Thursday, April 7, 2016

Review: The Map of Bones by Francesca Haig (The Fire Sermon #2)

*This review may contain spoiler for the first book in the series, The Fire Sermon, and minor spoilers for The Map of Bones.

So when I reviewed The Fire Sermon, the first book in this series, I wrote this:

‘I really want Haig to give the reader more in the sequels. More insight, more internal life, more complexity, more basis for how the world is, more believability, more emotion’

And in book two, The Map of Bones, she delivers. It feels unburdened and able to breathe more freely following events at the end of the first book and Kip’s death. Cass now comes into her own as a character and we get to know her as she goes through grief, and without the distraction of romantic interests for now. There is much more interiority and the prose blossoms in these moments. There is also more travelling and journeying but it doesn’t feel like filler, events unfold naturally and there are certainly big game-changing ones that occur.

We get to know more about Zoe, stripping the layers away as the book goes on, but Piper is still a slightly more one-dimensional character – I haven’t quite got a hold on him yet. The villains (Zach and co.) are also quite limited but mainly because there isn't really a chance to spend much time with them. I enjoyed this as a sequel – and second books are probably the hardest to get right in a trilogy. If some of those secondary characters develop more in the third then I think we’re onto a winner.

The Map of Bones, perhaps even more so than being a dystopian quest-narrative, is a solemn, bleak meditation on memory and grief, and what it is to really know someone. Haig comes into her forte with some of Cass’s and Zoe’s reflective moments and inner struggles – for example, this beautiful line on the way we remember someone after they’re gone:

“…but I betrayed her, too, when I only remembered the bad parts. I should have remembered her properly, even though it’s harder.”

It’s a deeply moving moment and a cathartic one both for the characters and the reader. The journey they go on in this book is as much mental and emotional as it is physical, and you do feel like they’ve travelled a long distance in both by the end.

The gradual revealing of more and more about the blast and the Before is also very effective. It is implied that the people of the Before advanced too far with their machinery and technology, all leading to a nuclear disaster. Hence the intense mistrust of tanks and other machinery by the residents in the After (except for Zach and some of the other Alphas who want to use it for their own cruel purposes).

"It’s always said that everything’s broken, since the blast,” [Piper] said. “And we both know there’s plenty that’s broken enough.” There were so many different kinds of brokenness to choose from. The broken-down mountains, slumped into heaps of slag and scree. The towns and cities from the Before, the bones of a world. Or the broken bodies he’d seen, too many to count.

“…what good ever came out of the Before? The one thing that we know for certain about these people is that they, and their machines, destroyed the world. They brought about all of this.” – The Ringmaster

The pacing and the subtlety is much stronger throughout the narrative and, a true poet, Haig’s imagery is incredibly powerful and memorable.

‘I was a walking emissary of the deadlands, spreading ash wherever I went.’

‘This was how violence worked, I was learning: it refused to be contained. It spread, a plague of blades.’

‘Words were bloodless symbols we relied on to keep the world at bay.’

More forces and perspectives are coming to play and the world is both deepening and expanding. The language and imagery is very evocative and visual and I’m beginning to see how it could be compared to The Road by Cormac McCarthy in terms of atmosphere and landscape. I now have high hopes for book three. Some readers may struggle more with this one as the pacing is slower than other recent offerings in the genre, but there are key moments of action and reveals are measured and gradual. I personally found this much more rewarding than frustrating – where book one was a bit more hit-and-miss with pace, this one finds a consistent balance. 

If you've read The Fire Sermon and, like me,  weren't sure, then I definitely recommend you give this a read as it adds much, much more and Haig stylistically hits her rhythm. This trilogy is beginning to lay its own ground and I look forward to reading more.  
Discussion Point: 

I guess there is a certain discussion point that did spring to my mind when I was thinking about these books: Haig certainly makes the Omegas our heroes – and defines them by deformity, and yet the protagonist/hero that she gives us is one who is an exception – who does not have a physical deformity and is ‘special’. What does this say in the climate of diversity? Is it a missed opportunity or is there a more intricate exploration of the mental health of someone with Cass’s powers? I’d be interested to hear what others think. I think it’s very complicated given the premise of the novels but I found The Map of Bones a good and thought-provoking read nonetheless and trust Haig’s intentions and knowledge of the world and characters she is building.

I like that there is a very interesting choice that the characters are faced with by the end *potential spoiler alert*: is it better for everyone to be equal, although all with a degree of 'deformity', or for the Alpha-Omega twin-death bond to continue? It's going to be very interesting to unpack in the next book as it certainly complicates the endgame of the different parties.

Further quotes:

-          “…although you like to think you’re so far above the assumptions and prejudices of the rest of the world, it turns out you’re not so different from them after all.” - Zoe

-          'Hope was not a decision I made. It was a stubborn reflex. The body squirming toward the air. The taking of the next breath, and the one after that.'

*Thank you to Gallery Books (US) and HarperVoyager (UK) for letting me read a digital ARC in exchange for honest review. 

Saturday, April 2, 2016

Review: Passenger by Alexandra Bracken

GoodReads description:

Passage, n.
i. A brief section of music composed of a series of notes and flourishes.
ii. A journey by water; a voyage.
iii. The transition from one place to another, across space and time.

In one devastating night, violin prodigy Etta Spencer loses everything she knows and loves. Thrust into an unfamiliar world by a stranger with a dangerous agenda, Etta is certain of only one thing: she has traveled not just miles but years from home. And she’s inherited a legacy she knows nothing about from a family whose existence she’s never heard of. Until now.

Nicholas Carter is content with his life at sea, free from the Ironwoods—a powerful family in the colonies—and the servitude he’s known at their hands. But with the arrival of an unusual passenger on his ship comes the insistent pull of the past that he can’t escape and the family that won’t let him go so easily. Now the Ironwoods are searching for a stolen object of untold value, one they believe only Etta, Nicholas’ passenger, can find. In order to protect her, he must ensure she brings it back to them—whether she wants to or not.

Together, Etta and Nicholas embark on a perilous journey across centuries and continents, piecing together clues left behind by the traveler who will do anything to keep the object out of the Ironwoods’ grasp. But as they get closer to the truth of their search, and the deadly game the Ironwoods are playing, treacherous forces threaten to separate Etta not only from Nicholas but from her path home... forever.

