juushika

Title: Tender Morsels
Author: Margo Lanagan
Published: New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2008
Rating: 4 of 5
Page Count: 433
Total Page Count: 102,240
Text Number: 293
Read Because: intrigued by Baobhan Sidhe's recommendation, borrowed from the Corvallis public library
Review: Molested by her father, gang raped by her peers, Liga wishes for death but instead find herself delivered to a magical haven, safe from all sexual violence. But as she raises her two daughters there, overlaps begin to appear between her world and the one she's left. Tender Morsels is a brave, beautiful, but not untroubled book. In the line of McKinley's Deerskin, it manages to do what most novels are better off not even trying: combine rape and fantasy, without distorting one or diluting the other, to paint a heartbreaking and heartbuilding portrait of sexual trauma. To an extent, Liga's experiences are exaggerated and straightforward examples of sexual violence, but they don't occur in a vacuum and the culture which fosters them is as much at issue here as those specific events; likewise, Tender Morsels's magic is creative and intensely otherworldy, but it serves to explore, rather than dismiss or simplify, the issues at hand. And so Tender Morsels is a story of miracles and real-world truths, traumatic events and entire societies. It offers up some exquisite moments, and for the most part Lanagan handles her issues with respect and careful ambiguity—save for one exception: near the end of the book (and this may be a SPOILER, so consider yourself warned) rape is used to revenge rape, and the event goes by largely unanalyzed, which is troubling to say the least. Given the book's challenging content, it's no surprise that it has some weak points; still, this one makes for a sour conclusion.

Tender Morsels is also troubled on a technical level. Although it immediately establishes a strong voice, the book takes some time to gain momentum and never manages to sustain it. Lanagan's voice is unique, with unusual diction that nudges the book towards a fable, but it rides an uneasy line between immersive and contrived, and always feels a little raw. Together these elements make Tender Morsels seem unfinished and unrefined. The narrative also switches between first and third person—and while my dislike of that may be a matter of personal taste, the fact that the first person narrators are exclusively male gives men a stronger sense of individual identity than women, which seems rather counterproductive. It's also worth noting (although it's not necessarily a complaint) that Tender Morsels is by no means young adult fiction. It's no more inappropriate for a YA audience than any other piece of literature, and it has some adolescent protagonists, but on the whole its difficult content and focus on lifelong female experiences and social roles sets it apart from that genre. But perhaps what bothered me most about Tender Morsels was just that I didn't love it as much as I wanted to. I have a passion for these sorts of brutal, beautiful fairytale retellings, and Tender Morsels tries hard to be among the best of them—but it never quite convinced me, never quite won me over, despite putting up a good show. That doesn't make it a bad book—but sometimes even good can be a disappointment. I still recommend Tender Morsels and I would love to read more books like it, but it's not one that I'll ever need to return to myself.

Review posted here on Amazon.com.

This comes about a week late, but better that than never. Having reviewed it, let me talk a bit more on Pamela Dean's Tam Lin, because this is one of those books that I wanted to discuss with someone while reading it. For lack of a fellow reader, I poked around on the internet instead. Rowan Inish's Green Man Review is a look at the book in the best possible light: a dense and delicate, indulgently idealized, brilliant college fantasy blossoming into a strong, realistic rendering of a fairy tale taking place in our real world. Meanwhile, Asking the Wrong Questions approaches the book more critically, searching for some body behind all the glorious fantasy of manners fluff, and failing to find it at key moments. (Both reviews are rife with spoilers, so be warned.) I stand between the two opinions—

Because I was surprised that reading Dean's Tam Lin didn't inspire a slew of college nightmares, but really that makes perfect sense. Blackstock is so intensely and perfectly the college experience that I wished to have that it defies nightmares about the reality of the hell college actually can be. I can't overstate the effectiveness of Dean's wish-fulfillment fantasy. The book is so dense and detailed that the fantasy college experience is utterly immersive, and the experience itself is seductive to the hopeful academic. The whole thing is a delight. But I know that I'm an easy mark in this regard, and I begrudge being made and taken for my last penny—and I'm bitter, too, that the real world can't compare to the book's fantasy. It's a bit like the allure of Harry Potter: Mary Sue-ing yourself into a House and picking a wand and guessing at your patronus is fun, but it's silly and a bit humiliating in hindsight—and heartbreaking, too, that you'll never get to attend Hogwarts because in the real world, people don't turn into cats (and, for that matter, you're far too old).

