As regular readers know, I’m a big fan of reworked or retold myths and legends and so was excited to dig into The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller.  To understand why, here is the publisher’s setup:

The legend begins…

Greece in the age of heroes. Patroclus, an awkward young prince, has been exiled to the kingdom of Phthia to be raised in the shadow of King Peleus and his golden son, Achilles. “The best of all the Greeks”—strong, beautiful, and the child of a goddess—Achilles is everything the shamed Patroclus is not. Yet despite their differences, the boys become steadfast companions. Their bond deepens as they grow into young men and become skilled in the arts of war and medicine—much to the displeasure and the fury of Achilles’ mother, Thetis, a cruel sea goddess with a hatred of mortals.

When word comes that Helen of Sparta has been kidnapped, the men of Greece, bound by blood and oath, must lay siege to Troy in her name. Seduced by the promise of a glorious destiny, Achilles joins their cause, and torn between love and fear for his friend, Patroclus follows. Little do they know that the Fates will test them both as never before and demand a terrible sacrifice.

As it turned out this was really a romance – between Patroclus and Achilles – with the classical story mostly as background. It was well done in many ways, and the writing is often excellent, but the classics as romance was not what I was looking for.

More below.

Did the same sex element throw me off? Perhaps. But I think it was more the sentimental and frequently sensual style and tone. Far too much of it is just a coming of age love story between the two boys with lots and lots of focus on just how much Patroclus adores, loves and or is besotted with Achilles. By the time you get to the action of the Trojan War you are tired of it all, or at least I was.

Again, well written in parts and well done in some ways but completely not my style. Not to sound sexiest but this struck me as a boom women would adore. The central characters are feminized and presented as idealized lovers until the very end.

And as exciting and dramatic as the ending was it felt a little like the character of Achillies changed dramatically in the final chapters as the conflict rose to its conclusion.

As I was struggling to capture my frustration with the novel, along comes Daniel Mendelsohn to say it better than I ever could.  Mendelsohn points out the two most problematic elements: structure and tone.

First, structure:

The “Iliad” has focus and weight because it zeroes in on what is, despite its length, a very narrow subject (albeit with vast, rippling ramifications): Achilles’ wrath, what it stems from and what it means. (What are honor and glory? Why do we fight and live?) Because it is cast as Patroclus’ autobiography and concentrates on the love affair, “The Song of Achilles” necessarily has to start much earlier and then catch up with Homer. The result is an odd disproportion. There’s a lot of time and energy devoted to adolescent Sturm und Drang (Patroclus’ early years are a bit Judy Blume-ish), but as the action progresses into the territory of established myth — the abduction of Helen, the formation of the Greek armada, the landing at Troy, 10 years of warfare — you often feel as if this or that famous episode is being rapidly ticked off a list. (The sacrifice of Iphigenia is dispatched in two paragraphs: “We were horrified and angry,” Patroclus blandly reports.) And the fact that Patroclus dies before the end of the story forces Miller into an odd narrative corner indeed.

Second, tone:

The real Achilles’ heel of this book is tone — one made disastrously worse by the author’s decision to metamorphose an ancient story of heroes into a modern tale of hormones … Miller unhappily wobbles between “lyrical” overwriting (“his voice wheedled and ducked, like a weasel escaping the nest”) and a misguided attempt to give a contemporary smoothness to Homer’s antique tale. At the end of the novel, as in the “Iliad,” old Priam secretly comes to the Greek camp to ransom the body of his son Hector, whom the enraged Achilles has slain. “I am sorry for your loss,” Miller has him say. You wonder just which funeral home this took place in.

The problem reaches crisis proportions in the handling of the “love affair,” which begins with an embarrassing breathlessness (“My chest trilled with something I could not quite name”) and climaxes — sorry! — in the long-awaited and, it must be said, cringe-inducing consummation: “He seemed to swell beneath my touch, to ripen. He smelled like almonds and earth. He pressed against me, crushing my lips to wine. He went still as I took him in my hand, soft as the delicate velvet of petals. . . . Our bodies cupped each other like hands.

