to a Vampire Wedding Reception!
Date: Friday, Aug. 1 (Eve of the New Moon)
Time: 10 p.m. to midnight
Occasion: The release of Stephenie Meyer's new book, Breaking Dawn
Where: Barnes & Noble Booksellers in the Golden Triangle Mall
Dress: Vampire Glam (werewolves also welcome)
Knowing Bella Swan, any number of things might happen to prevent her marriage to Edward Cullen, but as far as we know, the wedding is on! Come celebrate with us!
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
C. S. Lewis and Shakespeare
Contains some spoilers for Prince Caspian
Conventional wisdom holds that C. S. Lewis wrote The Chronicles of Narnia as a Christian allegory, so the main source for the series must be the Holy Bible. This is certainly an important influence, but we shouldn't neglect the other sources Lewis used. In my most recent reading of Prince Caspian, I was surprised to see a number of allusions to the plays of William Shakespeare.
The backstory about Caspian's wicked Uncle Miraz, who kills the king and takes his place while Caspian is still too young to rule, is very similar to rhe plot of Hamlet, in which the title character's Uncle Claudius kills King Hamlet, marries Queen Gertrude, and becomes the new monarch of Denmark, preventing Hamlet from succeeding his father to the throne.
Miraz's wily counselors Sopespian and Glozelle, who manipulate the king into entering combat by pretending that they want him to avoid battle, recall a number of Shakespearean villains, such as Iago, the treacherous advisor in Othello, and Sebastian and Antonio, the fratricidal conspirators in The Tempest.
Another reference to The Tempest appears in the chapter "Aslan Makes a Door in the Air," in which Aslan informs the Telmarines of their true origins. Like the Pevensie children, the Telmarines are Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve (humans from the "real world"). They are descendents of pirates who shipwrecked on a South Sea island, and Aslan proposes to send them back to this island to begin a new life. The Tempest, which also begins with a shipwreck on a beautiful tropical island, presents a story of punishment and redemption: the banished Prospero forgives the brother who tried to kill him, and Prospero's daughter, Miranda, sees the newcomers to the island as the beginning of a "brave new world."
Prince Caspian's final Shakespearean allusion is to the famous prophecy in Macbeth that the title character shall be defeated when "Birnan Wood do come to Dunsinane." Since woods can't move, Macbeth believes this is a colorful way of saying he will never be defeated, but he is tricked by the opposing army, who approach under camouflage of branches and leaves. Lewis makes the trick even better by including Dryads, Hamadryads, and Silvans (tree-spirits) in the Old Narnian forces, so that the actual woods advance on Miraz's army and terrify them into thinking that the world is ending.
In a previous posting, I explained why Prince Caspian was my least favorite book in the Chronicles of Narnia when I was a young reader. I stand by the critique I offered yesterday, but I must admit that even the weaker books in the series include some gems. Lewis's use of Shakespearean allusions confirms what I have often argued in this blog: children's fantasy is literature worthy of careful examination and should not be dismissed as cheap entertainment. Even after more than fifty years, the sophistication of the Chronicles of Narnia has the power to surprise and delight us.
Conventional wisdom holds that C. S. Lewis wrote The Chronicles of Narnia as a Christian allegory, so the main source for the series must be the Holy Bible. This is certainly an important influence, but we shouldn't neglect the other sources Lewis used. In my most recent reading of Prince Caspian, I was surprised to see a number of allusions to the plays of William Shakespeare.
The backstory about Caspian's wicked Uncle Miraz, who kills the king and takes his place while Caspian is still too young to rule, is very similar to rhe plot of Hamlet, in which the title character's Uncle Claudius kills King Hamlet, marries Queen Gertrude, and becomes the new monarch of Denmark, preventing Hamlet from succeeding his father to the throne.
Miraz's wily counselors Sopespian and Glozelle, who manipulate the king into entering combat by pretending that they want him to avoid battle, recall a number of Shakespearean villains, such as Iago, the treacherous advisor in Othello, and Sebastian and Antonio, the fratricidal conspirators in The Tempest.
