ReaderMarija's Reviews

Katagiri found a giant frog waiting for him in his apartment. It was powerfully built, standing over six feet tall on its hind legs. A skinny little man no more than five-foot-three, Katagiri was overwhelmed by the frog’s imposing bulk.

“Call me ‘Frog,’” said the frog in a clear, strong voice. Katagiri stood rooted in the doorway, unable to speak.

The first word that comes to mind after reading this collection of short stories is “audacious.” Reading Murakami’s writing is like looking at a work of modern art. The writing is so strange and otherworldly. Yet the style is visually bold and immediately captures your attention; and you find yourself beginning to accept it. The writing becomes intriguing and you want to discover more.

On the surface, the unifying theme for these six stories seems to be the aftermath of 1995 Kobe earthquake. But the characters in these stories share more than that common element. Each of the main characters are incomplete in one way or another, yet they aren’t actively seeking a way out of their current situations. The stories place these characters at a crossroads, where they’re given the chance to seek what was lost and gain a sense of completeness and fulfillment. Not every story ends the same way; some protagonists seem more successful than others. Murakami provides interesting contrasts rather than reproductions of the same idea. I thought this well done.

My favorite stories were the last two. Arguably, they’re the most vivid in terms of imagery. In these stories, especially in “super-frog saves toyko,” Murakami plays with extremes. The images created in the mind’s eye can be both visually stunning and nightmarish. The last story, “honey pie,” is rather reminiscent to a story I recently read—Balzac’s The Imaginary Mistress. At their core, both stories are Romantic tales—a knight-errant performing various noble deeds in the name of love for a certain unattainable lady. Murakami’s story is written plainly, yet the sentiments evoked are beautifully poetic—a good choice on his part to end the collection in this way.

Hamsun penned an interesting take on the tragic muse tale. However it’s not the story itself that really captures the reader, but how Hamsun digresses from it, through Johannes’ inner musings and the poems and stories that Johannes is writing throughout. It is these sections that transform the basic tale, making it indeed something truly special. There are so many layers of meaning that the reader can extrapolate from these sections...psychological vs. social commentaries on one’s sense of place and how this in turn affects the identity of oneself and others’ perceptions of that identity. How these sections are able to demonstrate Johannes’ inner turmoil are wonderfully achieved.

That said, unfortunately I don’t think Hamsun succeeded in writing a convincing love story, or at least, this translation doesn’t really portray a passion that is equally felt by the two doomed lovers. Throughout the story Johannes is haunted by his feelings...a curse he can’t be rid of, no matter what he does. Victoria is his inspiration and his muse, without her in his constant thoughts, he wouldn’t be able to write. In essence, Johannes lives and breathes her. Victoria’s feelings on the other hand, are not so readily apparent. Despite the span of years in which the story takes place, Victoria never seems to grow or change. She very much reminds me of a child who has too many toys...doesn’t know which one she wants to play with, only understanding that she wants them all to be close at hand, ready to be played with. Every move Victoria makes in regards to Johannes seem to be little tests of assurance. Is he still within her grasp? Whenever Victoria is near, Johannes becomes her little puppet. These sections of the text are embarrassing to read, since he essentially fails to recognize his situation. There’s a childlike selfishness attached to Victoria’s every move, and when the reader does come to the final proof of her affections towards Johannes, there can be multiple readings—both good and bad—of what’s said and left unsaid. Heathcliff and Cathy they are not—the love between Victoria and Johannes simply fails to transcend all boundaries.

Helen is the kind of novel where one should not focus on plot. In truth, the plot is very silly; but what redeems this novel is Edgeworth’s character studies—the social and emotional impact on deception and concealment. It is truly amazing how something so insignificant and trivial—school girl deceptions and concealment—can be blown out of proportion, on the brink of becoming a social nightmare for all involved. This is the most interesting part of the novel, and I can easily understand why authors such as Elizabeth Gaskell would develop this theme in their own subsequent works.

