Title: Duty and Desire: A Novel of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Gentleman
Author: Pamela Aidan
Length: 280 pages
Publisher: Touchstone
ISBN: 978-0743291361
Final Verdict: 3 out of 5
Duty and Desire caught my eye one day in July, while I was browsing the New Books shelf at the local library. It’s cover had a flavour that I could appreciate: Romantic (with a capital “r”) and regency (without the bodice-ripping and/or cloying sentiment). Being “A Novel of Fitzwilliam Darcy, Gentleman”, it’s connection to Pride and Prejudice intrigued me. I make a practice of reading the (frankly, and awesomely) fan-penned sequels and prequels of the Jane Austen canon. I like continuations and transformations. It’s one of those things that will make me automatically consider a book, even if I don’t end up reading it.
Duty and Desire was one such continuation that I ended up reading. It’s Book Two in a trilogy that is, essentially, Pride and Prejudice from Mr. Darcy’s point of view. Duty and Desire takes place during Darcy’s extensive holiday from the pages of P&P, and concerns his attempt to drive Elizabeth Bennet from his mind and find a more suitable wife. I wish I didn’t have to start with the second book—the first book sets the tone for Aidan’s work, and introduces readers to the world of P&P as seen by Darcy. But the libraries in my area are notorious for rarely carrying Book One of anything.
I liked the novel. The prose is solidly readable—if a little purple, in the spirit of the Regency—with that touch of courtly gentleness that suits the time period and evokes Austen’s prose more strongly than other sequels that I have read. Later in the novel, I was a little distracted by Aidan’s colourful use of speech tags: there were a few adverbs running rampant and "verbed" nouns.
The novel is a bit slow. The back cover promises more than is ever delivered in any kind of timely fashion. Case in point: "curious Lady Sylvanie", who, according to the back cover, is of some significance (Darcy considers her as a possible wife, and she has no objection), does not show up until long after I had had any hope of seeing her. And when she does appear, her role feels rushed, as if she were a last-minute decision.
None of the characters really captured my interest, or were especially memorable (if one, of course, does not count Darcy’s valet, Fletcher, whose habit of quoting Shakespeare I remember very well: it began to wear on me a little. I suspect that I’ve run into the “resourceful manservant” trope a few times too many—I found it difficult to appreciate Fletcher as a character).
Darcy himself is enough in character to be acceptable, though he doesn’t strike me as powerfully as he did in Pride and Prejudice. There really seemed to be… less of him, as if his POV waters down the impact of his character. Of the beloved cast of P&P, a few appear: Elizabeth Bennet, in thought and to Darcy’s aggravation; Georgiana Darcy, turning to religion for relief from her depression. But for all these familiar faces, Aidan’s world sometimes feels a little too bizarre to be credible: the book takes a gothic twist for the supernatural, and the result is disorienting.
While I appreciated the clarity of the rising action and its climax, the end of Duty and Desire was disappointing. The concluding twist(s) were expected twists; true, I didn't figure out the primary one until I was a page away from its revelation, but when it came, I experienced no thrill of astonishment, no jaw drop. The fate of the antagonist felt strangely random.
If I ever stumble across Book One and Two of the Fitzwilliam Darcy trilogy, I’ll read them. I like Aidan’s idea of exploring Darcy, and I’m curious to see how she handles him on territory more familiar to me: on the grounds of P&P itself.
Showing posts with label print. Show all posts
Showing posts with label print. Show all posts
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
Reviewing “Inda”
Title: Inda
Author: Sherwood Smith
Length: 624 pages
Publisher: DAW
ISBN: 978-0756404222
Final Verdict: 3 out of 5. This is the second time I have read Inda, first in an eponymous quartet of novels, and I enjoyed it a good deal more than the first time - I could keep track of the political intrigues, this second time around! The abrupt changes in point of view still make me dizzy, however.
Sherwood Smith introduces readers to her sprawling world through the eyes of Inda, the ten-year-old second son of a prince. Inda discovers that he is not meant to remain at home, training to serve as the defender of his elder brother’s kingdom as second sons before him have done, but is to train beside his brother at a royal academy. It is here that Inda realizes his natural ability for leadership—an ability both coveted and feared by those in power.