Another reference to The Tempest appears in the chapter "Aslan Makes a Door in the Air," in which Aslan informs the Telmarines of their true origins. Like the Pevensie children, the Telmarines are Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve (humans from the "real world"). They are descendents of pirates who shipwrecked on a South Sea island, and Aslan proposes to send them back to this island to begin a new life. The Tempest, which also begins with a shipwreck on a beautiful tropical island, presents a story of punishment and redemption: the banished Prospero forgives the brother who tried to kill him, and Prospero's daughter, Miranda, sees the newcomers to the island as the beginning of a "brave new world."
Prince Caspian's final Shakespearean allusion is to the famous prophecy in Macbeth that the title character shall be defeated when "Birnan Wood do come to Dunsinane." Since woods can't move, Macbeth believes this is a colorful way of saying he will never be defeated, but he is tricked by the opposing army, who approach under camouflage of branches and leaves. Lewis makes the trick even better by including Dryads, Hamadryads, and Silvans (tree-spirits) in the Old Narnian forces, so that the actual woods advance on Miraz's army and terrify them into thinking that the world is ending.
In a previous posting, I explained why Prince Caspian was my least favorite book in the Chronicles of Narnia when I was a young reader. I stand by the critique I offered yesterday, but I must admit that even the weaker books in the series include some gems. Lewis's use of Shakespearean allusions confirms what I have often argued in this blog: children's fantasy is literature worthy of careful examination and should not be dismissed as cheap entertainment. Even after more than fifty years, the sophistication of the Chronicles of Narnia has the power to surprise and delight us.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Prince Caspian's Challenge to Filmmakers
Contains some book spoilers.
It's probably a mistake to read (or even reread) a book just before seeing the film adaptation, but I always seem to do it anyway. I want to see the new Narnia movie this week, so last night I reread Prince Caspian by C. S. Lewis. The one review I've read was lukewarm at best, but if the movie is a little flat and disappointing, I'm not sure all the blame belongs to the filmmakers. Prince Caspian may be the slowest and least thrilling of the Narnia series.
As I was reading, I was especially interested to find Caspian's age because the film director has cast a young man who seems much older than the boyish character I remembered. While Lewis doesn't assign an exact age, he tells us that Caspian is about the same age as Peter, who is probably in his late teens. Like his younger siblings, Peter is on his way to school when they are all pulled into Narnia, but this is his last visit; to his sorrow, Peter learns that he and Susan won't come back to Narnia because they're "too old." Even though they're the same age, Prince Caspian has always struck me as younger than Peter. Perhaps it's because Peter can draw on his memories of adulthood from his last trip to Narnia, which lasted many years, whereas Caspian has only recently run away from his aunt and uncle and is still struggling to establish his authority among his followers. The most influential person in the young king's life is still his former tutor.
Although the book is named after Caspian, the Pevensie children are still the central characters. They've returned to Narnia to help Caspian reclaim the throne that is rightfully his, but it's Peter, not Caspian, who challenges the usurping king to single combat. Lucy and Edmund are remarkable for their demonstrations of faith and courage, while Susan struggles with her fears, but Caspian never seems to emerge from the shadow of these much better developed characters. He is neither an unlikely hero fighting for legitimacy or an idealistic champion battling the forces of evil. Rather Caspian seems like a boy king placed on a throne by older and wiser characters who recognize his symbolic authority and his potential (not his current ability) to be a good ruler. He never seems to come into his own by declaring his independence or even making his own mistakes. Even secondary characters like Trumpkin, the cheerfully skeptical dwarf, and Reepicheep, the valiant mouse, are far more endearing and interesting.