I will give Edgeworth credit for creating a balanced work in regards to both plot and character. No one is left unscathed in this story. The characters are perfectly matched. Each character is guilty in some way or another, whether it be the cause of some deception or due to the maintenance of some unworthy principle or belief. Other characters are guilty of making hasty decisions without fully considering the consequences of their choices. By the novel’s end, it is impossible for any of the characters to say that they were more right or just in their deeds and actions over another. There is no sacrificial offering to be made; each understands that they were equally at fault. I admire Edgeworth for doing this.

Halfway through my Balzac novelettes, my mind, immersed in the depressing realism of 19th century Parisian life, needed a momentary break. Alcott’s The Inheritance was the perfect answer. Essentially, The Inheritance is sugar and spice and everything nice. Some sections are so sugary sweet that they are almost painful to read:

As they went though the park, Lord Percy stooped and lifted from the ground a handkerchief her name was on, and ’twas wet with tears. He laid it unseen in his breast, and none ever knew how tenderly ’twas cherished as the only relic of a love that never died.

Yet the little girl in me thinks moments such as this are really cute. Had I read this when I ten or eleven, I would have loved this novel. In truth, it is a fun story where hidden identities have a chance to be revealed, and goodness and true love can prevail over “evil” intent—though nothing that happens in this novel can really be categorized as an event truly evil. Actually, the villains in this story rather made me smile.

As the output of a seventeen year old writer, The Inheritance is a fun story. Yes, it is easy to notice various faults in execution, especially her overuse of coincidence to drive the plot. But overall, I found these faults easy to forgive.

Patrick White penned a very strange tale, a tale I think would fair better through a second reading. First time round, I found it rather deceptive. It’s a psychological tale, yet the thoughts and feelings of these characters seem distanced, almost intangible. Like the landscape Voss is traversing, the writing itself is stark and hazy.

The characters seem to be plagued with imaginary ideals. Voss and Laura seem to love each other to the point where they’re symbolically meeting across the void; yet I couldn’t help but wonder as I was reading, whether if ever they met again in person, would they be disappointed in each other. As a pair in the midst of society, they were socially awkward—Laura finding him somewhat repulsive and Voss generally tolerant of her presence, not really caring one way or the other whether Laura was there or not, his mind focused on something else. In that respect, I found the novel somewhat disappointing. Yet, I suppose it does in a way support the Christ-like imagery White incorporates into his tale. When viewing the story in this light, Laura assumes a role akin to Mary Magdalene—by becoming a devoted and faithful disciple to Voss’s beliefs.

This is a very brutal tale, yet it’s honest. The writing is purely sensory, very much like Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. When reading Conrad’s novel, the reader feels the darkness and heat Marlow experiences on that river in the Congo. Reading Conrad’s novel was slow, painful torture. When reading White’s novel, I felt as if I was reliving that same experience. The action complements the harsh aridness of the Australian desert Voss’s men traverse. Everything they experience, the reader senses as well. Reading this novel during some of the hottest days of summer, I felt as if I was suffocating with them. Even by novel’s end, there is no real sense of relief. Though one kind of suffering may be over, another still prevails—desolation...emptiness...a forced sense of acceptance. Yet, I think this is the perfect ending for this book; it’s not something White could have written any other way.

While it’s certainly more sensational and attention getting, I don’t like this literal translation of the title of Balzac’s novel. The original title of the book is Le Peau de Chagrin. When considering the title in French, “chagrin” has both a literal and figurative connotation, which supports the sentiments evoked in the novel. “Chagrin” or shagreen—the leather hide of an onager whose magical properties cause the protagonist Raphael to become a Faustian-like figure, leading to the “chagrin” or disquietude and disappointment of all who know, esteem and love him.

Unlike many of Balzac’s tales of Parisian life, this story is allegorical in subject and tone. The fact that it’s different is probably one of the reasons why I enjoyed it so much. Symbolism abounds in this tale, from the depicted Tristram Shandy reference of the curvy line in the Preface—if I remember correctly from Sterne’s novel, a representation of the joys of man’s freedom—to the contrasting image of the skin itself—a symbol of the degradation and corruption of a man’s soul, comparable to Dorian Gray’s painting in Oscar Wilde’s subsequent novel.