Inda, too young and too focused upon his training and his academy friends to understand the conspiracies overshadowing him, is driven into scandal by friends true and false alike. Faced with the choice of dishonouring his family or dishonouring himself, Inda goes, instead, into exile. And there, upon a merchant ship, robbed of his identity and surrounded by pirates, Inda turns his back upon his childhood and begins a journey of self-sacrifice for the land and people he loved… and lost.
Inda is a rather lengthy introduction to Sherwood Smith’s world and story. It does not read like a prologue as first books in a series sometimes do; the story is fully and intricately developed and satisfying as both a stand-alone and an introduction. Smith relies on a vast host of characters and intersecting tales to weave her novel, and the complexity of the names and titles sometimes reaches the epic proportions of a Russian novel.
I’m still bothered by Smith’s method of guiding readers through the story, because it involves point of view hopping—a lot of POV hopping. Smith will sometimes jump between POVs within the space of a paragraph. Seeing every side of her subplot can be illuminating—the POVs of the antagonists are as well represented at the protagonists—but it can also prove confusing.
The world of the Marlovans, the people to whom Inda belongs, is fascinating. Smith challenges social concepts such as the role of men and women in society, and the inherent differences between the sexes—it’s nice, because I felt that I was reading about another world and another time, rather than about medieval England dressed up in fantastical trappings.
I like how Smith uses magic—readers are eased into a sense of it. It is neither a plot device (yet) nor a foreshadowed deus ex machina, but a domestic triviality in every day life—it keeps things and people clean, from dishwashing to vanishing the dead. And yet magic has layers. There are not so many as to make it impossible to understand, but enough to give it a sense of mystery readers can look forward to seeing expanded upon in the later books.
For all its length, Inda is a quick and enjoyable read. Smith’s characters, well-drawn and interesting throughout, are friends and companions by the time the book ends. My interest in their future has pulled me into the second book of the series, The Fox.
Author: Sherwood Smith
Length: 624 pages
Publisher: DAW
ISBN: 978-0756404222
Final Verdict: 3 out of 5. This is the second time I have read Inda, first in an eponymous quartet of novels, and I enjoyed it a good deal more than the first time - I could keep track of the political intrigues, this second time around! The abrupt changes in point of view still make me dizzy, however.
Slight spoilers in the summary.
Sherwood Smith introduces readers to her sprawling world through the eyes of Inda, the ten-year-old second son of a prince. Inda discovers that he is not meant to remain at home, training to serve as the defender of his elder brother’s kingdom as second sons before him have done, but is to train beside his brother at a royal academy. It is here that Inda realizes his natural ability for leadership—an ability both coveted and feared by those in power.
Inda, too young and too focused upon his training and his academy friends to understand the conspiracies overshadowing him, is driven into scandal by friends true and false alike. Faced with the choice of dishonouring his family or dishonouring himself, Inda goes, instead, into exile. And there, upon a merchant ship, robbed of his identity and surrounded by pirates, Inda turns his back upon his childhood and begins a journey of self-sacrifice for the land and people he loved… and lost.
--
Inda is a rather lengthy introduction to Sherwood Smith’s world and story. It does not read like a prologue as first books in a series sometimes do; the story is fully and intricately developed and satisfying as both a stand-alone and an introduction. Smith relies on a vast host of characters and intersecting tales to weave her novel, and the complexity of the names and titles sometimes reaches the epic proportions of a Russian novel.
I’m still bothered by Smith’s method of guiding readers through the story, because it involves point of view hopping—a lot of POV hopping. Smith will sometimes jump between POVs within the space of a paragraph. Seeing every side of her subplot can be illuminating—the POVs of the antagonists are as well represented at the protagonists—but it can also prove confusing.
The world of the Marlovans, the people to whom Inda belongs, is fascinating. Smith challenges social concepts such as the role of men and women in society, and the inherent differences between the sexes—it’s nice, because I felt that I was reading about another world and another time, rather than about medieval England dressed up in fantastical trappings.