A lot of other reviews felt differently and Publishers Weekly and Library Journal gave it very positive reviews.  And there are plenty of customer reviews equally positive.  I think one’s reaction is likely to turn on how much romance (near erotica) you want with your classics.  If you enjoy romance and don’t mind an idealized same sex love affair transplanted to ancient Greece you will likely enjoy Song of Achilles.

If, however, you were looking for a little more depth and complexity to the retelling of this classic tale I think you will likely be disappointed.  And I have a feeling anyone with a more serious interest in and knowledge of Homer and Achillies will react like Mendelsohn.  Or see this Amazon review.

As Mendelsohn notes, “there are some very good things here — nice imaginative flights, small details that pop out and make you take notice.”  I did enjoy much of the book.  But the fawning romance of the first half and the compressed nature of the second drained much of the energy out of my enjoyment.  I am sure a good deal of this is simply taste and  style but I do think there are some more literary faults beyond just not being a fan of romance.

But as I like to say, your mileage may vary …

Everything about The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey makes me want to read it. The cover art, the website, the video, the plot, the connection to a Russian fairy tale, the author’s name – everything. Thus begins the rearrangement of my TBR pile …

As the above makes clear, it just seemed like a book that had so many of the elements I look for in a book.  For those of you out of the loop, here is the publisher’s synopsis:

Alaska, 1920: a brutal place to homestead, and especially tough for recent arrivals Jack and Mabel. Childless, they are drifting apart—he breaking under the weight of the work of the farm; she crumbling from loneliness and despair. In a moment of levity during the season’s first snowfall, they build a child out of snow. The next morning the snow child is gone—but they glimpse a young, blonde-haired girl running through the trees.

This little girl, who calls herself Faina, seems to be a child of the woods. She hunts with a red fox at her side, skims lightly across the snow, and somehow survives alone in the Alaskan wilderness. As Jack and Mabel struggle to understand this child who could have stepped from the pages of a fairy tale, they come to love her as their own daughter. But in this beautiful, violent place things are rarely as they appear, and what they eventually learn about Faina will transform all of them.

Well, in April I finally got the chance to read it.  With all the hype surrounding this book – my own above, and many others - there was ample room for disappointment. But despite the fact the book was different than I had expected, there was no let down for me.

It was an evocative and deeply human story with a fairy tale woven in. And like so many fairy tales and folklore – not the Disney versions – this one was touched with sorrow and tragedy. But also infused with love and hope and beauty as they really exist.

Gorgeous prose, a wonderfully developed setting that become a character of its own, and a great cast of characters make this a novel with depth and emotion – a heft belied by the fairy tale at it heart.

What is amazing is how in a debut novel Ivey blends historical fiction, a sense of magical realism and the more traditional aspects of a novel into a wonderful story.  The characters have depth and draw out real emotion.  The land of Alaska become a character itself; fearsome and yet beautiful.  You see the characters grow and change; you see relationships develop and friendships bloom; you see the joys and despair of life.

It is not a fast paced novel by any means but the absorbing and beautiful nature of the story means that you want to savor it.  This one book where the waiting seemed to make it better.  If you haven’t had a chance to read The Snow Child I highly recommend it.

Related articles

• The Snow Child, By Eowyn Ivey (independent.co.uk)
• Author interview: Eowyn Ivey on her début novel “The Snow Child” (rebeccaberto.wordpress.com)

I am still not sure – as is so often the case with these type of questions, the answer is really all of the above. But this e-book only work by novelist Lars Walker is a captivating read and one that pulls you into its characters and settings – making you feel like you are reading about a real place and real people; that you are reading history in a sense not literature or not just literature.

More thoughts below …

Here is a blurb from the author/publisher:

Chris Anderson has everything. He’s the son of the richest family in town. He lives in a beautiful, loving home. He even has a fairy godmother.