I love that this story plays with the idea of man creating and living his own heaven and hell on Earth—one of my favorite themes in literature. Raphael is in charge of his own destiny. He actively chooses the “easy” path and embarks upon a life of dissipation, not really wanting to recognize the potential salvation in front of him. The various paths he chooses to take and the resulting effects of these choices are emphasized through Balzac’s intimate narration. Actually, this story is very personal compared to other stories of his that I’ve read. And in that sense, the intimacy Balzac develops assumes a sensational quality. But Balzac isn’t really writing a magical tale here—the skin is essentially an outward manifestation of the degradation of Raphael’s soul. Balzac illustrates this well.

Overall, this is an excellent novel. The ending is shockingly melodramatic, but it perfectly complements the intimate nature of the story.

The Crimson Petal and the White tells an ugly story. It’s very dark and even amidst all of the beautifully colorful late Victorian gowns and essences of perfumes and potpourri infused throughout, nothing is really able to mask the harshness and vice that corrodes the London middle class society described.

In regards to plot, the stories that make up the 900 pages of Faber’s novel are quite simple and could easily be summed up in a few sentences. But what makes Faber’s novel a compelling read is his ability to slowly unmask all of the façades of the London setting he describes, and how this in turn affects the personalities of his characters, forcing the reader to wonder how will these characters survive, and which ones will be able to escape from the city’s overbearing clutches.

Faber’s London is a living, breathing entity and is arguably the book’s most important character, inviting and providing intrigue and shelter, as well as helping or hindering discovery and/or escape. Through London’s manipulative hand, none are left unscathed. Faber illustrates this well.

That said, I didn’t entirely enjoy all of the storylines in this book. My favorite stories were associated with the minor characters. On the one hand, I loved the eccentric aloofness of Emmeline Fox. I also liked the awkward interplay between Caroline and Henry. These two stories worked well, and I wished more of the story could have been dedicated to them. On the other hand, I was rather disappointed with Sugar, one of the main characters of the novel. Even though Sugar is in some ways redeemed in the end, it is hard to forget that she did become something she should have despised. Compared to the strong-minded girl the reader is introduced to in the beginning, as the story progresses, Sugar’s character seems to regress when she meets William Rackham. I thought she had a stronger sense of independence and even though she does regain some of it, there’s a kind of mourning for what once was.

Agnes’ etherial qualities are the strangest sections of the novel, yet her story makes the reader wonder how many girls at that time were just as innocently ignorant of life. For me, her story was the most disconcerting in the book, however Faber does not portray her as a sympathetic character. Her story is equally as ugly and disappointing as the rest—but not for how the narrator chooses to end her story. Arguably, I’d say that she is the strongest character in Faber’s novel—steadfast in her beliefs to the end and beyond....

As for the men in this story, their proclivity to vice and dissipation is horrible and at times disgusting. William’s treatment of Agnes was truly deplorable. That said, Faber is at his best playing with façades when he describes his male characters. Even the most upstanding male figure in this story is plagued with a hidden vice that gradually eats away at their character like a disease. For these men, life becomes a game where only the strongest survive.

Despite its ugliness, Faber created an interesting tale, one that I’m looking forward to seeing on film.

The one thing I love about Steinbeck’s writing is his honesty. There’s a true natural quality to his storytelling, which in turn, makes his characters so compelling. The characters in Cannery Row aren’t heroes, they’re just ordinary people. Yet their stories are told with a simple frankness that’s poignant. It’s also this frank honesty that gives the story its comedy:

Each of them got half a water glass of the clear brown liquor. They waited ceremoniously for the captain and then they said, “Over the river,” and tossed it back. They swallowed, tasted their tongues, sucked their lips, and there was a far-away look in their eyes.

Mack peered into his empty glass as though some holy message were written in the bottom. And then he raised his eyes. “You can’t say nothin’ about that,” he said. “They don’t put that in bottles.”

Mack and the boys are wonderful characters. I love them. Their motivation is so simple: Doc is such a nice guy, so let’s do something nice for him! What ensues is total chaos. Yet there’s an innocence that surrounds all of their actions. Because of this natural childlike quality, like Doc, the reader can’t possibly hate them.