Prince Caspian does include one of my favorite scenes: Aslan freeing the young schoolmarm from the misery of teaching bratty little boys who turn into pigs and run away. However, this book was never my favorite in the Chronicles of Narnia, perhaps because very little happens in this book. The meat of the story is in Prince Caspian's escape from the evil uncle who killed his father, the creation of a resistance army, and the battle to restore "Old Narnia." However, much of Caspian's story is told in flashback, and we simply never care about him as much as we do the Pevensie children. For me, the book never had much value except to introduce characters and conflicts that would become important in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, which I found much more exciting when I was a young reader. Prince Caspian moves the series forward and provides some important foreshadowing, but it's not a particularly powerful book on its own.
Although Prince Caspian offers scenes with wonderful cinematic potential (the discovery of the overgrown castle, Lucy's dance with the tree-people, the "romp" with Aslan, and of course the battle scenes), the book also presents filmmakers with an enormous challenge: they may have to sacrifice faithfulness to the original in order to create a truly interesting and sympathetic hero.
It's probably a mistake to read (or even reread) a book just before seeing the film adaptation, but I always seem to do it anyway. I want to see the new Narnia movie this week, so last night I reread Prince Caspian by C. S. Lewis. The one review I've read was lukewarm at best, but if the movie is a little flat and disappointing, I'm not sure all the blame belongs to the filmmakers. Prince Caspian may be the slowest and least thrilling of the Narnia series.
As I was reading, I was especially interested to find Caspian's age because the film director has cast a young man who seems much older than the boyish character I remembered. While Lewis doesn't assign an exact age, he tells us that Caspian is about the same age as Peter, who is probably in his late teens. Like his younger siblings, Peter is on his way to school when they are all pulled into Narnia, but this is his last visit; to his sorrow, Peter learns that he and Susan won't come back to Narnia because they're "too old." Even though they're the same age, Prince Caspian has always struck me as younger than Peter. Perhaps it's because Peter can draw on his memories of adulthood from his last trip to Narnia, which lasted many years, whereas Caspian has only recently run away from his aunt and uncle and is still struggling to establish his authority among his followers. The most influential person in the young king's life is still his former tutor.
Although the book is named after Caspian, the Pevensie children are still the central characters. They've returned to Narnia to help Caspian reclaim the throne that is rightfully his, but it's Peter, not Caspian, who challenges the usurping king to single combat. Lucy and Edmund are remarkable for their demonstrations of faith and courage, while Susan struggles with her fears, but Caspian never seems to emerge from the shadow of these much better developed characters. He is neither an unlikely hero fighting for legitimacy or an idealistic champion battling the forces of evil. Rather Caspian seems like a boy king placed on a throne by older and wiser characters who recognize his symbolic authority and his potential (not his current ability) to be a good ruler. He never seems to come into his own by declaring his independence or even making his own mistakes. Even secondary characters like Trumpkin, the cheerfully skeptical dwarf, and Reepicheep, the valiant mouse, are far more endearing and interesting.
Prince Caspian does include one of my favorite scenes: Aslan freeing the young schoolmarm from the misery of teaching bratty little boys who turn into pigs and run away. However, this book was never my favorite in the Chronicles of Narnia, perhaps because very little happens in this book. The meat of the story is in Prince Caspian's escape from the evil uncle who killed his father, the creation of a resistance army, and the battle to restore "Old Narnia." However, much of Caspian's story is told in flashback, and we simply never care about him as much as we do the Pevensie children. For me, the book never had much value except to introduce characters and conflicts that would become important in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, which I found much more exciting when I was a young reader. Prince Caspian moves the series forward and provides some important foreshadowing, but it's not a particularly powerful book on its own.
Although Prince Caspian offers scenes with wonderful cinematic potential (the discovery of the overgrown castle, Lucy's dance with the tree-people, the "romp" with Aslan, and of course the battle scenes), the book also presents filmmakers with an enormous challenge: they may have to sacrifice faithfulness to the original in order to create a truly interesting and sympathetic hero.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Generation R
According to Newsweek.com, YA fantasy is the brightest spot in book publishing today. We all knew that, didn't we?
Teen book sales are booming, and although Jamie Reno snarkily adds "it's not all Harry Potter," the author must admit that Rowling is largely responsible for jump-starting the trend.