This was an intriguing adventure-romance which delves into history and time travel with care and detail. As a novel, it explores issues of family, race and identity in different time-contexts. 

Bracken's knowledge and historical detail is one of the strongest aspects of Passenger. I enjoyed the construction of each world, and wish we could have spent longer in each time to really see these primary characters adapt, develop and relate. Their adventure and romance sometimes felt a bit too rushed, despite both Nicholas and Etta being interesting individual characters. The romantic tension did feel a little forced and too detailed, leaving little time for the chemistry to build somewhat independently of the text itself. Nicholas is a very guarded character, understandably so given his time and origins as the child of a slave and her master. It is understandable for him to be guarded from Etta and those around him in the story, but with a two-character alternating narrative, Bracken perhaps could have let the reader in a little more. We don't get many private moments with him, whereas we really benefit from the opening chapters with Etta. 

I really enjoyed the opening chapters as we get to know Etta and what drives her and her love of music. Bracken writes these scenes brilliantly and really gets in Etta's head, and introducing the key relationships in her New York 2015 life. Similarly, there are some really nice moments with Nicholas on the ship, in his own time, with his sort of surrogate ship family. I would have loved to see these play out a little longer before the protagonists are thrown together. 

Again you don't really get a strong sense of the character of the villain - Cyrus Ironwood - but the history of the families is bound to be expanded upon in the sequel and I am looking forward to learning more - those family/surrogate family elements were some of the things that really hooked me. At this stage, Cyrus just exists to impose a sense of threat and a ticking-clock to carry the plot forward in this first book. 

Overall, it's a slow, careful and intriguing build (except for the romance angle, which I found a little too forced and rushed). It would have been nice to see the chemistry and relationship between Etta and Nicholas develop more organically, but the writing is very much 'telling you' it's happening. In terms of plot, the pace zooms into overdrive in the final few chapters and the ending is a whirlwind of a cliff-hanger which should fire nicely into the sequel and shake things up a bit. I'm intrigued by this world, particularly the negotiations of different cultures and the time-travel concept that Bracken is building and will pick up the sequel with interest when it arrives.

Thank you to Quercus Children's Books for a chance to read an eARC via NetGalley. This book is out in the UK on the 7th of April!

Sunday, March 6, 2016

Review: Radio Silence by Alice Oseman

GoodReads Description: 

What if everything you set yourself up to be was wrong?

Frances has always been a study machine with one goal, elite university. Nothing will stand in her way; not friends, not a guilty secret – not even the person she is on the inside.

But when Frances meets Aled, the shy genius behind her favourite podcast, she discovers a new freedom. He unlocks the door to Real Frances and for the first time she experiences true friendship, unafraid to be herself. Then the podcast goes viral and the fragile trust between them is broken.

Caught between who she was and who she longs to be, Frances’ dreams come crashing down. Suffocating with guilt, she knows that she has to confront her past…
She has to confess why Carys disappeared…

Meanwhile at uni, Aled is alone, fighting even darker secrets.

It’s only by facing up to your fears that you can overcome them. And it’s only by being your true self that you can find happiness.

Frances is going to need every bit of courage she has.

The good news – Alice Oseman’s second novel is just as good as her first. It captures the next stage of life – the move from school to university - while exploring some really important issues around school success and how teenagers are taught to define their self-worth. Again she involves the Tumblr generation in a realistic (but not cringe-y) way. She also draws in fandoms, the perks and flaws of social media, male-female friendship, ethnicity, sexuality and so much more and they all weave together in a very engaging way that today’s generation will definitely appreciate. 

Radio Silence is a must-read for those in their final years at school.

If I didn’t get into Cambridge, everything I had tried to be throughout my school life would be a total waste.’ – Frances, Radio Silence

The historical associations of Oxbridge – as the only destination for the best and brightest – the prestige, the privilege – the confirmation of genius, the mythical guarantee of success, it is still lorded over today’s children. It is still the pillar against which schools measure and brandish their greatness and often a factor in parents of a certain background selecting the institution they wish their children to go to. But Oxbridge isn’t, or shouldn’t be relevant anymore. The Oxbridge ideal is out of date and it’s actively harmful to the way kids think and what they strive for. Many are measuring their self-worth on archaic and narrow ideals. I really relate to Frances’ plight in this regard. I think Alice is brilliant at really getting into the very real struggle and sorrow that Frances goes through – she acknowledges that you could argue it is coming from a position of privilege in the first-world – that it seems selfish and ungrateful but that doesn’t mean it isn’t any less real and important and doesn’t hurt. Frances’ quest for Cambridge and that whole part of her experience gave me so many flashbacks and it honestly reads so truly – I think so many people who haven’t felt understood or represented before will feel a wave of relief when reading this book. Some teenagers work really hard, get on with their parent(s), aren’t just interested in parties, drinking and romance and still have an absolutely engaging and complex story to tell.

Your whole life for about 16 years, is school, university is the focus and end-goal imposed on you, and you so desperately want to be special and worth something but you have such narrow parameters within which to define that success. Radio Silence really got me thinking again about those years at school, approaching university, and I really hope that it starts a conversation in terms of the curriculum, degrees and maybe just understanding generally what a lot of people are going through and how we can help them. 

I remember a lot of people telling me that university was the best time of their life, and maybe that’s true for some but for others it is a melting pot of anxiety and academic frustration and homesickness and confusion. You could come from school where all your essays got top grades and suddenly find yourself floundering in a place with very little guidance on offer and which still only really rewards people who think in a certain way (usually the way of the person marking the work, if you’re doing the Humanities). I was also told at school that I'd really enjoy university (I studied English Literature) as there was so much freedom and I could write about whatever I wanted however I wanted. That wasn't true. In some ways I found it much more restrictive - they still wanted me to think a certain way and write in a very formulaic way and it quashed my inspiration and enjoyment and my desire to really think for myself. I still love English Literature, and I did learn new ways of thinking and was introduced to some great literature and had a couple of great professors but I also was so relieved to escape it afterwards and be master of my own learning and writing again - to try and recapture some inspiration and sense of identity. Some people find themselves, many also lose themselves – and it’s really interesting and desperately sad to see that happen to Aled in Radio Silence

I really appreciated the focus on friendship, academic life and family. So many of these books, particularly in this age-group, get wrapped up in romance and love-interests and it’s so refreshing not to have that – because, personally, that wasn’t my focus at that age, and it doesn’t seem like it’s Frances’ either – work and finding friends you can be yourself with both feel far bigger and more intense. The platonic relationships in Radio Silence are so, so powerful and moving and heart-warming that you don’t need any contrived romance plot.