My favorite part of this book is the frog hunting scene. I have always loved visual writing and this one scene is brilliantly achieved. It is absolutely horrific! Yet as I was reading, I could feel the fun those boys were having trying to catch those frogs.

Cannery Row is a terrific book and is definitely one of my favorites.

Sand’s Indiana deserves four stars simply for its entertainment. The book is ridiculously funny! I can’t say that I have ever read a novel where an adult male lead faints in embarrassment and later asks for his mother’s aid when things get out of hand. Those Raymon sections were absolutely wonderful and so much fun to read.

That said, the story itself is a complete mess. It’s silly, yet I must give George Sand credit for knowing when and where to add those wickedly funny descriptions to maintain the reader’s interest. Overall, Indiana is a rather choppy read. Important events occur suddenly; and at times, they even take place outside of the natural progression of the story, and are instead told in the form of flashback. As well, I thought some of the side stories Sand incorporates into her plot were more interesting and intriguing than Indiana’s—the book’s heroine. I loved reading Sir Ralph’s backstory and heartily wished that Sand had more of an opportunity to elaborate on some of the circumstances and events she described. His story alone would have made for an excellent novel.

Indiana is one of the silliest and most impulsive characters I’ve ever come across in literature. Yet, her character is not entirely off-putting, since Sand infuses some amusing qualities in her portrayal. Indiana thinks and believes in absolutes and “virtuous” ideals, and when it comes to her reasoning about certain things, e.g. her husband, she can be rather severe. Yet her severeness verges on the comical in its simplicity. When it comes to her husband, Indiana honestly believes: I never loved him when I married him, so why should I bother myself with trying to like him, or to find qualities in him that I could love? Her reasoning is stark, yet there’s something amusing in its plain frankness.

Overall, I honestly wasn’t very impressed with Sand’s novel. However, there are elements that are interspersed throughout that make this work rather engaging to read.

This short novella of Wharton’s is quite entertaining and amazingly manages to incorporate a number of intriguing themes. The story plays with art and the fickleness of trends in the art market. The commentary is quite interesting. I loved all of the little cameo appearances of famous personages, such as John Ruskin and Rossetti. They’re incorporated subtly and don’t hinder the progression of the text. The irony of the ending is quite wonderful. It was like watching an episode of Antiques Road Show.

In some ways, Wharton’s The Children reads like a strange combination of Henry James’ What Maisie Knew and Nabokov’s Lolita. With those two stories in mind, one would think that Wharton’s story would be equally “sensational” in both mood and tone. It’s not. Through all of the changes that do occur over the course of the novel, the tone of the story is marked by an underlying sense of stasis, reinforced by Martin’s own inability to come to terms with his feelings for the young Judith Wheater. It is interesting how Wharton achieves this.

However, I think the weak point of Wharton’s novel is her portrayal of the characters, especially Judith. At first glance, Judith appears to be the adult figure in her family, trying to keep everything and everyone together. Yet when reflecting upon her thoughts and actions, she is still very much a child, and one that is very unlike the initial image of the all-knowing, worldly adult figure the reader is presented at the beginning. The images of Judith the reader is given throughout the novel are conflicting, perhaps one could argue, to reflect the conflict of Martin’s own crisis of feeling for Judith. Yet regardless, Judith somehow remains a flat character from beginning to end. Throughout the course of the novel, it is hard to understand her appeal. In some ways, she reminds me of Amelia Sedley in Vanity Fair...i.e. one of those plain, nondescript types who somehow manage to “innocently” ensnare the affections of every man she meets, the men gravitating towards her like moths to a lamp. Both Martin and Mr. Dobree are enamored with her, but the reader is left wondering why? Because of this, I think whatever disturbing or disconcerting feelings the reader may have from reading Wharton’s novel, originate here.

When I began this novel, I was hoping to find a story that had emotional and psychological depth both in regards to characterization and style. While Wharton’s style of writing does seemingly evoke the emotional crisis of her main character, for the most part, her other characters read like superficial caricatures, especially when comparing this novel with other similar works.

