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In my religion, we have a couple of fast days. Not a lot – about five or so a year – and nothing incredibly grueling – no forty day or one week durations. But periodically, I go from sunrise to sunset without eating or drinking. Twice a year, I go from sunset till the next the same way. So I have some notion of what hunger feels like. But that’s not really what I meant by thinking about it, of course.

As I write this, I am sitting in my room, writing one of my book reviews. It’s Tisha B’av. I have not eaten, and will not eat until about nine-thirty tonight. And there’s a pattern of thought that regularly occurs during these times. You’re doing whatever you’re doing, and then you think, ‘Hey, I’m hungry.’ Then you think ‘I should have lunch/dinner.’ And then you think ‘Oh, that’s right. I’m not allowed to do that yet. I can’t eat anything until tonight.’ And you go back to whatever you were doing, as best you can. Some people don’t fast very well. They get tired, headaches, dizzy. One tall, insanely thin person I knew said it’s almost life-threatening for him. Me, I’m lucky. Despite running a pretty fast motor, I handle fasting well. But it’s still uncomfortable.

But now, I decide I want to try something a little different. I decide to try thinking about this idea of hunger, now, when I’m feeling just enough of it to make it real. I’m alone in my room. It’s not an eating place – there is no food or drink here, or even utensils to represent it, in sight. Sitting here, hunger in my belly and thirst in my throat, it’s easy to imagine that the kitchen downstairs, and the food waiting for us to break the fast on, doesn’t exist. Imagine it, I tell myself. This room is all there is…or, alternatively, outside of my room is not the rest of the suburbs I live in, complete with a shopping center not far away, but some form of desolation. A desert perhaps, or an abandoned, lifeless husk of a once-town. Someplace that does not have food. Or water. And now, I go through that thought process again, but differently.

I’m hungry. I should eat something.

But – there is no food.

And I have no way of knowing if there ever will be again. I may sit in this room, unfed, surrounded by nothing, until I die. I have no way of knowing. No set time when I will sit down and gorge and guzzle all the food and drink I couldn’t have up until then. That flooding feeling of release as I at last allow myself to be satisfied, may never be.

I may never eat again.

It’s a very uncomfortable, disturbing feeling. There’s some part of me that quivers and shies away from the thought. I don’t think I’ve really integrated it. There’s something in the pit of my stomach that doesn’t want to think about it.

I don’t think I give enough money to Africa.

Title: The Hollow Kingdom Trilogy

Age Range: 10 +

Genre: Fantasy, some Romance

 

 
For this review I bring a set of three, which I actually found not that long ago. I still enjoy returning to the children’s section sometimes, and a few years back – which is recent because the last time I was the traditional age for it was long before that – I came on these books. Well, I started by just taking out the first one. Technically it could be called quite traditional. Kate and her younger sister Emily are orphaned, and are sent to live at Hallow Hill, which will belong to Kate through her mother eventually. At first they are delighted – the grounds are beautiful, the house large, and their great aunts treat them well. But then they learn a frightening truth: goblins are real. And those goblins have a king. And that King’s unique nature requires that his mother – and therefore, for the son’s sake, his wife as well – be a non-goblin. Elves were the best for their strong magic, but any non-goblin would do, and now that the elves were gone, there were only humans and dwarves – and who’d take a dwarf when a human as beautiful as Kate is right there? You see what I mean by being a typical tale at the surface. It’s a take on the old myth of a beautiful maiden being kidnapped to wed a monster – except it’s not. It’s also a beauty and the beast type story, and a story about perception, and it’s a love story – within its category, the best I’ve seen. It’s been done before – the theme of someone who starts out a villain and is shown to be a hero, or at least virtuous, is nothing new – but often the transformation seems rather contrived. Not so The Hollow Kingdom’s rendering of Marak the Goblin King, which bears the rare distinction among my reads of having managed it so well that when I re-read it, I could see his real character in the very scenes that, the first time around, had convinced me he was evil. That is how it should be done, and such a masterful example demands recognition.