So as much as I enjoyed Dean's Tam Lin and wanted it to succeed, I turned a jaded eye on all of its faults—and it has many of those. It was a bit of a conflicted read: as many joys and complains, and much reading aloud of the good as of the bad. (Sorry for that last part, Devon.)



Somewhat less relevant to the quality of book, but more relevant to its quality as a retelling:

I have some doubts about how Dean approaches Tam Lin. (Spoilers for the end of the book follow; consider yourself warned.) In Janet's general, growing impression that something fantastic exists at Blackstock, Dean does a wonderful job building up to some sort of fantasy—but until she's already pregnant with his child, Janet knows nothing of Tam Lin himself. The original ballad, on the other hand, begins by introducing Tam Lin and warning maidens to avoid Carterhaugh, where he can be found. This warning is not specifically directed at Janet, but it is placed in explicit contrast to Janet's journey to Carterhaugh. In other words, the ballad implies that Janet knows, and willfully encounters, the risks. Which isn't to say that Dean's Janet is uninformed: the book's focus on birth control makes sex and pregnancy the known danger and the risk willingly taken.

But it's not quite the same thing. I should state that my introduction to Tam Lin was Tricky Pixie's version of the ballad, which brings the sexy back to the source material—and the willfulness, and the consent (which, for some strange reason, are a pretty big part of the sexy)—and encountering that version first has certainly influenced my interpretation of the ballad. Even with that influence aside, what makes the ballad so remarkable is Janet's agency: she knows the dangers, she goes to Carterhaugh, she bears the blame for her pregnancy, she declares the identity of her lover, she returns to him, she asks for his story, she asks how to save him, and she does then do so.

Dean's Janet may know about the dangers of pregnancy and suspect that there's something supernatural afoot, but in the rush of the last 50 pages Tam Lin's story still takes her by surprise and his rescue is a last-minute, conflicted decision; furthermore, because the quick ending receives none of the complexity and detail given to the rest of the book, it feels like Janet is fulfilling a role rather than making her own choices. That role may be more or less logical, it may not feel entire out of place, but it still lacks the remarkable, wonderful, willful agency that Janet possesses in the source material.

And Dean's novel is the poorer for it.



To end on a positive note, I give you one of my favorite paragraphs from the book:

Janet considered interrupting, but what she thought of as the fatal flaw of the novel-reader prevented her. She had meant to ask Nick if he and Robin were coming to the party, since neither of them had actually expressed any intention of doing so. But the flaw of the novel-reader is to want to know what will happen if a situation is allowed to develop unmolested. So she let them talk, and ate her canned okra and tomato soup, and wondered if they should move any of the furniture in their room to make more room for the party.

—Tam Lin, Pamela Dean, 190

A favorite because it is true, you know—or, at least, it is true for me.

Title: Don't Bet on the Prince: Contemporary Feminist Fairy Tales in North America and England
Editor: Jack Zipes
Published: New York: Routledge, 1989 (1986)
Rating: 3 of 5
Page Count: 270
Total Page Count: 89,869
Text Number: 258
Read Because: Contains Tanith Lee's "Wolfland," borrowed from the library
Review: In three sections (following a lengthy introduction), editor Zipes compiles three revised, purportedly feminist takes on traditional fairy tales: Feminist Fairy Tales for Young (and Old) Readers and for Old (and Young) Readers, 17 modern fairy tales from authors like Tanith Lee, Jane Yolen, and Anne Sexton among others, and four pieces of feminist literary criticism on fairy tales. That a work purports to be feminist, however, does not necessarily make it so. Or, rather, a work can claim to be feminist, can aim to be feminist, and still fall short of the mark—as is the case here. First, it's Zipes that drags down the anthology. In his overlong introduction and concluding critical essay, he's given to cumbersome academic dialog and bold leaps of reasoning, a tendency towards form (in place of content) which makes for inscrutable, unsubstantiated arguments. Those arguments are promising, but they beg clearer, more thorough address. The anthology's second weakness is the stories themselves. There are some gems—most provided by the authors mentioned above, and Carter's "The Donkey Prince" and Atwood's "Bluebeard's Egg" also appear on my list of favorites. But there are many stories which fail to push their feminist premises far enough, leaving them open to worrying commentary.