The Flight of Gemma Hardy really surprised me, though I must say, not in a good way. When reading through this book, it felt like this was the author’s first novel, and I was genuinely surprised that Margot Livesey is an acclaimed writer and author of a number of works. When you really consider and analyze the story of The Flight of Gemma Hardy—completely ignoring all of the book’s connections with Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre—as a pure story, the plot of Livesey’s novel falls apart. The story itself is more fantastical than based upon reality, i.e. something that could have really taken place during late 1950s-mid-1960s, the time period when this story is set.

The crux of this book’s problem is the complete lack of communication amongst the characters. None of the characters outwardly express themselves or really discuss their feelings. There are lots of secrets in this book and not all of them are ever really resolved by the novel’s end. As well, this lack of communication forces the reader to wonder how is it possible for these characters to feel any sort of real and meaningful emotional connection. Ultimately, the more you think about these characters, their motivations, emotions, etc., their actions become all the more convoluted and strange. But what hurts the story even more is its immediate connection with Jane Eyre. Like the other Jane Eyre retelling I have read, April Lindner’s Jane, the connection between the two stories does more harm than good. In both retellings, the authors seem to be forcing a connection between the two main characters, without providing enough substance to really form a lasting connection between the two.

Livesey increases the age disparity between her Rochester and Jane: Hugh and Gemma. Here, there’s an age gap of twenty-one/twenty-two years, with Hugh already well into his forties when he meets Gemma. Livesey pronounces this age gap through her characterization of Gemma. For a young woman, Gemma is still very much a child. She fails to understand the symbolism of his actions, i.e the significance of the bird feather he gives her—completely dismissing it like a piece of trash, even expressing her displeasure to him. Yet after meeting with him two or three times, she believes she has found someone she understands, someone she considers to be “her equal.” Now, with that in mind, how can one express that Hugh’s feelings are truly honorable? When thinking about it, Hugh just seems to be a man facing a mid-life crisis, seeking someone with whom he can “sate his lusts.” But even so, what kind of man would continue to pursue a childlike girl, who completely fails to understand him? Given the title, The Flight of Gemma Hardy, and the story’s comparison to Jane Eyre, the outcome of this relationship is obvious: Gemma finally gets scared. Yet, given Hugh’s position and the fact that he is an adult male living in the late 1960s, I find Hugh’s reaction to Gemma’s flight completely unrealistic. Hugh’s actions overstep certain boundaries that no real man would ever take if placed in Hugh’s situation, unless the man happened to be a close relation to Gemma, e.g. parent or guardian. Hugh’s choices don’t make sense, and his feelings toward Gemma seem to increasingly manifest into an unhealthy obsession.

Emotionally, Gemma is a still a young teenager. She is moody and acts on impulse without thinking about the possible outcomes or consequences of her actions. She never questions people or her situation. She readily breaks people’s trust for her own personal gains. As well, once she forms an opinion about someone or something, she is loath to change it. Developmentally, she is not ready to handle the situations in which she finds herself. In some ways, she reminds me of Agnes Rackham from The Crimson Petal and the White. Though while Agnes has excuses for her changeable disposition and unworldliness, Gemma does not. In regards to sociability, Gemma fails to bond with people. The one person I would have thought that Gemma would want to form a connection with, i.e. Hugh’s niece, she doesn’t. Strangely, Gemma here remains passive than reactive, stating she has no desire at attempting to form a bond with the little girl, seemingly believing that it should have been the little girl’s place to make the first move. It is really strange, and so unlike Jane Eyre’s relationship with Adèle.

The ending of this book is abrupt and completely drab. Its sudden cleanliness is so drearily dull and unsuitable. The ending reads like a child’s fable with the inevitable promise of growth and development after hardship. Yet given everything that happens over the course of this novel, the probable outcome of this Jane Eyre retelling shouldn’t be warranted. Honestly, this story needed additional spice to make up for Gemma’s silliness throughout. I felt Gemma’s story should have ended with dramatic and ironic flair, with one of those wonderfully evil bad ends. It would have been more fitting, a good way to shock the reader from a relatively dull story.

Overall, I think that The Flight of Gemma Hardy illustrates one of the worst faults an author can make: creating a weak, almost lazily crafted work. The decision to extend and elaborate on plot details rather than develop interpersonal relationships between her characters was a poor choice on the author’s part. Unfortunately, these extensions to the basic Jane Eyre plot only enhance the improbable nature of this story.