The cast of the book is brilliant and diverse – but not in a box-checking way, it's all written with so much care and attention to detail that you feel connected to every character and you appreciate all the things that make them unique. Alice writes so well about these things partly because she is a clever, talented writer, and also because she is true to herself and her experience and is living the world she is writing and reflecting on experiences that are far more recent than an older adult thinking back and trying to make their experience apply to today’s youth. She’s unflinchingly honest, articulate and observant and it’s very much needed in this contemporary market. I couldn’t put it down – I read late into the night and on the train and am still thinking about it.

The podcast narrative is beautiful and tragic and unique, as was the look at the way people interact with their ‘obsessions’ on Tumblr – it can be a frighteningly intense, even dangerous, place but Oseman also shows the creativity and sense of community it can foster. You can start to understand the way people think and interact in these new ways as the world evolves and all the repercussions of those interactions. 

This book is a message – don’t get trapped, question everything – question what you want and what society/school is telling you and whether it’s right for you and be yourself because otherwise there is a lot of suffering that you could fall into. Don’t let your school try to define you by the universities you apply to or the subjects you study, laugh at the ones who try to hand-pick and coach you to get into Oxbridge, just find the things and the people you love and hold on tight.

Radio Silence is one of the books on the market that is most worth reading right now, because you won’t have read anything like it, you won’t have met these characters before – none of them are ‘types’ and you may even finally feel understood and able to process the confusing and messy years of your teenage/young adult life. Even if it’s not your personal experience or something you can relate to, it’s worth reading to spend a few hours in the heads of these very real characters and to see the world through their eyes. Oseman brings so many new, overlooked or marginalised voices into play and has hopefully given them a real platform in YA and it's brilliant community. 

*I received this book as an ARC for honest review on NetGalley. Thank you to HarperCollins Childrens for the chance to read it. 

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Why Character Wins in Star Wars VII: The Force Awakens

AKA I got excited. 

You don’t just come back to Star Wars because of the compelling/exciting plot – stripped to it’s bones it is THE plot. Dark vs Light. Hero vs Villain. Father vs Son. (This is to put it all very simplistically)

You come back because you fall in love with the characters.

That’s what the prequels lacked for me, no one fell in love with Anakin or Obi Wan or Padme as characters. They were fairly wooden. And I didn’t hate those films – I found bits of them painful and the acting was lacking but I was interested in the journey Anakin took to becoming Vader. It could have been executed a lot better, but there were bits I did enjoy. They lacked heart. Both The Force Awakens and the original trilogy have earnest, excited characters with lots of life inside them that you feel protective of and affection for. They inspired your love.

You come back for Luke Skywalker, Han Solo and Princess Leia. Three icons who have endured the years.

And you will come back for Finn, Rey and Poe because they inspire the same love that I, and you, felt for that original trio. And that is a credit to Boyega and Ridley, who are both quite new on this stage, and Isaac who is just stepping into these kind of action/adventure roles. Ridley must have felt such pressure and the world on her shoulders – a female lead in a Star Wars movie – a female with perhaps more power than perhaps any character we’ve seen before on Star Wars… It’s brilliantly subversive and a huge task – she would be taken to pieces if she didn’t play it well, but she does – you can see her passion so visibly on screen. She plays it with youthful energy and wonder and excitement – you can feel her excitement both as an actress and a character to be part of this – and you can feel that that’s how you’d be if you were in those shoes too. 

It’s the same with Finn – he seems breathlessly excited in his acting – he’s charming and funny and you want to learn with him and Rey as they take their first steps. Poe fits so naturally – like he was born into that role. Rey and Boyega interact brilliantly and wittily, and it’s so fun to watch their friendship grow as they both get thrown into these new worlds and roles. The old cast are very much mentors and it’s great to see them again but it’s really just as exciting spending a lot of time with Rey and Finn. Forget the ‘political correctness’ and agenda-filled debates and enjoy this because Rey and Finn have already shown they’re so much more than that. Many of the complainers and nay-sayers have the wrong priorities and are just voicing insecurities. These two actors and characters are more than capable of sustaining and reviving a love for Star Wars and what it’s always been at it’s heart.

In the same way your favourite character could be any of Luke or Han or Leia – here you could pick almost anyone and it’s so fun to have all these options – all different in their own way.

I LOVE Rey and I feel strongly protective of her and Daisy Ridley – I, and probably many women who grew up watching Star Wars and wanting to be part of it, feel such an affinity to her and that’s already given me so much more than I hoped for from this film. To have Rey – whose eyes light up at ships and droids and scavenging - in a Star Wars film feels so amazing and I’m almost jealous of the young girls who will grow up watching this and the young boys who will grow up watching her and Finn and Poe and have them as their first point of hero. (I’m not saying Leia wasn’t awesome – she definitely was and is – but Rey is another great character for this generation – she is self-sufficient and proactive and in all the action). The villains were perhaps a bit thinner but I did think Adam Driver played some of his moments very well – you can see the conflict in him in the big moments and hopefully his character will grow as the movies progress. Hux was much more one-dimensional but I think this movie was more focused on introducing the heroes and the villains will be fleshed out later (Molly Weasley would still shut him down in a second though).

Yes, it was nostalgic. Yes, it did replicate the plot of the first one – but I think it did that to recapture that awe and to really show it was going to put all its effort into launching these characters – because they are what’s crucial. I am very much a CHARACTER-over-plot person – I know that might not be the same for a lot of people – but give me good characters, characters I care for and engage with – and I will watch the movie time and time again regardless of plot deficiencies, wobbles and moments where I have to suspend disbelief or ‘not-question-it’. It was the right focus for this film I think – launching a new trilogy. And there were some moments of surprise and nice twists and plot mysteries to carry it through too.

I needed to write this after listening to the review by Talking Comics – my favourite podcast. They always get reviews and debates pitch perfect and they inspired all these thoughts and this excitement to bubble up in me, so that I word-vomited this out as soon as I got home from work. I’m so excited for this saga to continue and just for how thrilling it is to be back on this ride with great characters and a captivated audience. 

