The Girl in the Blue Berettells the story of Marshall, World War 2 veteran and newly-retired commercial airline pilot. Marshall returns from the war, after having crash landed his B-17 Flying Fortress and escaped to Spain with the held of the French Resistance, confused and withdrawn, content to follow the pattern established for him by society. After years of flying for commercial airlines, Marshall is forced to hang up his pilot’s uniform in favor of retirement. With the rest of his life looming in front of him, Marshall decides to revisit the site of his crash landing, hoping to find both traces of those who helped him to escape German-occupied France and traces of the person he might have been had the war not intervened.
Character development seems slow through the first few chapters. Readers may find themselves curious as to why they should invest their time and mental energy in caring about Marshall’s story. He reveals very little about himself, and more often than not seems like an old man who’s simply gotten too big for his britches. However, over the course of the story, readers will find themselves understanding and sympathizing with Marshall without their even realizing it. They will realize that Marshall reveals little about himself because he doesn’t have a firm grasp on who he really is. His lack of sense of self becomes something to be pitied, and readers will inevitably be drawn to his quest to seek out the missing parts of himself. By the end of the novel, Marshall has solidified himself as a character worthy of attention and commiseration. He seems to slowly relieve himself of the detritus of his past so that he can work towards making a better future.
Pacing, at first, seems a bit sluggish. Readers can expect several chapters of Marshall’s reminiscence both of the war and of his days as a pilot. However, Mason disguises the quickening pace of her novel beneath the mystery of a missing character. Before the reader has a chance to realize what’s happening, the story’s pace has accelerated, and readers find themselves hurdling towards the end of the story. Mason’s manipulation of her story’s pace is commendable and will keep readers engaged until the last page.
A discussion of the novel’s ending is difficult without giving away too much information. However, it will suffice to say that readers are able to choose, in a way, the ending they prefer, and regardless of which path a reader wishes Marshall to take, that reader can be satisfied that Marshall has indeed learned some things about himself as a person and about the overall cause that bound the characters in his story together: the war.
The Girl in the Blue Beretis based on a memoir left behind by Mason’s father-in-law, which lends it a hauntingly relevant and personal feeling, a feeling that lingers long after the last page has been turned. For more information, see the author’s website here.
This year marks the fiftieth anniversary of the publication of Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar. There. I said it. I told myself this was not my battle, that I should remain an casual observer rather than a participant. But the debate rages on, and I can’t help myself.
In what I assume (in my limited knowledge of the publishing world) to be true publishing style, the book has been re-released with a new cover, informing those of us who might not have been aware before that this is, indeed, an anniversary edition. No problems so far.
Critics, teachers, readers, and writers have latched onto the cover with steely fervor, berating it as misleading, confusing, and contradictory. Readers, they fear, will think The Bell Jar is nothing but chick lit, a “light and fluffy read.” The cover gives the wrong impression, they say. The book has nothing to do with beauty and everything to do with angst. It is an offense to Plath as an author and an offense to The Bell Jar as a literary work.
I see the merit of these arguments. However, I think we’re all being nearsighted. We are missing the point.
Shouldn’t we instead be focusing on the fact that after fifty years readers still find The Bell Jar hauntingly relevant, that despite the social changes that have occurred readers still find something with which they identify? There’s something to be said for the fortitude of such a book, published first under a pseudonym. Instead of focusing on the book’s cover, can we instead give readers the benefit of the doubt? Can we allow the unknowing to make the glorious mistake of stumbling accidentally, if that is possible, onto a work from which they might otherwise have shied away? Critics of the cover seem to be under the impression that readers today are not discerning enough to know what The Bell Jar is, that readers today cannot read the blurb on the back of the book (or inside the front cover flap) and tell that Plath’s work is not a sip-on-a-soda-and-read time killer.
I find it odd that in a culture that so values the don’t-judge-a-book-by-its-cover mantra for every other aspect of life we so willingly embrace that judgement when it comes to actual books. There is a lot to be said for a cover, yes. And generally speaking it is, perhaps, the first thing to which we are drawn. That, however, does not form the only basis on which we choose what we read. It does not negate the reader’s ability to distinguish content from presentation.