When reading Henry James’s first novel, one might be ready to compare the main character Roger to that other Roger from Trollope’s The Way We Live Now. In some ways, both Rogers are similar in the fact that both are in love with much younger girls. However, I think that is also where the similarities end. Trollope’s Roger is an insipid character—dull and morose, someone who ultimately does what he can for the good of others through an act of personal sacrifice. From what I remember, Trollope himself stated that Roger’s character should not be regarded as a main interest for his story...that a true reader’s focus should be centered on those self-centered roguish types, like Melmotte and Sir Felix, who try their best to make a gain from a corrupt society.

On the other hand, Henry James’ Roger is actually rather interesting as a character. James provides Roger with a strong backbone, ready to weather any storm that may come his way and adapt accordingly. Yes, his heart and his mind are grounded upon his own desires and future outcomes, yet he is not portrayed as an immoral, corrupt or clingy individual. His interests are genuine, without appearing self-centered. Roger cares for his ward and wants the best for her, whatever fate she may choose. Unlike Trollope’s Roger, James’ Roger won’t be making a martyr’s sacrifice. James’ Roger lays out his cards and patiently waits for the outcome.

James also provides an interesting take on the ward’s story. Nora’s story is akin to the ugly duckling tale. Our plain and awkward duck becomes a beautiful swan, who is ready to become initiated into society. However, it is society that ultimately helps Nora decide her fate. As Trollope illustrated in his later novel, Henry James, here, portrays society as a corrupt entity—a place where only the strongest are able to successfully play society’s games.

Even though this is a relatively short work, I ultimately think that for James’ first novel, Watch and Ward is a very good book and one that I really enjoyed reading.

When I first came upon the title Code Name Verity, I was really looking forward to reading it. I generally do enjoy war stories, both on film and in books, and Code Name Verity offers something different for younger readers with its focus on women WWII pilots. I thought this would be rather interesting. However, I am sorry to say that I was rather disappointed with the story.

Part of my disappointment stems from Elizabeth Wein’s author’s note, stating that she was weaving fact with fiction in order to make a good story—stretching ideas and events in order to make them seem plausible. I don’t entirely understand why she did this...I felt she could have easily changed the setting to the latter part of the war, i.e. after 1943 when women pilots in the ATA were permitted to fly without restriction. This setting choice, I ultimately felt to be a detraction to Wein’s story. As Wein’s story stands, pilot Maddie is constantly skirting around rules and regulations to do what she wants most: fly. For me, Maddie’s constant bending of the rules made the story seem more and more implausible as the story progressed, especially since Maddie’s punishment for her court-martial offenses are at most a slap on the wrist. Maddie’s poor judgment in decision making detracted from the seriousness of the story and the events taking place. Had the story been set at a later point in time, Wein could have focused more on the kinds of missions these women pilots faced, which would have lead to more intrigue, and made for a more interesting story from Maddie’s point of view.

Thus, characterization also hurts the storyline. Maddie is essentially a child placed into a position of power. She doesn’t seem ready to take on the responsibilities she is given. She is easily influenced by her own desires and her peers. Conflicted thoughts often lead her to follow the wrong track. Though she does feel culpability for her choices and their consequences, at times it feels insincere and almost flippant. Whenever she feels bad, she is ready to “bawl” at a moment’s notice. Even though the reader is not really meant to feel this way about Maddie, over time I couldn’t help but feel a lack of sympathy towards Maddie’s constant outbursts of emotion. Yet regardless, Maddie somehow manages to survive and make the best of her situation. In this sense, she reminds me of Liz Grainger from the BBC series Wish Me Luck.