Chris Anderson also has nothing. He was born with a deformed arm, and when he gets angry he sees visions that terrify him.

At the turn of the Twentieth Century, in a nation wrestling with faith and science, tradition and change, Chris will be forced to confront his own nature, and learn the meanings of freedom, love, and the grace of God.

The set up seems to hint at historical fiction: you have the introduction in modern times with flashbacks for the history. The basic plot follows Chris as he grows up; moving from farm to town and dealing with his complex Norwegian family and community.  The drama comes from conflict within the family – his old school grandfather and his progressive teetotaler mother for example – and from his deformed arm which looms large in his own mind and life.

But always on the edge of the story is the “underworld” – the world of fairies and magic.  He has his own real live fairy godmother in fact, who reminds him  that the magic side is often dark and dangerous and who desperately wants to be baptized.  Chris himself has a strong connection to this world.  When he is angry or feels threatened he sees little men with red hats who seem capable of great violence.  He has dreams and visions.

All this complexity leads to dysfunction and struggle – despite the wealth and success of the Andersons.  One by one the men are driven away. His Norwegian immigrant grandfather is driven out by his domineering mother and her progressive causes.  His brother rebels and heads west to escape.  And soon his father joins the path west.

Chris tries to stay rooted.  He takes a position in the family firm and seems committed to what normalcy he can find. But his deformed arm and his love for Sophie – an adopted girl who is in some ways like a sister but who he loves with desperation – prevent him from peace or stability.  He can’t accept himself as he is and thus can’t accept love from Sophie and this brews deep and ugly bitterness inside him.  When this emotion surfaces it drives him out west to find his father and brother.

He connects with them but out of fear of ending up lonely and alone heads back to his hometown to make a life for himself.  His awkward and often ugly attempts to do this make up the rising climax of the book and highlights the truly changing nature of the community he returns to.

What struck me about the style and content of Troll Valley is how, at bottom, what makes it worthwhile is the simple storytelling.  Walker creates such believable and entertaining characters that the reader is sucked in and soon begins to care about these complex characters.  This is what storytelling is all about: the ability to see the world through someone else’s eyes; to experience and explore new things without having to go anywhere. Walker gives us this chance to visit Minnesota around the turn of the century and see what a Norwegian immigrant community might look like and how its inhabitants might live and interact.

But there is also an element that is almost post-modern or a unique mix of pre and post-modern – unmodern if you will.  With a magical realism influenced by classical Christianity and Nordic myth; with genres blended and intertwined and big ideas wrestled with and unpacked.

In some ways this makes it messy. The plot isn’t particularly tight and it isn’t clear what exactly the device of the modern-day relative drug-addict and his Native American helper brings to the story.  But it works because it is full of interesting characters, settings and language – because it touches on powerful emotions that grow out of conflicts we still wrestle with today.  It touches on faith and family – on community and relationships.  It feels like history, literature, theology and psychology all rolled up in a story.

Who knows what you call it.  But it is engaging, entertaining, often thought-provoking and for $3 a real steal.  If you have a Kindle or a Nook I encourage you to download Troll Valley and experience this unique journey.

Here is a snippet from the  publisher’s blurb that intrigued me:

Part wartime political intrigue, detective story, psychological thriller, and religious mystery, Ben Pastor’s debut follows a German army captain and a Chicago priest as they investigate the death of a nun in Nazi-occupied Poland.

I am glad I went back and read Lumen in anticipation of Liar Moon. I found it to be an interesting psychological exploration of what it might be liked to be trapped between Prussian duty and one’s own moral code on the one hand and being a Captain in the Nazi army as it invades Poland on the other.

There is a mystery at the center of the plot but it is the attempts of the lead character, Captain Martin Bora, to maneuver through his work without either losing his soul or his career (or maybe even his life) that is the real focus.  Pastor has that rare ability to place us within history and allow us to see it from the ground; to in a sense see it through other’s eyes.  This is not easy given the historical events involved.