I say that to say this: given that Plath’s novel has withstood fifty years of readership and criticism, it is possible that we are allowing the cover too much importance. For some the cover will never be right; certain people will always be finding fault. And while the cover is a visual representation of the novel, it is not the novel itself. The Bell Jar can and will speak for itself, whether it is accidentally or deliberately read.
Adulthood is a wonderful thing. We evolve from pimply teenage mess into responsible, productive members of society. At least that’s the ideal progression. But for some of us, the voice of the inner child doesn’t fade as readily. For some of us, it becomes difficult to let go and face reality, so we hold onto that which keeps us innocent, inculpable. And somehow it becomes easy to maintain this childlike revery. That is until the reality of adulthood comes hurdling towards us at full steam like a bully in the halls of Anywhere USA High School.
Marc Schuster’s Charley Schwartz of The Grievers is one such individual. Throughout the novel, readers will find themselves growing increasingly frustrated with Charley until they realize that he represents the parts of themselves that they must deny in order to function as adults. In many ways, Charley behaves in a manner that we have all envied at some point. He is sarcastic, irreverent at times, and completely unsure of his adult self. This uncertainty of just what it means to be an adult is precisely what allows Charley to ingratiate himself with readers. By the time he comes to the realization that none of us is sure what it really means to be an adult, readers are already sympathetic to his plight.
The Grievers contains a number of examples of people we could all be, paths we might have taken when we reached the proverbial crossroads that separate childhood from adulthood, and it is interesting to note that no one seems completely confident of their decision. Some characters are better at faking it than others, but for the most part, everyone involved in the story is operating under some sort of pretense, a quality that lends itself to both believability and relatability. Anyone reading The Grievers will find someone with whom they can identify, and it becomes very comforting to note that everyone has uncertainties.
While the story itself is very realistic and the portrayal of the characters makes them both endearing and frightening, there are times throughout the book when the dialogue seems better suited to reading than to speaking. In other words, people don’t really talk that way. However, these instances are so few and far between that they do not detract from the novel, its purpose, or its impact.
The Grievers is an ideal novel for those of us who sometimes seek to read books with which we can commiserate, rather than books into which we can escape. It allows us to be more aware of our humanity, while learning to accept it (flawed though it may be) at the same time.
Media-painted portraits of Afghanistan are rarely favorable. What we see on the television and in newspapers and magazines exposes a war-torn country where everyday life is precarious and little to no order exists for its citizens. Over the last decade, the emotions of the American public have run the gamut from enraged to indifferent regarding the state of that country and the continued presence there of the US. In The Dressmaker of Khair Khana, however, Gayle Tzemach Lemmon carefully weaves the true story of what it’s like to live in a Taliban-centered world.
The Dressmaker of Khair Khana tells the story of the Sidiqi family and begins in 1996 when the Taliban first came to occupy Kabul. Through Kamila’s story and that of her family readers are able to see the human face of the conflict-ridden country, a valuable history for those of us who aren’t necessarily well-educated regarding the history of the Middle East prior to the events of September 11.
Lemmon’s writing style allows the reader to forget, if only momentarily, that she is in fact telling a factual story. Sure, details have been changed, altered, or omitted for the sake of safety, but nonfiction is not at all infallible as a genre. The storytelling style used in The Dressmaker of Khair Khana reads as though it is fiction until Lemmon includes a detail that makes the story altogether too real.
Kamila, the “protagonist” of the story, comes to be the head of her family when her parents are forced to move north after the Taliban occupation. Through her ingenuity she is able to sustain not only her own family but numerous other families in her neighborhood as well. Her story is one of intrigue, perseverance, daring, and danger, a timeless inspiration for any reader.