Photo by Bettmann-Corbis
Friday, March 21, 2008
First Test
People have been telling me for years that I ought to read Tamora Pierce, and I finally have. I've read the first three books in her Protector of the Small series (First Test, Page, and Squire), and I'm looking forward to reading the fourth (Lady Knight).
I was really impressed by the way Pierce uses a fantasy setting to address real-world issues like sexism, bullying, institutional hazing, and the code of silence that so often unites young people against adult authority figures. Keladry of Mindelan, a remarkable 10-year-old, is the only girl in a school full of boys training as pages, the first step toward becoming a knight. Kel must cope with hostility from many of her teachers as well as from her peers: the training master has made no secret of his belief that women have no place at the school. Kel spends her first year of training "on probation," a restriction imposed on no other student.
Kel's early training as the daughter of a diplomat allows her to remain calm and expressionless even when her fellow-students jeer and laugh at her. "I am stone," she tells herself, refusing to be goaded into an emotional display that would only reinforce the men's conviction that a woman doesn't have what it takes to be a successful knight. Although her classmates nickname her "the Lump," she ultimately wins their respect not only for her fighting skills but for her sense of justice. She challenges the bullying that others have accepted as part of school life, but she doesn't merely protect those who are weak and small; she teaches them to defend themselves.
What confuses me is how Pierce fans respond to my choice of First Test for last month's meeting. "Why did you start with that?" they want to know, their voices dripping with disgust. "You should have read Alanna." Sometimes it's another series, Beka Cooper or Circle of Magic, but the majority of protestors have named Alanna and the Wild Magic books. "Kel is so boring. She doesn't even have any magic."
As I said, Protector of the Small is the only series I've read, so I can't comment on the others. For all I know, I might prefer Wild Magic; that's not really the issue. Why do they seem so angry, so personally insulted by my choice of book, especially when they admire the author so much?
I've come up with a few reasons for their reaction:
Chronology: Alanna's series takes place earlier; in fact, Alanna's struggle to become a knight while disguised as a boy forces the king to recognize that girls should be given equal opportunity. Kel's story begins with Alanna's discovery that she will not be allowed to help the young girl on her journey to becoming a knight; like Alanna, Kel will have to find her own way. I've noticed that fans can be very rigid about the order in which books SHOULD be read.
Impatience: First Test is the only book by Tamora Pierce we've scheduled for this year. Perhaps the protestors are disappointed that they'll have to wait a long while before we'll get around to the Pierce book they prefer.
The Paradox of the Series: Series are popular because when readers find a book they really love, they want to read more of the same. At the same time, they're very critical of writers who repeat the same story over and over. I got the impression that some readers felt that Kel was too different from Alanna, far less fiery and impulsive and therefore "boring." At the same time, they'd already seen the story of a young girl fighting for acceptance among the male warriors; why rehearse it again? It's difficult to satisfy readers who want "the same thing only different" from their favorite authors.
These all make sense, but I'm afraid there may be one more reason, one that I find particularly disturbing. From what I've seen of her in Protector of the Small, Alanna prefers to meet every challenge by confronting it immediately and head-on. When she's angry, people know it, and she wins the respect of her opponents at the point of a sword. Kel, on the other hand, plays the long game. She's willing to work slowly to solve a problem, and she shows surprising grace and tact in resolving problems with friends and enemies alike. Her cool judgment and ability to act wisely in a crisis shows that she can be a strong leader in peacetime as well as in conflict.
Do readers prefer Alanna to Kel because fighting for a quick fix is more appealing than working slowly toward a long-term solution? Have they decided that patience and tact are outdated, boring, and stereotypically feminine?
Hillary Clinton's run for the presidency has provoked a number of questions about women's ability to lead, and Sen. Clinton has responded by emphasizing her qualifications as Commander-in-Chief. She's focused on issues of personal strength and military engagements, but what about diplomacy and statesmanship? Obama speaks often of the need to reconcile (liberals and conservatives, the U.S. and other nations); is Clinton afraid that she'll seem weak if she talks about reconciliation instead of military solutions? Can there be authority without violence?
