Stolen

Lucy Christopher's Stolen recounts (in the form of a letter to her captor) the abduction of 16 year old Gemma, held captive in the Australian outback by a man who, it transpires, knows everything about her.

Although utterly creepy and deeply disturbing, this book is more than a simple thriller, providing glimpses of calm and beauty pocketed inside the tension. Christopher cleverly parallels her description of the desert with Gemma’s (and the reader’s) perception of her captor, which is gradually revealed as complex and conflicting; not only the dangerous, stark place we initially picture but also a place of safety, comfort and splendour.

This book will leave you confused, but in a good way; confused about what you should be thinking and feeling, exactly as Gemma is. And like Gemma, you may find the desert and everything that she’s been through, stays with you long after the letter is sealed and the book closed.

Stolen is a fantastically gripping read, dealing sensitively with motive and perception, against a stunning, affecting backdrop: Read it now!

Fantasy: Shaping the world for better or worse?

There has been much debate about the morality of fantasy novels, and whether there is a place for such works in the children’s literature canon, from claims that the Harry Potter books promote witchcraft and sin, and perpetuate school-shootings, to those that view Neil Gaiman's Coraline as rejecting family values.

However, fantasy novels consistently explore moral codes. They don’t necessarily stick with a singular idea of what that moral code should be (just as existent cultures do not always agree on the matter), but successfully explore themes of morality such as jealousy, pride and obedience. It’s true that some fantasy novels (such as Philip Pullman’s trilogy His Dark Materials, or Scott Westerfeld’s Uglies) may lead to readers being critical of a society’s traits or of moral ideas in their own right and although I believe this to be a positive factor, it is easy to see how this might threaten certain ideologies.

Others texts however, portray a cultural idea of morality in a positive light; as something worth striving for or nestling within. Take A Hat Full of Sky, for example; Terry Pratchett’s second Tiffany Aching book; the story, with 11-year-old Tiffany moving away from her family to apprentice as a witch, explores notions of becoming independent, being yourself, and taking responsibility for your actions.

Tiffany has talent, perhaps, but what she has most, is a sort of gutsy stubbornness and an insistence on doing what must be done. Traits which Granny Weatherwax (more on her in a moment) holds in high regard. Enter the Hiver. The Hiver, is an intangible organism which, always seeking power, lodges itself in a person’s mind; manipulates their actions towards power. This gives ample opportunity for the reader to discover the importance of self control, particularly where Tiffany interacts with her peers, keen to impress her fellow witches in a way that is quintessential in any transformation to adulthood. In addition to self-control, Pratchett uses the same device to explore the notion of ‘facing up to things’ when you make the wrong choice.

Granny Weatherwax portrays a very British ‘stiff-upper-lip’ attitude and pride in everything she is and does, whilst showing a deep humanity which we’d all like to think we possess. She is a character whom everyone in the Ramtops looks up to (however reluctantly). In A Hat Full of Sky, she helps Tiffany understand her responsibilities as a figure of power and demonstrates (in a way that Tiffany later emulates) that you can maintain your pride whilst serving other people. Further, Granny Weatherwax allows the reader to see that power and ego can be used for good and that it is what we choose to do (or not to do, for instance, not turning ungrateful villagers into frogs) that matters.

Granny never abuses her powers, merely bending people’s will so that they help each other and themselves. And she is never violent, allowing Tiffany and the reader to experience speech and attitude as tools far more powerful than fists and swords.

Another strong element to Granny and Tiffany’s relationship, is space. Granny is absent from the majority of the book, allowing the young witches to make their own way for better or worse, but her presence is felt throughout, gently guiding them without being forceful, and there’s never any doubt that Granny will come through for people when they really need it. Opportunities for such freedom is something which has lessened for Britain’s youth over recent years, and its inclusion in Young Adult literature is an important part of growing up. Gaiman’s work clearly acknowledges this too; in The Graveyard Book, Bod’s guardian Silas is never overbearing. Bod gets into scrapes and adventures of his own accord, safe in the knowledge that Silas will be looking out for him even when he is not there.

Harking back to Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book, something Gaiman freely admits to, The Graveyard Book is as quintessentially British as its predecessor; an early example of fantasy at its best, which may have seemed as outlandish at the time as being raised by ghosts, vampires and hellhounds seems to a modern audience.

Review of The Lord of the Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien

Despite having read The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien, at the age of six, I took a long time to get around to The Lord of the Rings. After a few failed attempts, I gave up on it until this January when my boyfriend reread it for the fourth time (three times in English, once in German). It was time to give the most famous fantasy epic of all a proper try.

The book starts off quite slowly, picking up from The Hobbit with descriptions of the peaceful land of the Shire and the dealings of the Hobbits – short, hairy-footed, comfortable folk – since Bilbo Baggins had returned from his journey with the Dwarves, laden with mysterious riches. Part of this trove was a gold ring that Bilbo had gained in strange circumstances, a ring that is much more powerful and important than it appears. The wizard Gandalf arrives in the Shire to help with the fabulous birthday party that Bilbo has planned but also to tell his nephew Frodo that a grave danger approaches and he must leave as soon as possible. With eight companions, hobbits, men, an Elf, a Dwarf and Gandalf the Wizard, Frodo sets off on what seems like an impossible quest.

I quickly became engrossed in The Fellowship of the Ring, the first volume of The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien uses many different kinds of language to tell his tale: the jolly, colloquial speech of the hobbits mixes with rather high-flown legendary narration and accomplished descriptions of the lands the Fellowship pass through. I was transfixed by the walking scenes in particular, amazed at how Tolkien was able to describe days' worth of journey at a go without becoming repetitive. The world-building is almost seamless, as details of the myths and history of Middle Earth are given to the reader incidentally. This is definitely a technique I prefer to huge info dumps, and although the reader may not understand all the references at first, they evoke a complex world in the mind.