I have several reviews and thought-pieces in the works for books by Louise O'Neill, Howard Jacobson, Victoria Aveyard, Sabaa Tahir and G. Willow Wilson (Ms Marvel!) which I will work on over the next few weeks - but this couldn't wait!

Sunday, December 13, 2015

Mockingjay Part 2: My thoughts and book-to-film review...

It’s taken me weeks to get this done, even though it’s technically only a few points and thoughts on Mockingjay Part 2. I wanted to communicate it as effectively as I could - be warned, spoilers lie ahead. 

The film is very true to the book, apart from a few minor tweaks which are all fine and probably necessary. I actually remembered, while writing this, something they completely changed in the first film – Peeta’s leg never gets amputated in the films. Is there something a little disquieting in that? I would like to know why, creatively, they made the decision to omit that completely as it’s really been overlooked. Is anyone else a little bit uncomfortable about that decision?

Otherwise, I mainly want to focus on some subtle but important changes/creative decisions in the very final scenes. In the book, the final scene in the field is very layered and powerful – in the film, it seems like a cashed-in chance to have a semi-happy ending with neat reassurances (that’s slightly harsh of me, but just comparatively). I felt that in the film this scene, and this was confirmed by the chuckles of those around me, was too romanticised (slightly cringe-worthy). Katniss is made up and pristine, babe in her arms. Peeta is smiling and laughing, frolicking in the grass with another child while the sun is shining over the heavenly meadow.

This is not the tone I got from the book. In the book, that ‘heavenly’ meadow is a field beneath which lie the bodies of those who died in the war. It is noted that Katniss was reluctant to have children, remaining despondent about the world they live in, whereas Peeta wanted to educate them about courage and goodness. Katniss is afraid that they will have to explain about the games – something that she can never forget. They create a memory book to cope with the trauma and horrors that they witnessed, filling it with the good things that people did and the people who helped them. She and Peeta rely on each other to survive and get through – it is not so much a romantic decision as another way to survive – they literally cannot live without the other because they went through it together.  

The PTSD is very much ever-present and at the fore and perhaps the film could have communicated that with a cloudier sky and sun trying to break through. These are two people who cannot stand to continue in society – and have gone away to heal. It is meant to be both harrowing and as hopeful as a dystopia can be when there is no winning and only uncertainty and the hope of healing.

Just look at the language used in this epilogue – Katniss is ‘consumed by terror’ when she becomes pregnant, it is all-encompassing and her children later ‘don’t even know they play on a graveyard’. It’s heavily emotive, loaded word-choice.

‘One day I’ll have to explain about my nightmares. Why they came. Why they won’t ever really go away… I’ll tell them that on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I’m afraid it could be taken away. That’s when I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I’ve seen someone do. It’s like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than twenty years. But there are much worse games to play.’
It’s a brilliant, unsentimental final paragraph which still manages to be satisfying while maintaining that classic dystopian bleak ending.

I also felt they didn’t need that scene with Gale raising the issue of Katniss choosing between him and Peeta. In a way it shows his immaturity, and the fact that he can never understand what they have gone through, because to Katniss, that is a triviality. In truth, she wouldn’t be able to recover or deal with PTSD with Gale, especially after the events with Prim. It’s a fact rather than a sentimental romantic decision. They didn’t need to play up the love triangle. For me, Gale and Peeta are – to some extent – devices to symbolise Just War theory. Gale is the reckless, impulsive revolutionary who thinks the means are justified by the ends. Book-Peeta is the voice; he is the negotiating table, the offer of bread in the rain – he is compassion and morality. That is the triangle. And Katniss is somewhere in between – she is survival. She wants to protect the people she loves but still has reservations about how she does that. She is moulded and used by those around her until she makes that final decision and act of agency, completely by herself – to kill Coin. That is when she truly becomes an active agent in her own right.

I’m still not completely sure it was necessary or beneficial (besides earning a lot of money) to split the film in two. Some of the deaths would have had a lot more impact had the narrative been allowed to flow in one film (eg. Finnick and Prim). It lost its momentum in terms of the characters at times. They didn’t need to make the journey through the Capitol quite so drawn-out and games-ish. With some good editing, it could have been one excellent film rather than two quite good ones. Talking to some people, they didn’t really register Prim’s death – which is a moment of huge and layered consequences. Everything that Katniss has done right from the beginning has been for her sister – right from that first reaping. And the moment her sister is needlessly and senselessly killed by her own side is the ultimate moment of Absurdity – it’s the moment where Katniss must feel that everything has been for nothing, it’s all been a waste. The girl that Gale has been watching over, is killed by a cruel weapon of his own design. It's a brilliant and cruel twist by Collins.

 ‘First I get a glimpse of the blond braid down her back. Then, as she yanks off her coat to cover a wailing child, I notice the duck tail formed by her untucked shirt.’
Again, it’s very powerfully written, recalling that scene at the first reaping – only this time, Katniss can’t save her:

‘I have the same reaction I did the day Effie Trinket called her name at the reaping. At least, I must go limp, because I find myself at the base of the flagpole, unable to account for the last few seconds. Then I am pushing through the crowd, just as I did before. Trying to shout her name above the roar. I’m almost there, almost to the barricade, when I think she hears me. Because for just a moment, she catches sight of me, her lips form my name.

And that’s when the rest of the parachutes go off.’

In book and film, Katniss struggles to grieve – to feel – until Buttercup reappears. Buttercup is the emotional trigger that Katniss needs to break the depressive cycle – to purge herself, and it works brilliantly.

The cast was excellent – truly perfect and I don’t think any other could have pulled it off. Lionsgate have done a great job with this series and I just hope they don’t force a prequel or any spin-offs – I will not watch them – this story deserves to stand alone and be taken seriously. I would have preferred a bleaker tone to the ending in line with the book but this remains probably one of the best book to film adaptations – particularly if we’re going by YA book-to-film (though I’m resistant to the idea that The Hunger Games should be confined to YA – it’s leagues above most of the other dystopias in there (Divergent, Ember in the Ashes, Red Queen, and many others, in terms of layers and depth) – and I will definitely keep revisiting it. I would give the first film 10/10 for its tension and build up and film-work. The second one gets a 9 and Mockingjay parts 1 & 2 get a 7.5 I think, because I feel a bit may have been lost in the two-parter format, despite some really strong attention to detail and a big emphasis on how Katniss is used. Performances were still brilliant. Donald Sutherland is absolutely perfect as Snow and Julianne Moore comes into her own as Coin in Part 2. Philip Seymour Hoffman mastered the ambiguity of his character and he is a talent that the world will always miss - an incredible actor. Jennifer Lawrence is simply the best actress of her generation - she owns every film she is in. 