"In none of these tales is marriage a necessity or a goal for young women, rather it is a possibility which may or may not enter their plans. [...] In addition, the lives and careers of the young women are not telologically [sic] shaped by marriage (17)," writes Zipes in his introduction, yet in a surprising number of Prince's stories marriage is presumed—and in more, female energy is focused on male figures, roles, and relationships. The stories that don't fulfill heteronormative goals of romance, marriage, and childbirth often focus on that failure, mourning the sense of loss that accompanies it. For a purportedly feminist anthology, Prince has a surprisingly strong focus on men (even in the title!), and heteronormative standards are nearly inviolate. Perhaps I aim too high (and take too modern an approach) when I wish that Prince didn't constrain its feminism to heteronormative obligate male/female relationships; the fact that it does not, however, makes it limited in scope and depth. And then there's de Larrabeiti's story "Malagan and the Lady of Rascas," in which a husband has his wife made grotesque to force her to remain faithful, and when she does for many years remain faithful—and good, patient, and forgiving—he learns to be a decent human being. A story where men make decisions, women survive ill treatment without complaint or agency, and men reap the rewards of the experience is not feminist—certainly not feminist enough to fit a collection that totes the word so boldly on its cover.

Prince is not all bad—many stories are second rate (not just because of their feminist content, but because they are too far divorced from their source material to be effective retellings), Zipes is a constant irritation, but the other essays are thoughtful (if dated and brief) and there are some intriguing stories in the collection. But the volume aims to be more than this, and it's a lofty goal; that it fails to reach that goal makes it a disappointment. There are better feminist takes on fairy tales out there, even if they don't come in such proud packaging. I don't recommend this one.

Review posted here on Amazon.com.

Title: Little Red Riding Hood Uncloaked: Sex, Morality, and the Evolution of a Fairy Tale
Author: Catherine Orenstein
Published: New York: Basic Books, 2002
Rating: 4 of 5
Page Count: 289
Total Page Count: 85,839
Text Number: 246
Read Because: interested in Red Riding Hood, borrowed from the library
Short Review: If there's major fault in Uncloaked, it's not that Orenstien's examination is simplistic—but that it's not exhaustive. It may be surprising that a single fairy tale could offer too much content to cram into a single book, but with Red Riding Hood that's the case. In order simply to keep chapters and book a reasonable length, there's no room to examine every aspect of the tale's source material and multiple retellings—to say nothing of covering every single reinterpretation—so some aspects of the book lack sufficient exploration. But Orenstein provides a strong introduction to and overview of Red Riding Hood: The first few chapters cover early versions of the tale (Perrault, the brothers Grimm, and the old wive's tale that predates both), quoting the source material as well as providing commentary on each version's message and historical context. Latter chapters range from Tex Avery to Angela Carter, from second-wave feminism to folklore scholarship, studying how the tale has changed in more modern years. Some chapters near the tail end of the book begin to lag (in particular nine, The Punishment of Red Riding Hood: Fairy-Tale Fetish, an analysis of fairy-tale imagery in porn), and the texts which precede later chapters sometimes fail to be telling or iconic, but despite these weaknesses Orenstein's research, analysis, and arguments remain strong.