My final question applies as much to Senator Clinton as it does to Alanna and Kel: Does a woman have to fight to be taken seriously?
Saturday, January 5, 2008
The Great Escape?
Popular literature as therapy
I've been reading a lot of scholarship about romance novels lately (yes, there actually are romance scholars), and I'm struck by the fact that nearly all of them describe popular literature as escapist, although they don't agree on whether this is a good or a bad thing. Some say that pop lit works as a kind of therapy, providing a much-needed break from the stresses of daily life without the expense of an actual vacation. Readers enter into another world by identifying imaginatively with the book's protagonist and return to their own lives feeling refreshed and better able to deal with the problems they left behind.
Popular literature as drug addiction
Other scholars describe escapist literature much more negatively. Reading is irresponsible because it allows the individual to avoid problems instead of dealing with them. Reading is at best a means of procrastination, at worst a dangerous kind of self-medication. Because the fantasy world acts as a safety valve for the reader's frustration by vicariously fulfilling all his or her wishes, the reader has less motivation to face problems head-on, resolve them, and achieve his or her dreams in the real world. These critics argue that escapist literature sedates people into accepting the undesirable circumstances of their lives (such as unhealthy habits, unhappy relationships, unsatisfying work, or social injustices) instead of inspiring them to change.
Are fantasy and sf really escapist?
Fantasy and science fiction are especially vulnerable to this kind of criticism because the genres are seen as unrealistic and therefore useless in bringing about any personal or social transformation. However, I've noticed that the imaginary societies in fantasy and science fiction have just as many problems as ours does; in fact, many authors create these fantasy worlds in order to address real-world problems through a strategy of defamiliarization. They describe a society based on unfamiliar laws and customs that seem illogical, unfair, or simply wrong; as the novel progresses, readers are able to recognize their own society in this depiction and see its successes and shortcomings much more clearly. This strategy is similar to the question posed by sociologists about how a Martian visitor would perceive life on earth: sometimes the author allows us to visit another alien world; sometimes we become the Martians and are surprised or even horrified by what we discover about Earth.
For example, Scott Westerfeld's Uglies series presents a future society that insists on cosmetic surgery for everyone over 16 to prevent anyone from enjoying an unfair biological advantage based on appearance. The surgery prevents young people from developing eating disorders like bulimia and anorexia, and it guarantees that political elections and job hires are no longer based on the candidate's looks--when everyone is beautiful, everyone is equal.
This seems like democracy, but Westerfeld explains that this is actually tyranny. Why should someone else decide how you "should" look? Who has the authority to determine what is and isn't beautiful? What's wrong with simply being yourself? And why do the "New Pretties" seem so conformist, so trivial, so obsessed with fitting in instead of acting independently? Why doesn't their beauty free them? Through the exploration of an unfamiliar society, Uglies enables us to recognize our society's arbitrary standards of beauty, critique the media's enforcement of these standards, and confront our own complicity in obeying them.
By locating his or her story in another world where familiar allegiances and divisions don't apply, an author is able to create sympathy for an argument without running up against preconceived objections like "Well, an America-hating liberal WOULD say that" or "I don't have to listen to this paranoid conservative rant." Fantasy and science fiction create space for new ways of looking at old problems. Witness Orson Scott Card's critique of war and the military complex in Ender's Game or J. K. Rowling's protest against government intrusion into education in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
Indeed, the more fantastic the text, the easier it is to find parallels to our own experience. This is why Lewis Carroll's Alice books have been so beloved and so influential. Who hasn't felt as bewildered and disoriented as Alice on her travels through Wonderland? Who hasn't run up against a regulation every bit as nonsensical and frustrating as the one the White Queen explains to Alice in Through the Looking Glass: "The rule is, jam tomorrow and jam yesterday, but never jam today"?