That said, I did like Queenie. In essence, she is everything Maddie isn’t in terms of character. Even though they are roughly the same age, Queenie is so much older in regards to experience and is fully able to assume the responsibilities given to her. She is a girl who doesn’t mess about. Perhaps this difference in temperament is the foundation for their mutual attraction and friendship. However, I did find some fault with Queenie’s story as well. Though Wein does dip slightly into the emotional and psychological effects of imprisonment, for the most part, Wein provides a surface telling of the events. Her writing style is not as severe as the stoic monotone of Sebastian Faulks in Birdsong, but it does veer close to a reporter’s writing style with its detailed description of facts and events taking place during wartime. I honestly did not mind the descriptions of piloting, etc., yet at the same time, I also found myself wishing Wein could have developed the psychological aspects she does allude to in the story.

I will end on a positive note. I really liked how Wein ended her story. It is the perfect place. It doesn’t force additional complications and emotions that I felt would have had no real place in the story, especially given everything that had happened. Wein definitely made a good choice.

I was pleasantly surprised at how well Trobough crafted the beginning of her book. She was almost Dickensian in the characterization of her characters. Everything described is so visual...the little boy left behind, scared by the sudden appearance of the dark figure with the egret feather peering at him through the bushes...the soothing quality of the dark figure’s voice...the image of Fiona and Glory, two old ladies who are essentially the female version of the Odd Couple, finding little Victor...it’s wonderful! The writing is so vivid and real. It is well done.

However, the momentum Trobough developed during the first third of her novel somehow manages to dissipate as the reader progresses through the latter parts of the book. I think the main reason why the first section of the book worked so well, is its focus—the story centered around the boy and those two elderly ladies who adopt him. Together, they made an amusing trio. Though as the story progresses, Trobough continuously adds to her supporting cast of characters, which in turn, helps the story lose its focus. Rather than the prior focus on character, the story becomes heavily focused on plot, told from different points of view. Because of this, the characters became flat and listless, almost shadows of their former selves, as the plot meandered to its end. Too much happened, causing the story to feel cluttered. I found this change disturbing.

As well, I think all of the shifts in time and the addition of the various storylines of these new characters contributed to a major story error—an error I truly hope the editors were able to catch before the final printing. The story begins in 1924, when little Victor is around 18 months to two years old. Yet around the time of Pearl Harbor (Dec. 1941), Fiona describes Victor as being only sixteen and too young to enter WWII. Between that period of time is seventeen years, and given Victor’s age in 1924, it would make him eighteen, almost nineteen years old—certainly old enough to enlist without the need to fake his age. I sincerely hope the 1924 date in my copy was a misprint.

While I did enjoy some aspects of this novel, considering the work in its entirety, I don’t feel that it met my expectations. I was rather disappointed by it. That said, I do think if the novel was broken up into shorter pieces, i.e. short stories about small town life collected into one volume, Trobough would have had a much better work. The short story format would have given her more room to develop her characters as well as her plot. In the short story format, there would be a lesser chance for her to lose momentum in her storytelling.

Wagner has certainly envisioned an interesting fantasy and alternate reality. Though his story does contain elements common to its genre, he does combine them in a novel way. I was easily pulled into his story and was genuinely interested to see how it would all turn out.

Unfortunately, when I first came across this title, I didn’t realize it was a part of a series. So I was rather disappointed by the ending. The ending provides the reader with more questions than answers, leaving the reader hanging in for the next installment to the series. It kind of reminded me of my initial reaction after reading Robin McKinley’s Chalice. With that book, I ultimately felt that the story was one long prologue...that the main story was only really about to begin at the novel’s close. Upon completion, Exiled has that same feeling. Though with Wagner, there is a promise of a sequel, unlike McKinley’s novel.

One other aspect of the story I honestly did not enjoy reading was the “romance” between James and Kilani. I felt it was an unnecessary addition in regards to the plot. For me, it felt clumsy and awkward. The age difference doesn’t really work here, and if it was necessary for the story arc, James should have been older. This is more of a subject I would have expected to find in a novel by Zola. ;) I was not expecting to find this in a young-adult fantasy novel. Reading about a sixteen year old kid repeatedly thinking, hoping and desiring the attentions of the older Kilani, desperately willing her to consider him as a man and not a boy, made me cringe in shame. Reading about James fruitlessly pining for his lady love kills the hero image. For a fantasy novel, that’s not good.

Overall, while there were some elements of the story I did enjoy, I was hoping for more, especially in regards to the conclusion.