But that’s only the beginning of the delight, because remember, I mentioned it’s a trilogy. These books were her first, and you can see her full potential unfolding as they go on. Good as the first is, the second was even better – and the third, simply excellent. The second book shifts to being about her younger sister, Emily, who followed her to the goblin kingdom in the first book because she thought it sounded like wonderful fun. Well, as far as she’s concerned, she wasn’t wrong. She loves it down there – but when her best friend Seylin grows up ahead of her, things get less fun, as his own realization of his feelings clash with her immature obliviousness and create something of a fiasco of impulsive decisions. Suddenly, a heartbroken Seylin has left the kingdom to wander in search of surviving elves, and Emily – under carefully calculated pressure by Marak, who has a very good idea of what’s going on – is out there after him, being escorted by her most hated teacher, Ruby, who teaches the young goblins about humans despite the fact that she loathes them. In the process of both their journeys, we learn a great deal more about the elves, what happened to them, the history and relationship between goblins and elves, and even something about humans. And, like the first book, there are some wonderful plays and experiments in perspective. These books excel at nothing so much as fascinating works in perspective.

And, as if to prove the point, the third and final book makes such a play of reversed perception, making such perfect use of the grounds established by the previous books, it deserves nothing less than unreserved admiration. The Elvish race has revived! A long time ago they lost their king and began to die out, until there were next to none left, but now a new leader has arisen. He has the power, the magic, and the leadership. He’s gathered all the remaining elves, and he knows many of the most prized – but hitherto lost – elvish spells. But most of all, his magic has a mind of its own, telling him what to do – and, in his negotiations with Catspaw, the present Goblin King, a ironic switch occurs. The human girl who had been intended as Catspaw’s bride – who in fact had been raised in the goblin kingdom, not kidnapped – becomes the Elvish leader’s bride, and the elvish girl that the leader had intended to marry before seeing Matilda becomes Catspaw’s! The phenomenon of shifting feelings between Catspaw and his new bride is portrayed but not in great detail – we’ve been there before. What this book focuses on, and makes it the ultimate treatise in perspective, is the shift between Matilda and her new husband. It’s a bizarre reversal of both the first book and the classic it was founded on – now the human girl has been cruelly taken from the goblins by the elves, and forced to marry their king. And having been raised by goblins, being handsome doesn’t impress her much, and this pretty elf is going to have to work just as hard as Marak once did. In addition to this we are treated to a lovely final resolution to the elves vs. goblins thread that wove through the previous two, as the elve’s tragic past is finally explained in full, and their immediate future resolved. All in all, it fulfills the obligation of every book that concludes a set: it surpasses them, and establishes both the high point of the series and the final tying off of all the loose threads. And that’s as satisfying as it gets.

The titles, in order, are The Hollow Kingdom, Close Kin, and In the Coils of the Snake, by Clare B. Dunkle. They may not be toted as the top ten, but they are well worth reading, and available at most libraries and bookstores.

 

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Title: One Hundred and One Dalmatians

Age Range: 10-14

Genre: Adventure, Intelligent Animals

 

 
There was a time when ‘Intelligent Animal’ wasn’t really a genre: just an occasionally appealing quirk of children’s writers. Redwall doesn’t really count – that’s animals substituting for humans. However, there have been so many popular series lately that do qualify, covering such a range of ages and reading tastes – Warriors, by Erin Hunter, Seeker by the same, Guardians of Ga’Hoole by Kathryn Lasky, the Silverwing Trilogy by Kenneth Oppel, plus more and more single book examples – that I think this is now at least a fantasy subgenre. This review’s featured title could well be considered one of its early giants – though many people have forgotten there was a book. Unlike some of Disney’s sources of inspiration, such as the Jungle Book, the original One Hundred and One Dalmatians didn’t have the fame to compete with the animated title, not to mention the various other movie versions made since. It took me completely by surprise when I discovered its existence back in sixth grade. But I tried it, and discovered that while not much like The Jungle Book, in one way both books are the same. When compared to their animated counterparts, both books are far more intelligent and worthwhile. The Jungle Book can be a bit much for younger readers, but One Hundred and One Dalmatians is absolutely accessible, and its relative obscurity makes it prime material for this series.