As an additional point – it keeps grating on me that many are still casting Katniss as the ultimate ‘kick-ass heroine’ or ‘strong female warrior’. (Interestingly the marketing and posters for the film are exactly the kind of thing you'd think District 13 would make, which is (hopefully, if on purpose) very clever). Katniss hunts to feed her family, she always, always tries to survive for them. That is her only motivation throughout most of the story. She is not a revolutionary, not directly, but she is used by them. Every time that you say that Katniss wants to lead her district or win a revolution or assert moral leadership – you are falling for the rhetoric of District 13, and even the Capitol, and their terms of what makes a hero. Seeing her as a strong female action hero in that warrior/revolutionary sense misses the point and only perceives things within the limits of those views. She is not a hero – at least not in the way that she is cast by them and sometimes by us. She is much more than that – she is a flawed, human being – a woman forced to be both parents to Prim, who will protect the ones she loves, who can be manipulated and used but who takes a final stand against those who control her and rejects them entirely. She is a strong because she walks away from a world stuck on repeat – where the next society may not be any better than the last and the only promise is that of continued manipulation and potential future violence and revenge. Her heroic traits are that she cares about people, and her small acts of goodness are the most powerful – her care for Rue, for her sister, her compassion and empathy for people on either side and her willingness to consider the morality of both sides where others wouldn’t.

Mockingjay is my favourite of The Hunger Games books because it really fulfils its dystopian premise and satisfyingly concludes one of the best books ever written about war and consumerism, image manipulation, reality TV and the cycle of violence and revenge that pervades many aspects of human society. 

Thursday, October 22, 2015

Processing 'A Little Life' by Hanya Yanagihara

In a BBC interview with her, prior to the Man Booker announcement. Hanya Yanagihara spoke about her intentions when writing her shortlisted novel, A Litte Life. In the clip, which you can see here (, she speaks about wanting to show ‘how sometimes life is irreparable for people, because they’ve suffered such a profound amount of damage that they’re not able to come back from it’. In light of this approach, she further explores what it might mean to be saved and what it might mean to have a happy ending.

With this in mind, meet Jude St Francis. Although the book follows four friends, Willem, JB, Malcolm and Jude, it is Jude’s life which takes centre stage and the others fade in and out over the course of it.

This book is both about the limits of endurance and a test to the reader’s own endurance. It is a rolling film which occasionally stops to focus and tell, rather than show, a chapter or a moment. It goes to some of the darkest places imaginable and immerses you in them, repeatedly. It is a challenge, it is not for the vulnerable and has a lot of potentially triggering content for sexual abuse, bereavement and self-harm. It is upsetting, distressing, depressing, and yet – there is something that keeps bringing me back to it. I will discuss plot points which could be considered spoilers, this review/analysis is more intended for those who have read the book and want to join me in processing their thoughts.

My marker of whether a book is good/worth reading, the latter being the less subjective, is whether it makes me think, and think hard. Whether, the more I think about it, the more I uncover in my own mind and the wider I can see, where new paths are open to me and I feel like I have gained something in reading it. Obviously there are books I enjoy for other reasons, but with literary fiction, this is more often the measure.

A Little Life has definitely had me thinking, ruminating, brooding, and it is incredibly hard to process and find how to articulate a response to it. It was definitely worth reading for me, but that is not to say I enjoyed the experience. It is one of the hardest reading experiences I’ve had. I don’t think it’s a book you can or are meant to enjoy. It was, in parts, arduous, sometimes repetitive, frustrating and perhaps overwrought. Yet, it is a remarkable novel – unlike anything else you’ll have read or perhaps will ever read. It is brave and admirable and a work of art by an incredibly talented and thoughtful writer who wanted to push the limits and try to explore whether someone could come back from being so broken and having endured such extreme depravity. It had moments so affecting and perceptive and honest, that you had to sit back in awe. It contained multitudes. And in multitudes, there will always be good and bad. At 720 pages, the style was exacting and exhausting – but I think that’s very much what she intended – it is essentially a character study of someone damaged in every way possible both physically and mentally, and the people who want to save him and bring him back from the brink. How can you save someone who is so determined to die? And when it might be a mercy to let them? It is about the small kindnesses in the present that must always struggle and contend with the huge traumas of memory and flashback.

JB and Malcolm were introduced but actually were side-lined relatively quickly and more distant as it went on. Some of the friends reached such levels of success in their artistic careers that they became almost distant and implausible. They had some good moments, and JB’s art certainly played a role in exacting the emotion from different scenes. But they weren’t established as engaging characters despite lengthy introductions. Harold was my favourite and his relationship with Jude was the one that affected me the most. Jude met people of such evil extremes, repeatedly throughout his life – Harold and Willem are the two wholly, perpetually good people who hardly waver and love him so unconditionally. Yanagihara has said she deliberately wrote the extremes of love and unhappiness a little beyond their plausibility. It is true to say that Jude’s relationships fall into extremes, and perhaps that is something that can make the book seem perhaps too melodramatic at times, particularly certain fatal events near the end.

I adored Harold and Julia and their adoption of Jude at 30, I thought it was an incredibly hopeful and redemptive move for both parties given their histories and it was a real point of hope and light which the story desperately needed. I found Harold’s snippets of narration to be some of the most engaging and perceptive. He reflected a lot on the death of his own son in some really beautifully-written paragraphs:

‘You have never known fear until you have a child, and maybe that is what tricks us into thinking that it is more magnificent, because the fear itself is more magnificent… I would hold him in my arms and wait to cross the street and would think how absurd it was that my child, that any child, could expect to survive this life’

And after his son has died:

‘But here’s what no one says—when it’s your child, a part of you, a very tiny but nonetheless unignorably part of you, also feels relief. Because finally, the moment you have been expecting, been dreading, been preparing yourself for since the day you became a parent, has come. Ah, you tell yourself, it’s arrived. Here it is, and after that, you have nothing to fear again.’

Jude is his second chance, and even when he discovers he has adopted a man who he is perhaps also destined to lose, he is unwavering and constant and loves with his whole heart. 