Uncloaked is imperfect, and the simple fact that it doesn't cover everything may leave the reader with dangling questions, but Orenstein's broad history of Red Riding Hood is nonetheless satisfying. It's a strong introduction to the roots of the fairy tale and a thoughtful overview of the various, changing roles it's played in modern culture, answering many questions and provoking future thought; the writing is solid, engaging, but never slick, making the book a swift read without sacrificing depth for style. The fairy tale of Little Red Riding Hood has a lot to offer, and Orenstein delivers on much of it: in parts a warning and a lesson, a morality play and a teaching tool, chastising and empowering, misogynist and feminist, this one fairy tale has been appropriated to cover a gamut of human experience and emotion, and that wide-reaching content makes for a fascinating read. I would have preferred some different media selections and perhaps a different focus in later chapters, and would that Orenstein had provided a further reading list (although she does mention multiple resources in the course of the book), but I found the chapters on the tale's roots and Carter-style feminist retellings particularly fascinating and all told I got all I hoped for from Red Riding Hood Uncloaked: a broad, intelligent, approachable introduction to this fairy tale in all its guises. If Red Riding Hood intrigues, Uncloaked will satisfy. I recommend it.

Review posted here on Amazon.com.

Carrying on in search of more Red Riding Hood retellings, and thoughts thereon:

In Carter's "Red Riding Hood"-related tales, and in the film, the heroine's wolf is not her oppressor, nor her opponent, nor her ravisher. Rather than besting the beast, the heroine incorporates it. The protagonists—both heroine and villain—move back and forth between the form of human and beast, and each is by turns tender and aggressive. Their parallel transformation suggest their interrelated identities that encompass darkness and brightness, innocence and evil at once. Her heroine's bestial side is an acknowledgement not only of her natural sex drive but also of her sexual complexity.

—Little Red Riding Hood Uncloaked: Sex, Morality, and the Evolution of a Fairy Tale, Catherine Orenstein, page 168

Blessedly, this book is providing a healthy amount of both recommendations and food for thought. I won't pretend that it's exhaustive, but it is at least broadly introductive, and various moments in the fairy tale's history laid out one after another sketches a wide, visible landscape that can hold other retellings, other deconstructions. It's also quick and smooth without becoming slick and gimmicky—something not all books of its sort achieve, and so it's a pleasure to read.

It also helps explain why I always have such a hard time discussing Carter's work. Her stories, in particular her short fiction (and the media based on/inspired by them) are a maze of contradiction, as Orenstein summarizes above. Describing that contradiction makes me feel that I'm mired in an exploration of the story rather than making a coherent argument about it (which discourages me enough to stop trying), when in many cases the coherent argument is that that the story keeps you mired there: in the liminal state that contains the contradictions of bright and dark, innocent and evil, human and beast—because that state itself is an achievement and a destination, not just a journey. The contradiction is complexity. The complexity is the point.

I feel Carter's short fiction in my heart, not with my brain; I'm still struck dumb by the beauty of her language and her grotesque, sensual imagery; but this helps me at least learn to speak on her more coherently than attempted reviews that amounted to little more than "lush irreverent intelligent haunting feminist gruesome powerful *wibble*." That's an improvement.

Unrelatedly (or only tangentially so), I feel betrayed to discover that Kiernan's To Charles Fort, With Love is out of print. I shouldn't be surprised—I know that this happens with some of her books—but betrayal isn't a rational emotion (what emotion is?). After all that I've recommended it, after wanting so badly to reread it, I thought I'd buy it this time instead of borrowing it from the library again—but even library discards start at $50, and I don't have $50 (or, rather, I do—but it was $50 I was planning to spread over five books, not one). I'm heartbroken. And I finally understand why assholes steal from libraries, because I want that book.

