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juushikaMossflower's primary weakness is easier for me to accept because it's a strength in the later books: it's repetitive. It's the first book that can recycle what would become the series's core features: the food, the accents, the species-as-groups-of-people, the questing and parallel adventures, and—more blatantly in Mossflower than elsewhere in the series—the branching, interconnected world. In Mossflower, we get an origin story for near every aspect of Redwall, from the barn cat to St. Ninian's Church to the Abbey itself; often, the tie-ins are obnoxiously neat—but:
Upon re-re-reread, it's surprisingly poignant to see Martin and Timballisto reunited in Mossflower, not just because I know how their story will unfold in this book but because I've met him and heard of him elsewhere throughout the series; his presence, alongside the woodlanders and hares and the rest of the motley crew (and we know them, too, from their roles and progeny in other books), represents Martin's aggregate experience: the warrior in training that he was on the North Shores, which Tim represents, the changes he's undergone since entering Mossflower Woods, the warrior that he's become since leaving Salamandastron, and finally the figure he will be in Redwall's future—a story that overlays multiple books and an entire series.
The series's stylistic repetition is as limiting as it is comforting, that reliable redundancy about the virtues of Deeper 'n Ever Pie. But the world's sprawling mythos becomes its strength. Despite the fact that species function as essentialist stand-ins for groups of people, the interconnected sprawl of the books means that frequently an individual mentioned in one is given greater depth in another; this doesn't do much to develop the villains (and even the exceptions may be problematic, see: The Outcast of Redwall)—but it nonetheless denies the simplicity of species as characterization; it implies that almost anyone could be the protagonist of their own story, and that many are. It also creates a sense of scope, of gravitas, of depth, of emotional connection—which is why Sunflash's appearance in Mossflower's final pages means so much: it has relevance to this story, where we met Bella and glimpsed Salamandastron, but on reread it's indicative of Salamandastron's long and storied history and the continuing impact it will have, has had, on the world of Redwall.
Mossflower's repetition is frequently heavy-handed because it was the first book that could attempt it, so it's both an unpracticed attempt and a particularly glaring one; a lot of that clumsiness, for better or worse, never goes away. But rereading it with a love for the series entire, I appreciate so earnestly what it does because it's indicative of what it will continue to do: every story will have a backstory, and Martin will never be forgotten.
I finished Mossflower late, late last night.
Upon re-re-reread, it's surprisingly poignant to see Martin and Timballisto reunited in Mossflower, not just because I know how their story will unfold in this book but because I've met him and heard of him elsewhere throughout the series; his presence, alongside the woodlanders and hares and the rest of the motley crew (and we know them, too, from their roles and progeny in other books), represents Martin's aggregate experience: the warrior in training that he was on the North Shores, which Tim represents, the changes he's undergone since entering Mossflower Woods, the warrior that he's become since leaving Salamandastron, and finally the figure he will be in Redwall's future—a story that overlays multiple books and an entire series.
The series's stylistic repetition is as limiting as it is comforting, that reliable redundancy about the virtues of Deeper 'n Ever Pie. But the world's sprawling mythos becomes its strength. Despite the fact that species function as essentialist stand-ins for groups of people, the interconnected sprawl of the books means that frequently an individual mentioned in one is given greater depth in another; this doesn't do much to develop the villains (and even the exceptions may be problematic, see: The Outcast of Redwall)—but it nonetheless denies the simplicity of species as characterization; it implies that almost anyone could be the protagonist of their own story, and that many are. It also creates a sense of scope, of gravitas, of depth, of emotional connection—which is why Sunflash's appearance in Mossflower's final pages means so much: it has relevance to this story, where we met Bella and glimpsed Salamandastron, but on reread it's indicative of Salamandastron's long and storied history and the continuing impact it will have, has had, on the world of Redwall.
Mossflower's repetition is frequently heavy-handed because it was the first book that could attempt it, so it's both an unpracticed attempt and a particularly glaring one; a lot of that clumsiness, for better or worse, never goes away. But rereading it with a love for the series entire, I appreciate so earnestly what it does because it's indicative of what it will continue to do: every story will have a backstory, and Martin will never be forgotten.
I finished Mossflower late, late last night.