Another of Tolkien's strengths is his characterisation, especially when he uses dialogue between characters to show motivations and conflicts. I read the scenes involving Aragorn and Boromir wishing that I might one day be able to write conversations like those, or a friendship like the one that develops between Legolas the Elf and Gimli the Dwarf. Gandalf, already one of my favourite characters from literature, is revealed layer by layer to be something much more than he seems at the start of the novel, without losing any of his complexity - or sense of humour.

The Lord of the Rings is also full of variation in mood. Jokes are told, long songs sung (note to the reader - it is all right to skip these). Strange wonders are witnessed: I was as excited as the hobbit Sam when we met the Elves of Lorien and saw a fabled oliphaunt. At times, the journey becomes truly sad, and some episodes are downright frightening. The trip through the Mines of Moria is one of the scariest pieces of writing I have read in years. That isn't to say I think children wouldn't be able to handle it, though. I would just recommend reading it like I did - with the lights on and a comforting cup of tea close to hand. I believe Tolkien was very keen to keep an emotional balance in his novel. The stirring battle scenes are coupled with quieter passages. For every loss and sadness, his characters have something to keep them going, whether it's a sign of hope from outside or their own grit, moral compass or love for someone else.

The problems that I had with the book were mostly due, I think, to its having been written in the 1950s and reflecting some attitudes that are no longer current. I had a hard time getting past the way the relationship between Sam and Frodo is written. At home in the Shire, Sam is Frodo's gardener and working class to Frodo's well-off middle class - the class that Tolkien obviously had in mind as his audience. When Sam leaves home to follow Frodo into the wilds, his main motivation for going is to look after Frodo, which is just as well. Somebody needs to! Somehow, though, despite the perils the two hobbits travel through together, and despite the fact that Sam is just as crucial to the quest, in the end, as "his master", the two hobbits remain divided by class in the way that Tolkien writes about them and in the way other characters see them. Elves who boast that they cannot tell hobbits apart from one another somehow recognise that Sam is merely an adjunct of Frodo. I was sometimes uncomfortable reading about Sam's being, for example, "like a dog invited on a walk". I think the same story could have been told about Sam and Frodo without this emphasis on class. The love that Sam feels for Frodo would have stood up on its own without the implication that it is his due as master.

Mentions of race in the work also pulled me up short. All of the (human) main characters are clearly white, while the only people of colour in the book are swarthy Southrons, and some black men from even further south, who have cast their lot in with the evil Sauron. Oh dear. I wonder if Tolkien even realised that. The classification of races of men - for instance the higher Numenorians, who mingled their blood with inferior men - is something I would not expect to see in a more modern fantasy novel. I do mean men, rather than people. With some very fine exceptions - Galadriel and Eowyn are both portrayed as mighty and accomplished, as well as interesting in themselves - this is a book about men, male Dwarfs, Elves and hobbits, male Orcs and a male force of evil.

Outside of these criticisms, I have to say that I loved The Lord of the Rings. I can't believe that I didn't read it sooner, but on the other hand I'm glad to have unwittingly saved such a pleasure for myself. I would recommend it wholeheartedly for anyone who wants to lose themselves in a different universe. You will meet – and grow to love – people in this book who will be with you for the rest of your life.

People over the age of twelve or so will probably get along well with The Lord of the Rings, if they have patience for a rather slow start and some unfamiliar language. Reading The Hobbit beforehand is the way to go, both to be familiar with the back-story of The Lord of the Rings and because it is a wonderful book on its own, which deserves a separate review.

People who enjoy these books will probably also like The Earthsea Quartet by Ursula le Guin.

The Savage

The Savage, written by David Almond and illustrated by Dave McKean is presented as 'An extraordinary graphic novel within a novel'.

It describes a young lad who begins to write a story about the eponymous Savage; a feral and violent character who exists outside the realities of society.

Almond typically observes his characters effectively and his words flow nicely throughout the pages. McKean's illustrations are fabulous; he uses a calligraphic ink technique that gives his art an ethereal quality, despite the urbanised and often brutal themes.

Problems arise when the two artists are not working in tandem; sections of the book are text only and they feel empty and soulless.

The story is intriguing, yet elements feel a little whitewashed; like Almond is holding back.

Overall The Savage is important for expanding the publishing market, but isn't quite the bridge between children's picture books and adult graphic novels I'd have hoped.

The Knife of Never Letting Go

Patrick Ness’s first book for young adults is beautifully crafted. The plot is edgy, and once the characters start running full-pelt towards the final page they won’t stop for anything; they can’t. Occasionally I had to pull my eyes from the book to catch my breath, exhausted by its relentlessness.

Ness treats the reader to sumptuous language throughout, skilfully drawing us into a world that’s wonderfully terrifying. You will hear the character’s voices – and Noise – in your head, see everything that they see, feel everything that they feel. This is no easy journey, you will find yourself elated, drained, sickened and at times heart-wrenchingly sad even when you can see a glimmer of hope.

There was a moment, about a third of the way through the book, where I thought everything was going to go horribly wrong, turn into a psychological analysis of gender. I was mistaken. This book is an astute, exciting novel which guides the reader through the struggles of responsibility and love and humanness with a strange gentle roughness. My only gripe (and it is a major one) with the author is the book’s ending. There is no ending, just a terribly annoying cliff-hanger, and 2 whole months to wait until the release of Book 2: The Ask and the Answer.