I like how Smith uses magic—readers are eased into a sense of it. It is neither a plot device (yet) nor a foreshadowed deus ex machina, but a domestic triviality in every day life—it keeps things and people clean, from dishwashing to vanishing the dead. And yet magic has layers. There are not so many as to make it impossible to understand, but enough to give it a sense of mystery readers can look forward to seeing expanded upon in the later books.
For all its length, Inda is a quick and enjoyable read. Smith’s characters, well-drawn and interesting throughout, are friends and companions by the time the book ends. My interest in their future has pulled me into the second book of the series, The Fox.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Hysteria Siberiana: Reviewing “South of the Border, West of the Sun”
Title: South of the Border, West of the Sun
Author: Haruki Murakami
Translator: Phillip Gabriel
Length: 192 pages
Publisher: Vintage
ISBN: 0-09-944857-2
Final Verdict: 3 out of 5. I wanted more from this novel, and wasn’t satisfied with what the author gave me. The summary on the back cover speaks of Hajime’s slow descent into the mysteries of his lover Shimamoto’s life, but in the end, nothing is resolved. South of the Border, West of the Sun is Hajime’s journey toward self-realization. But he didn’t capture my interest. I wanted Shimamoto’s tale—and that was the story I never received. Murakami offers a mere tempting taste of the mystery of her life, enough to leave me more famished than when I began.
Hajime is an only child, and the distinction renders him an outcast. He meets Shimamoto, another only child, and the two become close friends. Hajime carries the memory of their friendship throughout his adolescence and into adulthood, long after he has moved away from his old neighbourhood, and laid his childhood to rest.
He meets Shimamoto twenty-five years later, a successful man: happily married, a father of two girls, owner of a thriving chain of bars. Shimamoto too wears the trappings of wealth and success: an exquisite wardrobe, private cars, more time than she can fill. But her change is greater than that of status: a string of dark secrets lurks behind her money and her silences, secrets into which Hajime finds himself helplessly drawn, as, with every moment of their reunion, he finds himself falling in love.
I understand that I, as a reader, could ultimately only learn so much about Shimamoto, Hajime’s childhood friend and lover in his middle age. She is defined by her mystery, and South of the Border, West of the Sun is not her story—it is Hajime’s, and his search for a land “west of the sun”.
“West of the sun” is a place of fulfillment, that Hajime and Shimamoto discuss at one point following their reunion. Shimamoto tells Hajime of an illness called ‘hysteria Siberiana’: it is when Siberian farmers, driven insane by the monotony of the horizon, go in desperate search of a land “west of the sun”—something to break the monotony, something fill their emptiness. They never find their land, and die soon afterward.
I think Hajime had a glimpse of his west in Shimamoto—a mirage of his salvation from an unfulfilling life. Shimamoto is the catalyst of Hajime’s epiphany, and the character transformation readers may assume Hajime starts toward at the novel’s end. It therefore makes sense that he never learns Shimamoto’s life story. But I don’t appreciate that he (and we, the readers!) never do. The mystery of Shimamoto’s life held my interest, and kept me glued to the book in the hope of learning more about her. And so to be left hanging, with Hajime’s life tending toward resolution and Shimamoto still as much of a mystery as she was when she first reappeared, is frustrating.
The story certainly had its high points. I finished it quickly and eagerly, as it is full of little incidents, all snapshots into Hajime’s rise to success. And even though South of the Border is about an affair—one plot that usually leaves me feeling sick—I actually liked how Murakami handled it.
Because I had followed Hajime from his youth—from him as an only child to a man who is outwardly crowned in triumph and inwardly broken—and understood his motives after some fashion, his affair didn’t trigger me as forcibly as it might have done. I was not flung into Hajime’s life, told to sympathize with his misery and hate his wife as a matter of course, and finally approve joyously of his affair. Murakami presents the affair not as something righteous and that I should naturally agree with, but as something that simply happened. It has consequences, and the wife (who is not cast as a Horrible Harpy for its sake; thank you, Murakami!) takes it without undue drama. It is this happy absence of melodrama that I enjoyed most about this book.