Title: The Red Tree
Author: Caitlín R. Kiernan (greygirlbeast)
Published: New York: Roc, 2009
Rating: 5 of 5
Page Count: 380
Total Page Count: 84,806
Text Number: 243
Read Because: fan of the author, given to me by Lyz (sisterite)
Short Review: Author Sarah Crowe flees Atlanta and the end of her recent relationship for an old farmhouse in rural Rhode Island. There she discovers a manuscript written by the house's previous tenant, which chronicles the long and haunting history of a massive red oak growing on the property. As Sarah's own obsession with the red tree grows, she records her experiences in a journal, published posthumously by her former book editor. Kiernan is a master storyteller with a unique voice and a superb handle on the balance between atmosphere, horror, and psychological underpinning. A densely multilayered narrative rich with dream imagery, The Red Tree may be her best book yet. It's haunting, beautiful, terrifying, and absolutely superb. I highly recommend it.

( Long review. )

Review posted here on Amazon.com.


My dear sisterite: There could be no better gift. Not only was this book from an author I love, a book that I wanted to read, a book that I didn't own, it turned out to be wonderful. My thoughts are all up in my review of course, but they don't quite convey the way that I curled into inside book and huddled there, absorbed, inundated, awed. I stayed up hours past dawn to finish it. It's odd that a book which is so honestly frightening—there was one scene, the recollection of a dream a woman sitting on a tire swing, where I had to put the book down for a moment and take a slow deep breath—can still hold you to it not just in fear but in love, in appreciation of its haunting beauty.

I wax poetic. What I mean to say is: Thank you. It's a wonderful book. I loved it, I will treasure it, and I imagine I'll reread it often. You chose well.


( Dream sequences: a quote. )

Title: White as Snow
Author: Tanith Lee
Published: New York: Tor, 2000
Rating: 3 of 5
Page Count: 319
Total Page Count: 77,670
Text Number: 227
Read For: recommended by Terri Windling in The Year's Best Fantasy and Horror: Fourteenth Annual Collection, borrowed from the library
Short Review: Captured from her father's sacked castle, Arpazia is wed to the warlord Draco and bears his child, Coria. Isolated and maddened, Arpazia abandons her daughter—but as Arpazia ages to cronehood and Coria comes of age, the two are tied together by their competing, opposing roles. Mixing the fairy tale of Snow White with the Greek myth of Persephone and early Christian liturgy, White as Snow is bursting with imagery that sometimes weaves a complex, symbolic tapestry and sometimes tangles upon itself in an excess of influence. White as Snow nails its voice and setting and is often an immersive read, but the confused symbolism and unmotivated characters hold it back from being all that it could be. In all, a disappointment and not recommended. (Terri Windling's introduction, on the other hand, is a joy to read.)

( Long review. )

Review posted here on Amazon.com.

Title: Wildwood Dancing
Author: Juliet Marillier
Published: New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2007
Rating: 2 of 5
Page Count: 403
Total Page Count: 70,037
Text Number: 202
Read For: personal enjoyment, checked out from the library
Short review: On a Transylvanian estate, five sisters, including the independent Jena and her frog companion Gogu, have a portal which every full moon takes them deep into the fairy realm. But when their father leaves for the winter, they must struggle to hold their family together against the attacks of a domineering cousin and trouble in the magic realm. Despite a promising setting and cast of characters, this book is bogged down by the frustration of a predictable plot and exaggerated antagonists. Avoid this novel—it's just not worth reading, especially while there are so many better books with similar premises.

( Long review. )

Review posted here on Amazon.com.

Title: The Rose and The Beast: Fairy Tales Retold
Author: Francesca Lia Block
Published: New York: Joanna Colter Books, 2000
Page Count: 229
Total Page Count: 40,902
Text Number: 117
Read For: my own enjoyment, checked out from the library
Short review: From Snow White to Thumbelina to Sleeping Beauty, in The Rose and the Beast Block retells nine fairy tales, telling them in her unique voice that makes magic appear naturally in urban settings, modernizing the settings, characters, and often the underlying meanings of these classic tales. The stories vary in quality, but on the whole the idea is admirable but the execution is disappointing: too much time and effort is given to plot, too little to meaning, and the so the stories are empty. I appreciate the attempt, but I found the result disappointing, and I wish that Block had written fewer, longer, more complete stories. Therefore, only apathetically recommended.

( Long review. )

Review posted here at Amazon.com.