Lumen is full of colorful characters (from Bora’s insufferable roommate and the women he seduces, to his  superiors in the Wehrmacht, or the sisters in the abbey and the visiting Chicagoan Father Malecki) and a brooding sense of tragedy.

Publishers Weekly gets at the heart of what makes this book interesting:

Pastor’s examination of Bora and his colleagues illuminates the many contradictions of life in the service of a criminal state. The narrative’s explications of Catholic belief and theology defy readers to reconcile faith, or inner light (lumen) of any kind, with the realities of the Nazi regime. Pastor’s plot is well crafted, her prose sharp, but her novel is meant to be more than light entertainment. She raises again the questions recently posed by Bernhard Schlink’s The Reader: how can art explore the human side of a victimizer without seeming to forgive the unforgivable? Pastor’s disturbing mix of detection and reflection is a provocative though not definitive answer.

If you like historical mystery with an added moral or philosophical dimension be sure to check out the Martin Bora series.  I will report back on Liar Moon when I am finished.

Here is an excerpt of a summary of the book from the publisher’s website:

In her essay on Jacquetta, Philippa Gregory uses original documents, archaeology, and histories of myth and witchcraft to create the first-ever biography of the young duchess who survived two reigns and two wars to become the first lady at two rival courts. David Baldwin, established authority on the Wars of the Roses, tells the story of Elizabeth Woodville, the first commoner to marry a king of England for love; and Michael Jones, fellow of the Royal Historical Society, writes of Margaret Beaufort, the almost-unknown matriarch of the House of Tudor.

In the introduction, Gregory writes revealingly about the differences between history and historical fiction. How much of a role does speculation play in writing each? How much fiction and how much fact should there be in a historical novel? How are female historians changing our view of women in history?

The book is divided into three parts – each part about a different woman by one of the authors.   Nearly half of the book is devoted to Jacquetta and is written by Gregory.  Baldwin writes about Elizabeth Woodville in the second part of the book and Jones finishes the book with writing about Margaret Beaufort.  I believe all three parts are well-written and contain more information than I ever knew about the role these women played in shaping English history.

Gregory’s part on Jacquetta is longer because I think there is more primary source material on her.  However, as Gregory so adeptly mentions in the introduction to the book, there is not much primary source material on women in general from this period.  Writers and historians from the Wars of the Roses period do not give much attention to women because they were considered unimportant.  Military and political men dominated the writings of this time period.

As mentioned in the summary above, Gregory has a fairly extensive discussion of the role of historical fiction compared to history.  I found this part of the book the most interesting.  She brings forth the many challenges and benefits of writing historical fiction.  The one challenge is to write in a way that is creative, but accurate.  It is good to humanize historical figures in historical fiction, but the author must stay within the historical record (if the record is known).

The king of a Northern land, having refused to marry off his beautiful eldest daughter and deed some of his holdings to a nearby chieftain, is now at war. He sends Harald, his youngest child and heir to the throne, along with Asa, the eldest daughter, and his middle daughter, Solveig, to a remote land to keep them safe. The king also sends a handpicked group to accompany them. As the novel opens, they await supplies before winter freezes out any vessel’s passage by water. A ship eventually arrives with the king’s personal guard–20 hearty berserkers wrapped in animal skins, led by Hake, a giant to rival Thor, and the king’s skald, Alric. When someone poisons the berserkers, everyone suddenly becomes a suspect.

Solveig, the only one of the king’s children who feels she has no purpose, narrates the story. At Alric’s urging, she begins to cultivate her gift for weaving a tale–and her narrative holds us in her spell. Her recurring nightmare suggests that she may also have the gift of foresight, in addition to her skills as a keen observer and storyteller. Matthew Kirby’s story peels away like layers of an onion. Two-thirds of the way into the book, Solveig reveals a structure to the novel that serves a dual purpose. Every piece of this puzzle, infused with Norse lore, fits together.