The most important thing is not to compare this wonderful, charming, somehow gently English book with any of the movies made on it. It would be simply wrong. The style, the atmosphere, the characters – all are different in very meaningful ways. Most books that use ‘intelligent pets’ as main characters have a certain patronizing air for the animal’s limited views and their bewildered attempts to understand our big, confusing human world. But this book is just the opposite – if anyone is being patronized, it’s the humans, though there is such warmth and fondness shown for their well meaning pets that it’s hard to be insulted (the book explains that of course the humans are the dog’s pets, but the dogs find it very charming that humans don’t realize it, and prefer not to disillusion them). Throughout it all, the book shows only humble respect for its dog characters – we are meant to admire them, rather than laugh at their attempts to explain human things. There is next to no time spent on the romantic meeting of the double pair, and quite a bit on the birth and initial raising of the puppies, complete with some very interesting, clearly well authenticated insights into the process, including the revelation that one dog mother cannot nurse fifteen puppies without becoming emaciated. Perdita is the name, not of Mrs. Pongo, but of the foster mother found and brought in by Mrs. Dearly to help (Pongo’s wife is called Missus). Cruella De Vil’s character and involvement are far more artfully portrayed that any of the movies, who always give her a sort of simple cruel greed that is not a patch on the book, with its far more subtle but ultimately more impression making description of her addiction to heat and flames: she married a furrier, keeps the best central heating turned up even in summer, and puts so much pepper in all her food that it is the only taste discernible. Her obsession with furs is merely a side effect of this – but thanks to her utter lack of value for animal life, and the fact that she is rich, this becomes very dangerous indeed. She meets them first when they’ve only just discovered that Missus is pregnant. She seems most interested in the dogs, speaking of how well they would go as evening dress, invites them to dinner, and proceeds to stay in touch. For a while, she is just an occasional intruding dark spot in a very happy, puppy-full house. And then one day, Nanny Butler (as opposed to Nanny Cook – there are two) is kept in a long talk with Cruella in the drawing room, and goes back to find the pups gone. Panic ensues. The Dearly’s call on every human resource they can, but in the end, this is nothing on the dogs Twilight Barking network. For weeks, Pongo and Missus Pongo put out the word, halting all gossip with the emergency ‘Help, help, help’ signal, spreading the news of their missing pups from dog to dog across England, and waiting for the returning signals. And then finally, it happens. A old sheepdog confirms the location of their pups in an old mansion nearby called Hell Hall. And so – after some debate – they set out, leaving Perdita to keep their pets company. We’re given their journey in quite a bit of detail, shown how the entire route is planned for them by the Twilight Barking Network – directions, places to rest, and food to eat. The cohesion, fellowship, and capacity of the Network and all the other dogs they meet plays a major role for the journey in both directions, as does Pongo’s own formidable intelligence. The rescue would not have been possible without the Sheepdogs planning capabilities and thorough scoping of Hell Hall, and the provisions made every step of the way – even those not directly involved know to watch out for the Missing Dalmatians. But in the end, of course, something must be done to ensure Cruella can never begin such a scheme again – and Pongo is just the dog for the job.

There is a very warm atmosphere to this book that cannot easily be described. Suffice to say that the characters and presentation are delightful, and make this a very enjoyable choice for younger readers. While not much resembling its movie in style, it was picked for a reason: it is a true classic. Until next time, enjoy the bottom shelves.

 

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One Hundred and One Dalmations

Seaward

The Gammage Cup

The Hollow Kingdom Trilogy