South of the Border drifts to its conclusion. Nothing is particularly resolved. The ending does not inspire me to rush out and read another novel by Murakami, but a friend has already sold me on another book of his, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. And so until I read Chronicle and make up my mind entirely about this author, I won’t let him slip from my “to be read” list.
Author: Haruki Murakami
Translator: Phillip Gabriel
Length: 192 pages
Publisher: Vintage
ISBN: 0-09-944857-2
Final Verdict: 3 out of 5. I wanted more from this novel, and wasn’t satisfied with what the author gave me. The summary on the back cover speaks of Hajime’s slow descent into the mysteries of his lover Shimamoto’s life, but in the end, nothing is resolved. South of the Border, West of the Sun is Hajime’s journey toward self-realization. But he didn’t capture my interest. I wanted Shimamoto’s tale—and that was the story I never received. Murakami offers a mere tempting taste of the mystery of her life, enough to leave me more famished than when I began.
--
Hajime is an only child, and the distinction renders him an outcast. He meets Shimamoto, another only child, and the two become close friends. Hajime carries the memory of their friendship throughout his adolescence and into adulthood, long after he has moved away from his old neighbourhood, and laid his childhood to rest.
He meets Shimamoto twenty-five years later, a successful man: happily married, a father of two girls, owner of a thriving chain of bars. Shimamoto too wears the trappings of wealth and success: an exquisite wardrobe, private cars, more time than she can fill. But her change is greater than that of status: a string of dark secrets lurks behind her money and her silences, secrets into which Hajime finds himself helplessly drawn, as, with every moment of their reunion, he finds himself falling in love.
--
I understand that I, as a reader, could ultimately only learn so much about Shimamoto, Hajime’s childhood friend and lover in his middle age. She is defined by her mystery, and South of the Border, West of the Sun is not her story—it is Hajime’s, and his search for a land “west of the sun”.
“West of the sun” is a place of fulfillment, that Hajime and Shimamoto discuss at one point following their reunion. Shimamoto tells Hajime of an illness called ‘hysteria Siberiana’: it is when Siberian farmers, driven insane by the monotony of the horizon, go in desperate search of a land “west of the sun”—something to break the monotony, something fill their emptiness. They never find their land, and die soon afterward.
I think Hajime had a glimpse of his west in Shimamoto—a mirage of his salvation from an unfulfilling life. Shimamoto is the catalyst of Hajime’s epiphany, and the character transformation readers may assume Hajime starts toward at the novel’s end. It therefore makes sense that he never learns Shimamoto’s life story. But I don’t appreciate that he (and we, the readers!) never do. The mystery of Shimamoto’s life held my interest, and kept me glued to the book in the hope of learning more about her. And so to be left hanging, with Hajime’s life tending toward resolution and Shimamoto still as much of a mystery as she was when she first reappeared, is frustrating.
The story certainly had its high points. I finished it quickly and eagerly, as it is full of little incidents, all snapshots into Hajime’s rise to success. And even though South of the Border is about an affair—one plot that usually leaves me feeling sick—I actually liked how Murakami handled it.
Because I had followed Hajime from his youth—from him as an only child to a man who is outwardly crowned in triumph and inwardly broken—and understood his motives after some fashion, his affair didn’t trigger me as forcibly as it might have done. I was not flung into Hajime’s life, told to sympathize with his misery and hate his wife as a matter of course, and finally approve joyously of his affair. Murakami presents the affair not as something righteous and that I should naturally agree with, but as something that simply happened. It has consequences, and the wife (who is not cast as a Horrible Harpy for its sake; thank you, Murakami!) takes it without undue drama. It is this happy absence of melodrama that I enjoyed most about this book.
South of the Border drifts to its conclusion. Nothing is particularly resolved. The ending does not inspire me to rush out and read another novel by Murakami, but a friend has already sold me on another book of his, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. And so until I read Chronicle and make up my mind entirely about this author, I won’t let him slip from my “to be read” list.
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