‘If we were all so specifically, vividly aware of might go wrong, we would none of us have children at all.’

Yanagihara says she hasn’t written a word since finishing this novel, and may never write another again because of how much it took out of her. Indeed some of the most raw, vivid and uninhibited bits of writing are in the details of self-harm. Jude’s body is a canvas onto which all of his traumas are etched, as if he must make himself physically resemble how monstrous he feels.

‘He is disgusted and dismayed and fascinated all at once by how severely he has deformed himself.

‘Something about the fall, the freshness of the pain, had been restorative. It was honest pain, clean pain, a pain without shame or filth, and it was a different sensation than he had felt in years … He imagined he was knocking out of himself every piece of dirt, every trace of liquid, every memory of the past few years.’

After all the psychological damage, the horrible surprises and corruption of adult ideals and intimacies, the blunt simplicity of such physical pain seems a refreshing alternative, both a distraction and a point of focus. Yanagihara really gets to the heart of it in a gritty, grizzly, explicit way that has been missing from the literary scene.
Writing this, I have also started to consider that it is interesting that she explicitly explores male suffering. There are barely any female characters in the book. This is probably something you could write a whole thesis about. Julia, Harold’s wife, is the main female character I can think of, and she has very little dialogue and presence. It is the father-figure, the paternal role that needs to be redeemed for Jude as it is the father-figures – who appear first as saviours – who have always turned into the perpetrators of the most horrific abuse and violations of trust – all barring Willem and Harold. And yet, Jude is always expecting it of them – expecting that they will ultimately betray his trust as it has been betrayed so many times before.

Suicide and depression affect so many. But suicide is the biggest killer of men under 50. This book follows one of those men who cannot see a way out, who cannot process and cope with what has happened to him, who will not open himself to more than one person – and that is very notable and topical and an angle that yields so much more to think about. Jude would give anything to keep himself hidden, to keep his suffering hidden, and he does, mostly, for his whole life. Could he have been saved? Or is there something, a current in society or the way we live that would have made it fundamentally impossible or implausible? I would be interested in hearing/reading people’s thoughts on these issues. Do you think Yanagihara explicitly wanted to focus on male emotional suffering and emotional male relationships because they are perhaps not always honestly represented or are under-represented? If so, then she has done a comprehensive and fascinating study – though it is prone to the extremes.

So at the end of it all, what is Jude's life worth? What are the efforts of Harold, Willem and Andy worth? 

It's like that quote from the diaries of Anais Nin - 'you can't save people, you can only love them'. And Willem and Harold and many more did. And they did save him repeatedly in many ways, in more ways than he ever dreamt of being saved at all. 

There is a lot more I could say and will probably think of – so I will perhaps add to this in the future. But for now I just want to get some of my thoughts up and thank you to the publisher, Picador (UK) and NetGalley for the ARC. I think you need to be warned when you pick up this book, that you may not be the same when you finish it – and whether that is for better or for worse, is dependent on you. If there is a word to epitomise A Little Life in every way - it is this:


Some of my favourite quotes/excerpts from A Little Life

  •  He wished, as he often did, that the entire sequence—the divulging of intimacies, the exploring of pasts—could be sped past, and that he could simply be teleported to the next stage, where the relationship was something soft and pliable and comfortable, where both parties’ limits were understood and respected
  • It would have been too melodramatic, too final, to say that after this JB was forever diminished for him. But it was true that for the first time, he was able to comprehend that the people he had grown to trust might someday betray him anyway, and that as disappointing as it might be, it was inevitable as well, and that life would keep propelling him steadily forward, because for everyone who might fail him in some way, there was at least one person who never would.
  • Always, there are people asking him if he misses what it had never occurred to him to want, never occurred to him he might have.
  • Wasn’t it a miracle to be adopted at thirty, to find people who loved you so much that they wanted to call you their own? Wasn’t it a miracle to have survived the unsurvivable? Wasn’t friendship its own miracle, the finding of another person who made the entire lonely world seem somehow less lonely? Wasn’t this house, this beauty, this comfort, this life a miracle? And so who could blame him for hoping for one more, for hoping that despite knowing better, that despite biology, and time, and history, that they would be the exception, that what happened to other people with Jude’s sort of injury wouldn’t happen to him, that even with all that Jude had overcome, he might overcome just one more thing?
  •  If I acknowledge that I am disabled, then I’ll have conceded to Dr Traylor, then I’ll have let Dr Traylor determine the shape of my life. And so I pretend I’m not; I pretend I am how I was before I met him. And I know it’s not logical or practical. But mostly, I’m sorry because—because I know it’s selfish. I know my pretending has consequences for you so –I’m going to stop.’ He takes a breath, closes and opens his eyes. ‘I’m disabled,’ he says. ‘I’m handicapped’ and as foolish as it is-he is forty-seven after all; he has had thirty-two years to admit this to himself-he feels himself about to cry.
  • This, he thinks, is his punishment for depending on others: one by one, they will leave him, and he will be alone again, and this time it will be worse because he will remember it had once been better.
  • It was precisely these scenes he missed the most from his own life with Willem, the forgettable, in-between moments in which nothing seemed to be happening but whose absence was singularly unfillable.
  •  And although he hadn’t fretted over whether his life was worthwhile, he had always wondered why he, why so many others, went on living at all; it had been difficult to convince himself at times, and yet so many people, so many millions, billions of people, lived in misery he couldn’t fathom, with deprivations and illnesses that were obscene in their extremity. And yet on and on and on they went. So was the determination to keep living not a choice at all, but an evolutionary implementation? Was there something in the mind itself, a constellation of neurons as toughened and scarred as tendon that prevented humans from doing what logic so often argued they should? And yet that instinct wasn’t infallible-he had overcome it once. But what had happened to it after? Had it weakened or become more resilient? Was his life even hiss to choose to live any longer? He had known, ever since the hospital, that it was impossible to convince someone to live for his own sake. But he often thought it would be a more effective treatment to make people feel more urgently the necessity of living for others: that, to him, was always the most compelling argument. The fact was, he did owe Harold. He did owe Willem. And if they wanted him to stay alive, then he would. At the time, as he slogged through day after day, his motivations had been murky to him, but now he could recognise that he had done it for them, and that rare selflessness had been something he could be proud of after all he hadn’t understood why they wanted him to stay alive, only that they had, and so he had done it. Eventually, he had learned how to rediscover contentment, joy, even. But it hadn’t begun that way.
  •  And he cries and cries, cries for everything he has been, for everything he might have been, for every old hurt, for every old happiness, cries for the same and joy of finally getting to be a child, with all of a child’s whims and wants and insecurities... for the luxury of tendernesses, of fondnesses, of being served a meal and being made to eat it.
  • That he died so alone is more than I can think of; that he died thinking that he owed us an apology is worse; that he died still stubbornly believing everything he was taught about himself—after you, after me, after all of who loved him—makes me think that my life has been a failure after all, that I have failed at the one thing that counted.
  • ‘You won’t understand what I mean now, but someday you will: the only trick of friendship, I think, is to find people who are better than you are—not smarter, not cooler, but kinder, and more generous, and more forgiving—and then to appreciate them for what they can teach you, and to try to listen to them when they tell you something about yourself, no matter how bad—or good—it might be, and to trust them, which is the hardest thing of all. But the best, as well.’
  • ‘Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can’t even remember who he is. “Where am I?” he asks, desperate, and then, “Who am I? Who am I?”
  • And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. “You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. “You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. “You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. “You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. “You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.”’