I'm not denying the pleasures of escapism. There's nothing I like better than snuggling up in my fleecy pajamas and losing myself in a good book. However, a really good book doesn't just help you get lost; it also helps you find your way back to a world you can see more clearly.
I've been reading a lot of scholarship about romance novels lately (yes, there actually are romance scholars), and I'm struck by the fact that nearly all of them describe popular literature as escapist, although they don't agree on whether this is a good or a bad thing. Some say that pop lit works as a kind of therapy, providing a much-needed break from the stresses of daily life without the expense of an actual vacation. Readers enter into another world by identifying imaginatively with the book's protagonist and return to their own lives feeling refreshed and better able to deal with the problems they left behind.
Popular literature as drug addiction
Other scholars describe escapist literature much more negatively. Reading is irresponsible because it allows the individual to avoid problems instead of dealing with them. Reading is at best a means of procrastination, at worst a dangerous kind of self-medication. Because the fantasy world acts as a safety valve for the reader's frustration by vicariously fulfilling all his or her wishes, the reader has less motivation to face problems head-on, resolve them, and achieve his or her dreams in the real world. These critics argue that escapist literature sedates people into accepting the undesirable circumstances of their lives (such as unhealthy habits, unhappy relationships, unsatisfying work, or social injustices) instead of inspiring them to change.
Are fantasy and sf really escapist?
Fantasy and science fiction are especially vulnerable to this kind of criticism because the genres are seen as unrealistic and therefore useless in bringing about any personal or social transformation. However, I've noticed that the imaginary societies in fantasy and science fiction have just as many problems as ours does; in fact, many authors create these fantasy worlds in order to address real-world problems through a strategy of defamiliarization. They describe a society based on unfamiliar laws and customs that seem illogical, unfair, or simply wrong; as the novel progresses, readers are able to recognize their own society in this depiction and see its successes and shortcomings much more clearly. This strategy is similar to the question posed by sociologists about how a Martian visitor would perceive life on earth: sometimes the author allows us to visit another alien world; sometimes we become the Martians and are surprised or even horrified by what we discover about Earth.
For example, Scott Westerfeld's Uglies series presents a future society that insists on cosmetic surgery for everyone over 16 to prevent anyone from enjoying an unfair biological advantage based on appearance. The surgery prevents young people from developing eating disorders like bulimia and anorexia, and it guarantees that political elections and job hires are no longer based on the candidate's looks--when everyone is beautiful, everyone is equal.
This seems like democracy, but Westerfeld explains that this is actually tyranny. Why should someone else decide how you "should" look? Who has the authority to determine what is and isn't beautiful? What's wrong with simply being yourself? And why do the "New Pretties" seem so conformist, so trivial, so obsessed with fitting in instead of acting independently? Why doesn't their beauty free them? Through the exploration of an unfamiliar society, Uglies enables us to recognize our society's arbitrary standards of beauty, critique the media's enforcement of these standards, and confront our own complicity in obeying them.
By locating his or her story in another world where familiar allegiances and divisions don't apply, an author is able to create sympathy for an argument without running up against preconceived objections like "Well, an America-hating liberal WOULD say that" or "I don't have to listen to this paranoid conservative rant." Fantasy and science fiction create space for new ways of looking at old problems. Witness Orson Scott Card's critique of war and the military complex in Ender's Game or J. K. Rowling's protest against government intrusion into education in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
Indeed, the more fantastic the text, the easier it is to find parallels to our own experience. This is why Lewis Carroll's Alice books have been so beloved and so influential. Who hasn't felt as bewildered and disoriented as Alice on her travels through Wonderland? Who hasn't run up against a regulation every bit as nonsensical and frustrating as the one the White Queen explains to Alice in Through the Looking Glass: "The rule is, jam tomorrow and jam yesterday, but never jam today"?
I'm not denying the pleasures of escapism. There's nothing I like better than snuggling up in my fleecy pajamas and losing myself in a good book. However, a really good book doesn't just help you get lost; it also helps you find your way back to a world you can see more clearly.
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