, Adam and the rest. My lukewarm reaction to River Marked doesn’t much matter anyway: it won’t come between me and the next book in this wonderful series.
“A drifter and retired gunfighter helps a homestead family fight against an aging cattleman and his hired gunman.”
It bit deep, the love I felt for this slim novel; and it surprised me. My first, this-is-the-way-it-has-to-be instinct is to type out all of the passages and sentences that sung to me and let it stand at that. Why? Because I know my limitations; I know that when I love something on a level that has nothing to do with thought and everything to do with feeling, I have no hope of articulating why it captured me so. I’ll try and I’ll hope you’ll bear with me.
The synopsis above, which was actually tacked on to the film adaptation of Schaefer’s novel, manages to capture the bare bones plot of the story, but can’t and doesn’t come close to defining it. I can understand why: it’s deceptively difficult to pin down the heart of the story when so much of it exists as subtext. I could say that it’s about loyalty and shades of love; that it’s about taking a stand against bully tactics that would displace a hard-working family and douse the dreams of a fledgling community of farmers and cow hands. I could say that it’s about a weary man trying to put distance between his past and his present; that it’s about recognizing your own kind, and accepting family where you find them. I could say all that, and you know what? It makes for a shallow, woefully incomplete description.
Bob, the young narrator of Shane, has a narrative voice that shines like a shoe under spit or polish; it’s simple and honest, conveying the innocence of youth alongside the burgeoning awareness of adulthood. Simply put, it’s effective. And remarkable. I’ll tell you this: through Bob’s eyes, I saw clearly and absolutely Shane riding his horse up the road that first time, approaching the Starrett’s farm, and I will never forget the sight. Shortly after that first glimpse, Bob’s had a chance to take in the stranger’s travel-tainted clothes, and thinks to himself: “…a kind of magnificence remained and with it a hint of men and manners alien to my limited boy’s experience.” A hint of men and manners. It strikes an odd shiver in me, reading that; I can’t explain it. But it was as Bob continued his study that I realized it would be near to impossible to not fall for Shane.
“Then I forgot the clothes in the impact of the man himself…I could read the endurance in the lines of that dark figure and the quiet power in its effortless, unthinking adjustment to every movement of the tired horse.”
Shane is that inscrutable man so many of us are drawn to without reservation. He’s that man who brings to bear his own code of ethics; that strong, quiet man who, once he’s accepted you as his own, protects you with a fierce pride, and lets you see a side of him that no one else would ever get close to. Shane wears sadness as assuredly as his gun, and just as infrequently. He pays on his debts, takes time to ruffle a young boy’s hair, and puts in a day’s back-breaking work without complaint. And then there’s this:
“He did not mind what they thought of him. Since his session with Chris he seemed to have won a kind of inner peace. He was as alert and watchful as ever, but there was a serenity in him that had erased entirely the old tension. I think he did not care what anyone anywhere thought of him. Except us, his folks. And he knew that with us he was one of us, unchangeable and always.
But he did care what they thought of father.”
If you know me at all – or maybe you’ve been reading this blog long enough to see the pattern – you know that a bond between two strong men reduces me to a puddle of sighing goo. The respect and admiration that draws Shane and Joe Starrett to stand side by side drives so much of the story, but rarely manifests in the lines themselves; between those lines is where the beauty and emotion lies, and where words begin to fail me. About all I can manage is this: That friendship, for lack of a more accurate or insightful word, was undoubtedly my most subjective favorite aspect of the novel.
Shane is representative of the old-fashioned ideal of men being men: tough, stand-up types who shoulder their responsibilities and take personally any affront to their character. It’s not a throwback characterization, considering the time during which it was written and the time period it depicts – and still I’ve seen the type in contemporary fiction, though perhaps not as well done or authentic – but if it puts you off, consider yourself duly advised. Also, while Shane is male-centric, the one woman portrayed in the story – that would be Marian Starrett – has a backbone and a voice. When Marian spoke, Joe and Shane listened; her men, including Bob, showed respect for the contributions she made to farm and family. At times it was clear that Marian was being indulged by her male counterparts – in that old-fashioned way of men being men – but she (and her opinions) were valued.
The story’s pace wasn’t fast or slow; it was persistent. It was more contemplative than action-packed; when the action came, the descriptions of the fight sequences were cinematic, and it was hard to believe they were written in 1949. It’s almost unfathomable to me that a reader would find Shane boring, having struck me as completely as it did, but I have to allow for the possibility. Just as I have to admit: if someone had told me that I would love a western novel as much as I did this one, I wouldn’t have believed it. But I did love it.
I really did.