Sunday, September 20, 2015

'Culture, boredom, alienation and despair': The Manic Street Preachers and 'They're Not Like Us' by Eric Stephenson, Simon Gane, Jordie Bellaire and Fonografiks

I'm not going to lie - what first drew me to this book, was the fact that the Manic Street Preachers are my favourite band of all time – and They’re Not Like Us by Eric Stephenson (art by Simon Gane, colour by Jordie Bellaire and letters/design by Fonografiks) contains a multitude of nods to them. 

It’s an amazing feeling to find these in art/literature as it’s usually the Manics channelling or paying homage to others. They are definitely a literary/artistic/political band, songwriters Nicky and Richey (some of his favourite authors were Albert Camus, Dostoyevsky, Yukio Mishima, Arthur Rimbaud and Philip Larkin) read widely and delighted in quoting their favourite authors and philosophers and many of their albums reference or are inspired by art movements and paintings. 

There’s a lovely, rewarding sense of inter-textuality across culture here, with art beginning to reflect back at the Manics themselves.

The first, most blatant reference is the title of this volume: Black Holes For The Young.

This is a brilliant, psychedelic, yet fairly obscure, song by the Manics (featuring Sophie Ellis Bextor). It’s about the grim prospects for the future for the young when society is becoming increasingly artificial/vacant and polluted, the tension between the urban and rural, and the class divisions (‘no sun for you young boy’, ‘sit around in the London smog’, ‘no more feelings that you can feel’). It channels the idea that the young, particularly the less privileged, are growing up to face black holes and vapid emptiness with no prospect or reward and this is certainly an atmosphere reflected in this graphic novel. 
To introduce this series by the head of Image Comics, Eric Stephenson: They're Not Like Us sets out to tell the story of a girl with telepathic abilities, neglected by her parents, who has had enough of living. GoodReads blurb/introEisner-nominated NOWHERE MEN writer ERIC STEPHENSON teams up with red-hot artist SIMON GANE for an all-new ongoing series! We all have advantages over one another, but what if you were capable of things most of us can only imagine? What would you do – and who would you be? A doctor? An athlete? A soldier? A hero? Everyone has to make a choice about how to use the abilities they're born with... but they're not like us.
The general design and layout of the title pages resemble some Manics album cases and booklets, especially with the epigraph/quote at the start of each issue. The first issue is another Manics song title: ‘From Despair to Where’ (‘The place is quiet and so alone / Pretend there's something worth waiting for. / There's nothing nice in my head / The adult world took it all away). Indeed, in They’re Not Like Us, Syd finds this group of outsiders who resent the adult world and the way that adults, including their parents, have treated them. The lyrics in this song are simply brilliant, some of my favourite: outside open mouthed cows / Pass each other as if they’re drugged / Down pale corridors of routine/ … / Words are never enough / Just cheap tarnished glitter. It can’t be called apathy because these kids do care, they care too much, but the care has never been returned. They were not loved, because they were not understood. They are self-declared orphans. 

A Richey Edwards (the whole culture of early Manics and the Richey era does link nicely to the story and characters in it) lyric (featured in ‘Motown Junk’) opens the second issue: ‘Twenty-one years of living and nothing means anything to me’, which is pretty self-explanatory. The final words of that song are: ‘we live in urban hell, we destroy rock and roll’. The area and house that the group in They’re Not Like Us live in epitomises that urban hell; with vandalism, violence and crime rampant. 

The lyrics ‘culture, boredom, alienation and despair’ (from ‘Little Baby Nothing’ - the Manics were fighting the exploitation and abuse of women nearly 30 years ago) should be emblazoned across the top of each page of the story. They encapsulate what it is all about, both within the story and it's overall aesthetic and references to pop culture.

The volume ends with another Richey quote: ‘Find your truth. Face your truth. Speak your truth. Be your truth’ (from ‘Judge Yr’self’, another B-side). The arc sets up Syd's quest for her own truth and her emancipation from everything she has known. 

It’s very rewarding to see how some of these lesser-known songs have influenced and inspired America creator Eric Stephenson so deeply. It’s been a joy to read some of his interviews and see that these songs have had an impact on individuals across the Atlantic.

I suppose there are some parallels between Syd’s character and Richey but given what little we know about Richey’s disappearance, and whether it was suicide, it’s probably not a valuable course to pursue. 

(Minor spoilers ahead)

When we meet Syd, she is about to commit suicide. When a mysterious stranger shows up behind her, we perhaps think he will change her mind – but instead she plummets to the ground. Her despair is too strong. She wakes up in hospital and the stranger (introduced as The Voice) kidnaps her, bringing her to his house of misfits – a group of young people with abilities and a whole lot of resentment. One member is called Wire – perhaps a nod to Nicky Wire of the Manics, and is introduced as ‘the only man I’ve met who can honestly claim to be invulnerable’ (there you go, Nicky). At first description this sounds a bit similar to X-Men, with mutants living and being educated under the same roof by a guardian figure like Professor Xavier and segregated by their extremes attitudes to humans. In They’re Not Like Us, the Professor X figure is deeply disturbing, a man warped by his horrific past and deeply un-trusting of anyone outside. There have only been six issues so far, so we are still being introduced to the characters and story but The Voice is far from a benevolent protector and this is much, much darker than any X-Men story. 