Young adult fiction tied to myths and stories? Yep, that’s me.  And it turned out to be a gripping and imaginative story with great characters and a unique setting. Kirby really explores issues of trust in a community pushed to the brink while at the same telling a powerful coming of age story about a child awkwardly trying to find her identity (in contrast to the beautiful sister and the young brother and heir to the throne).

Three reasons you should read this one:

1) Great characters. Starting with Solveig this story is a mix of great characters. As noted above, Solveig struggles to find her place in the world. She is plain and has no clear place in the hierarchy of her community. Her sister is the beautiful princess who reminds everyone of her beautiful mother and whose beauty brings status to her father the king. Her brother is the young heir to the throne full of youthful energy and already showing signs of strength and courage.  But it turns out she does have gifts and these will play a more important role in the life of the community than anyone would have predicted.

In addition you have Alric the sklad who is mentoring Solveig but who seems to lack any clear allegiances or commitments except his own safety. And Per the warrior Solveig idolized – who she thought was different from all the rest – but who is revealed to be all too human; and like everyone else with suspect motives and desires. Or Hake the frightening berserker who of all people seems worthy of trust. The interaction of these, and a number of interesting side characters as well, makes for fascinating reading.

2) Great setting. The tension starts from the very beginning with the idea that the ice flow will trap this party in place over the course of the winter. As the harsh winter descends Kirby ratchets up the tension with intrigue and violence. Trapped between the fjord and the glacier, and forced to live and eat in one building, the royal family shares space with warriors and servants.  Soon nerves are frayed and friendships are threatened.  This also serves as a great stage for the story elements as Solveig struggles to come to terms with being a skald and her gifts and identity. The sense of being trapped; the picture of a community pushed to the edge; the harsh reality of the Norse world are all captured here.

3) The power of story. Kirby not only weaves a great story himself but artfully explores the power of story in “real” life. He shows how we use stories to find our place in the larger world and to make sense of ideas, emotions, history and relationships.  Stories can alter our mood, change our perspective and unite a community - among other things.   kirby both shows this with his own skillful narrative and highlights it within the story using the Norse myths and the stories Alric and Solveig tell.

As should be clear from the above, Kirby weaves a great tale. There is historical detail, psychological insight, mystery, intrigue and more.  And of course, there is a climatic conclusion.

A great story for readers young and old.

Related articles

• The Big Idea: Matthew J. Kirby (whatever.scalzi.com)

Queen of Kings

It did – sorta.

Basic Plot (short version): Cleopatra in death reborn as world threatening vampire.

Basic Plot (longer version): As the Romans prepare to conquer Egypt, and trick her husband Marc Antony into suicide, Cleopatra desperately seeks the help of an ancient goddess. But insted of simply adding a powerful ally to her side she inadvertently unleashes a monster she can’t control, loses her soul and turns a traditional war into a supernatural one.

Sounds interesting, no?

The book gets off to something of a slow start as we are introduced to Cleopatra and the cast of characters: The Roman Emperor Octavian (Augustus); Marcus Agrippa – general and friend of the emperor; former Roman general and husband to the queen Marc Antony, Nicolaus the Damascene – historian and tutor to the queen’s children, etc.

What makes the book awkward at times is its position between literary and genre fiction. Without getting into that age old debate, the book doesn’t seem sure which conventions it wants to utilize. This type of genre-bending, and mixing of history and fantasy, can be well done, and entertaining, but it takes some skill not to have it turn out choppy and confusing. Headly holds it together in stretches but it has fits and starts where things are less than smooth.

She wants to both tell an epic tale and a thriller all while describing things in detail and exploring the internal worlds of her characters. This is a lot too take on in one book.

There is a long section which basically sets up the battle that underlies the entire story: Octavian’s paranoia about Cleopatra and his resulting gathering of witches and warriors and Cleopatra’s search for vengeance.