Although the book seems to be ultimately geared toward a female audience, both males and females will enjoy the history related in Kamila’s life story. Through the book, we come to learn that the conflict within the borders of Afghanistan was not initiated just prior to September 11, that the conflict had in fact been raging there for a number of years, something not necessarily pointed out in media reports today. Readers are also educated as to the difference between the Taliban and Al Qaeda, an important detail since we generally tend to conflate the two terms.
By the end of The Dressmaker of Khair Khana, readers will have gained a better sense of what it meant to live in Afghanistan then and what it means to live there now. While it remains certain that there are pockets of resistance (as there have been for a number of years), a sense of hope also remains, a hope that someday the country and its citizens will again assume their normal ways of life without the added stresses of war and conflict.
Capital L Literature is slippery to define, even on the best of days. Generation after generation has struggled to define the qualities inherent in Literature (as opposed to literature, or the stuff that populates both the bestseller list and the book stands in local grocery stores). We ponder over innumerable cups of coffee what it means to be part of the great literary canon: what characteristics link the greats to one another? How can those characteristics be replicated? How do we define them in concrete terms? What happens when we try?
Over the years, the literary canon has changed, multiplied, divided, become inclusive and exclusive all at once. But some things never change. Some authors remain constant fixtures in Literature, and no amount of debating, dissecting, or declaiming can ratchet them from their honorable places.
Among these sit illustrious, albeit misunderstood, literary geniuses (the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen, Mark Twain, Poe, and Louise May Alcott), of whom Charles Dickens is one. Today marks what would have been the author’s 200th birthday, and a celebration is seemingly in order.
Even those who are not readers of his works have been influenced in some way by Dickens. His story A Christmas Carol has become part of the holiday catalogue, inspiring animated films and Christmas decorations. The film and television industry has been arguably generous to Dickens, ensuring that each generation has its theatrical embodiment of the classic holiday tale, and each generation has bent the story to its purpose.
Dickens’s works are full of one-liners familiar to us all for one reason or another:
“It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.”
“Please, sir, may I have some more?”
And for these the world owes a debt of gratitude. Not only have they illuminated poignant moments in literature, but they have also provided the masses with entertainment and laughter at their own expense.
To say that Dickens had a way with words seems trite and inadequate. The names of his characters alone are enough to inspire both readers’ and writers’ imaginations. One needs little more than the name of a character in any given story to understand the true nature of him. Take, for example, Wackford Squeers of Nicholas Nickleby or Lord Verisopht of the same novel. While Dickens has absolved himself of outwardly accusing these characters of certain natures, their names provide the reader with enough context to form an opinion before the character has even acted.
Dickens had a knack for making a point with his work without overtly using his authorial voice to comment on the state of his world. In Nicholas Nickleby, for example, he uses Squeers and Smike to illustrate the deplorable conditions of boys’ schools, but he allows the text to resolve the problem, allowing Wackford Squeers his just deserts.
Important writers, those with canonical staying power, are few and far between. Many aspire to greatness, but few are able to achieve it. Today we celebrate one of the few who did, one who gave to the world more than he could have ever realized in the voices of Tiny Tim, Pip, and Oliver Twist. For this a celebration is indeed in order.
Sherlock Holmes is one of Literature’s most revered characters. Generation upon generation has found in him a brainy hero, someone who manages to win without employing might and strength. No, Sherlock runs on brain power, which is arguably his most endearing quality. Embraced by both the film and television industries both here and abroad, Sherlock has maintained a cultural presence unique unto himself.
Which is precisely why Andrew Lane’s young adult novel Death Cloud inspires reluctance. Lane’s novel approaches Sherlock from the aspect of childhood. For years readers have wondered what Sherlock must have been like as a boy, and Lane has attempted to answer the quandary. He has done remarkably well, considering that we are never given any indication as to what childhood events shaped our beloved Sherlock.