In one interview, Stephenson spoke about an occasion where he was mugged by a ‘group of kids who seemed more interested in just giving someone a hard time than anything else… for a lot of young people, there’s a growing level of dissatisfaction with the world, a feeling that there isn’t much waiting for them as they become adults … with that in mind, I started wondering how kids with that kind of frustrated outlook might act if they were born with abilities that made them stand out from everyone else’. In the same interview, Stephenson acknowledges the comparisons to Professor X and draws in Fagin from Oliver Twist, who ‘trained young orphans to be thieves’ (one of the characters is named Fagen). 

In Volume One, we only scratch the surface with many of the characters – there is certainly a lot more to be found out, even though we do learn about The Voice’s heartbreaking backstory – a genuinely upsetting moment and beautifully and darkly illustrated by Gane. 

This volume collects the first 6 issues of the comic, and I think it will be a slow build. A lot of this is just getting to know the situation and the characters and their powers and attitudes. I personally like this because I’m all about the psyche and the character development – but others may find the lack of plot progression disappointing. 

The art grew on me over time – at first, I didn’t think it communicated facial expressions very well, but there are some truly inspired pages and it actually suits the tone and captures the desensitization, now that I think back. The opening page of the first issue is stark and effective, just showing a pair of feet on the edge of a roof. Will she or won't she? Perhaps you expect her to be talked down from the precipice. Perhaps all your expectations will be confounded by this story. Syd’s first line of narration reads:

I live to fall asleep’.

Despair and despondency haunt these pages and ripple outwards across the panels. Simone Gane’s full page depictions of the house that Syd ends up living in are simply stunning. They are impressive works of art that would sit on any wall comfortably. The panels are sometimes tinged with a reddy-brown-orange, a marker of the violent energy at the heart of the group. 

Syd's telepathy and being overwhelmed by the voices in her head
As Syd settles into the house she learns about the way they use their powers. And it doesn’t sit comfortably with her. The group goes out and selects a person to attack, creating an illusion for the rest of the world to see as they do it. Granted, these people are usually perverts or miscreants, but sometimes they just happen to be walking in the wrong place at the wrong time – endangering the cover and anonymity of the house and those in it. They attack ‘the dregs of humanity’, the ‘simple-minded tourism and vapid consumerism’ (these could be early Manics lyrics), the ‘lemmings’, ‘sheep’ and ‘zombies’. Even Syd, the supposed moral conscience of the group, is drawn to the rush and release of adrenaline for a time, excited by the violence and arrogance and sheer energy of her comrades. But throughout these issues, she struggles with where she fits in this new world. One night she reflects that everyone has ‘capacity for good and band’ and that her ‘whole life, everyone has tried to anaesthetize the way that I feel. The whole situation was totally fucked up and wrong, and yet … maybe… I had a right to be a little bad’. The nature of evil and where it come from seems certain to be a theme that Stephenson will explore further. But the end of the comic sets Syd on a different path, and I can’t wait to see where it goes. I am already impatient for the next volume – and not just for the Manics references.

This is the story of desensitized youth and what intolerance and refusal to understand and empathise can do. And there’s so much more to come. If it sounds like your cup of tea, and it won't be everyones, then pick it up and give it a try. Single issues are available in comic shops and digitally and the first trade volume is available in stores and through online retailers. I know I'll be looking out for Volume 2, and I'd be interested to hear what Manics fans, and the Manics themselves think of it. 

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Two of my favourite finds from LFCC: Asia Alfasi and Rachael Smith

It's taken me a while to get this posted but I just wanted to show you all a couple of little comics that I picked up at LFCC in July. One is from a creator I've been following for about a year, because of the time I spent in Libya. She is Libyan-Scottish artist/creator Asia Alfasi and is one of the nicest people you'll ever meet. I can't wait to read her finished graphic novels when they're ready. She is at most cons so look out for her table if you go. Another one is just a charming little book called Flimsy's Guide to Modern Living by Rachael Smith. It features a cat, which pretty much sold it straight away, and his life advice - delivered with humour and genuine insight!

Flimsy is pretty awesome. Look at that smile. He's a little blue kitten and she's done a few mini-comics with him in his infinite wisdom. They're great on a rainy day and the advice is pretty solid. You can see more of her work (including Doctor Who cartoons) on her website:

She works with Titan and does many of the comic strips at the back of Doctor Who single issues and was nominated in the Emerging Talent category in the 13/14 British Comic Awards. Her second graphic novel, The Rabbit, is out this year!

She's also illustrating a book about a boy with Asperger Syndrome called Blue Bottle Mystery.

I also got Asia Alfasi's mini (con-only) collection called Harvest, which is beautiful and just makes me want an Alfasi/Ewa graphic novel soon!
The introductory story is part memoir as she comes to terms with her identity in Scotland in 1997. She is called things like 'hanky head' and accused of 'nickin' the books'. She only begins to feel at home when she is by herself with her manga, one that she'd watched years ago in Libya. It is something familiar in a new and often unwelcoming country. Rediscovering manga helped her start drawing again and won the admiration of her peers and it helped her to 'bridge relationships between a Libya lass and her Scottish peers'. Asia then inserts a statement of intent: 'my goal since has been to use this beautiful art to take part in a global cultural dialogue. Will you take part in the conversation? *smiles*' 
It's charming and beautifully illustrated, a great taster that makes you want more. The middle story is A Drought of Another Sort: A Silent Reflection and showcases another, more sparse style. In it, a small child falls and drops their glasses. When he puts them back on the world is barren and rocky, until he finds a paintbrush which restores life and colour. The only words are 'What did you read?' - it's a lovely meditation on the power of art and creativity and how vivid and colourful it can make the world, and how it connects us to other people. 
The final piece is Asia's translation and adaptation of Juha: The Fantastic Tales of Sheikh Nasruddin, which are traditional Middle-East folktales and often humorously portray a life-lesson. They are both funny and thought-provoking and Asia brings them to life with beautiful colour and definition. It was lovely to be introduced to some of these charming tales which I may never have come across otherwise! I would love to read more and will keep looking out for her at cons. I definitely recommend you do too - art is the great communicator and can enlighten us so much.