This section drags in spots but the action really picks up once Octavian has his supernatural allies and Cleopatra beings to hunt him in Rome. What slows the story down in the middle section is the complexity of the plot and the multiplicity of characters. Headly clearly wanted to jam in as much mythology and characters/subplots as she could. Some are clever and interesting while others seem less so.

Once all the characters have been in a sense brought on stage and their mythological background told and motives explored the last battle is ready to start. And it is quite the battle!

This is one of those books that is hard to get a handle on.  In many ways all this messiness really got in the way of what is a good story. And at times you are asking yourself: where is all of this going? And the sort of Gothic romance aspect frequently seemed corny.  But despite all of this there is just enough interesting myth and action to make it entertaining.

If you are interested in mythology played out in fantasy, or like stories that blend styles and genres, this would make for good beach reading this summer.

Related articles

• Book Notes – Maria Dahvana Headley (“Queen of Kings”) (largeheartedboy.com)
• Video: Queen of Kings Trailer (collectedmiscellany.com)

In this epic and stunningly imaginative blend of history, fantasy, romance, and the supernatural, Queen of Kings entwines the true and timeless story of Antony and Cleopatra with a supernatural narrative in which the Queen of Egypt sacrifices her soul to save her fallen husband and in return is transformed into a vampiric shape-shifter bent on vengeance against the Roman Empire.

Publishers Weekly

Set in 1933, Atkins’s winning fourth history-based novel focuses on two figures who, as the author explains in an introduction, have been undeservedly lost in the shuffle of Depression-era gangsters: George Kelly, who ironically gets saddled with the nickname Machine Gun, and his wife, Kathryn. The fast-moving narrative spans a three-month period, starting with a fatal ambush in a parking lot outside Kansas City’s Union Station in which hoods gun down several lawmen and the prisoner they were about to drive to Leavenworth. This massacre leads to the FBI obtaining the authority to make arrests and carry weapons. The bulk of the action concerns the Kellys’ kidnapping of Charles Urschel, a wealthy Oklahoma oilman, and its aftermath. Atkins (Devil’s Garden) brings to vivid life the henpecked George and the bloodthirsty Kathryn as he convincingly conjures up a past era. Not just for crime fans, this should appeal to a wide readership.

Publishers Weekly:

At the start of Drake’s superlative middle book in his ancient Egypt trilogy (after Nefertiti), Rahotep, the chief detective in the Thebes police force, visits a horrific crime scene. Someone has mutilated a young man and removed his eyes—and possibly pacified him with narcotics during the assault. When the killer strikes again, Rahotep wonders if the murders may be connected with efforts to destabilize the regime of the young Tutankhamun. The ruler’s foes include Ay, the regent who effectively runs the country, and Horemheb, commander of the country’s armies. Rahotep must tread carefully to identify the parties behind both the killings and the threats to Tutankhamun without jeopardizing his life and the lives of his family members. Drake seamlessly introduces a serial killer plot line into his vivid evocation of the past. Admirers of such great historical novelists as Robert Graves and Mary Renault will hope that he continues working in the field after concluding this series.

My Take:

The second book in this series is much like the first, an interesting historical mystery that too often – at least for me – gets bogged down in description and language to the detriment of pace and plotting.

Rahotep is a melancholy poet turned investigator who gets pulled into the intrigue of the palace during the reign of the famous Tutankhamun.  What seems a simple investigation into mysterious objects found in the palace turns into a mystery that may cost Rahotep everything and puts the future of Egypt at risk.

The characters and backdrop are interesting but too often Drake – a poet and playwirght – insists on detailed descriptions of both interior (ie emotional) and exterior scenes to the point that the story loses its pace. Rahotep is supposed to be a unique perspective – agnostic when it comes to the gods, introspective and prone to question everything – too much musing and description means less tension and action.

Those who like historical mysteries with lots of details may disagree.