All reluctance aside, Death Cloud is quite the captivating novel, particularly for its intended audience. Lane has paid specific attention to detail regarding the time period within which he is working, down to the specifics regarding how people brushed their teeth in those days (“[Sherlock] splashed his face, brushed his teeth with a chalky powder flavoured with cinnamon that he sprinkled on his bone-handled hog’s bristle toothbrush, and quickly dressed.”) He has also managed to preserve that very traditional sense of class and social propriety (“The kids there had tended to avoid the house, belonging as it did the the people they thought of as their social superiors, “the landed gentry,” and Sherlock had spent most of his time alone.”) Sherlock’s friendship with both Matty and Virginia in the book serves to illuminate the social structures in place during what would have been the years of Sherlock’s childhood. Lane’s inclusion of Amyus Crowe also delineates the difference between social mores in England and social mores in America.
Lane attributes the development of Sherlock’s powers of deduction in part to both Mycroft Holmes and Amyus Crowe, an attribution many veteran readers of the Sherlock Holmes collection may find disappointing. With these two instructors, Sherlock’s ability to think on his feet and to mentally and logically move through a problem are quickly honed in this first novel of what is to be a series. Whether or not readers agree with the technique, it is reassuring for younger readers to know that Sherlock was not born brilliant, that it took years of practice and incidents to sharpen his wit and intellect.
The action in Death Cloud is captivating enough for younger readers; however, more mature readers will find the action sequences tedious. Sure, they are filled with anticipation, but while some readers anticipate the outcome of the scene, others anticipate the scene’s ending. Towards the end of the novel, readers, both younger and more mature, may find themselves weary of Sherlock’s penchant for falling into the same kinds of traps.
Despite its (at times) tedious nature, the entertainment to be found in Death Cloud will not disappoint its reader. Lane’s construction of Sherlock’s childhood will make the character both more relatable and more fascinating for whatever reader comes his way.
Children across the globe are familiar with the summer doldrums that inevitably set in once the initial rush of vacation has worn off, and Jack Gantos is no different. In his book, Dead End in Norvelt, Gantos relates a story of his youth in a creative way that is both relevant and relatable to children today.
Gantos’ tale is semiautobiographical in nature, and the writing contains no pretension that every written word in the story is true, an admirable quality in a book of biography or autobiography. The author creatively weaves throughout the story both real elements of his life and fictional conversations and reactions regarding the events that take place in the story. He also places heavy emphasis on the importance of asking why things happened with regards to history. The protagonist is a very curious boy, but he never allows himself to take the things he reads or hears at face value. For children, the delineation of that which is true and that which is fiction is an important lesson to learn for the future, and Gantos successfully brings that lesson to the attention of the reader without being heavy-handed.
The setting of the story, both physically and temporally, is an important facet of the story, and Gantos helps his reader to situate (her)himself in that setting without stating the pertinent information outright. Readers are given clues as to the time period and the location throughout the first pages of the book, and it is only then that they are able to piece together that most basic element of the story. This technique will keep reluctant readers motivated to get through the first ten percent of the book by which time they will be thoroughly enthralled.
While the parents in the book do bicker with each other, it becomes evident towards the end of the book that they have settled into their marriage and the paces through which they must be put. At one point, Jack’s mother is concerned that her actions may have been a contributing factor to the main conflict of the story, and she worries that she will “never be able to grow old” with Jack’s father. The family dynamic in the book is one with which many readers today will be familiar, as Jack’s dad is a war veteran who served in the Pacific. Although the war has been over for some time, its effects are still visible in the behavior of Jack’s father. He is absent a lot of the time, and Jack seems reluctantly concerned with his reaction to Jack’s behavior. He knows that his dad is an authority figure, and he wants to please him and gain his approval. But Jack seems to know throughout his adventures that the source of parenting and guidance he seeks, whether consciously or not, will come from his mother. His relationship with his father is distant and tenuous at best, and at the end of the story, readers come to understand just how different the two of them are from each other. The children of today’s veterans will encounter a protagonist here in whom they may see themselves in terms of familial relationships.
As the 2012 Newbery Medal winner, Gantos’ book Dead End in Norvelt encapsulates a relatable and familiar experience for children in a way that seems more realistic because of its autobiographical elements. The lesson to be learned by the end of the novel is both clear and relevant, and getting to that point of understanding will be a delight for both the child and the adult reader.