Pratchett's Hogfather, and a Christmas Poem

Welcome to the festive edition of Annie's Crazy Book Reviews!
There are some books that are particularly suited to the Bleak Midwinter, when the sun gets somewhat sluggish and the world is invaded by Christmas lights and small children. I don't know if it's the effect of too little light driving me a bit mad, but I always get the urge to do something Traditional at this time, like eat mince pies even if they're not very good, or read books I've read before.

The book which I feel summarises the supposed Christmas Spirit is The Night Before Christmas, the text of which is a poem by Clement Clarke Moore, first published as A Visit from St Nicholas in 1823. It has been illustrated many times over in various styles, but I think the poem itself is quite magical, as it captures a child's anticipation of Christmas. It starts like this:

T'was the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

But my actual all-time favourite is Terry Pratchett's Hogfather.

Hogfather imagines the origins of Christmas in a primeval past where the festive season and rituals associated with it have a function: namely, to ensure the sun rises the next day. The novel begins with Susan, Death's Granddaughter, attempting to ignore the irritating intrusion of the Death of Rats and his talking raven in her carefully constructed normal life, where she is governess to a brother and sister called Gawain and Twyla, 'who'd been named by people who apparently loved them'. At the same time, the Wizards at Unseen University have discovered a door that has been nailed shut and labelled 'do not open', so of course they are opening it. And there is something odd going on with the Tooth Fairy.

Hogfather transposes a multitude of winter myths and Christmas stories to the Discworld universe, and tells a sinister version of The Grinch who Stole Christmas, in which The Auditors of the Universe, soulless empty grey robes who resent life for being unpredictable, hire the fantastically creepy Mr Teatime (pronounced Te-ah-ti-meh) to assassinate the Hogfather. His unlikely saviour is Death, who has come to appreciate the irrationality of the living, so with the help of his trusty servant Albert he dresses up as the Hogfather, lashes six smelly, hairy pigs to the sled, and sets off to delight children everywhere by giving them what they actually want for Christmas, and saying 

HO. HO. HO.

The cast of characters also includes a giddyTooth Fairy named Violet, the Verruca Gnome, the Oh-God of Hangovers, and Discworld's first ever Super Computer, Hex, who believes in the Hogfather. Hogfather is gripping, atmospheric, erudite, and very, very funny. Highly recommended, especially at the darkest time of the year.

The Wine of Angels, Phil Rickman

After my last reading experience, this was refreshingly brilliant. It is extremely absorbing, paced wonderfully and very atmospheric. The characters are also interesting, as well as believable, so this book is highly recommended. Warning: it is hard to put down.

The Wine of Angels follows the (mis)adventures of Merrily Watkins, female Church of England clergyperson, and daughter Jane, who has more Pagan inclinations, as the pair move to Ledwardine where Merrily has been appointed priest-in-charge. Nothing is simple for a woman priest, as she is alternately feted as a sign of progress in the church and hounded as an abomination, while trying to write sermons and suffering from nightmares about the third floor.

Action centres on a creepy apple orchard which surrounds the Vicarage and churchyard, and once surrounded the whole village. The story begins with an ill-fated attempt at Wassailing in said orchard, involving shotguns, which results in blood all over the place. Things get progressively stranger from there; Jane has a transcendental experience in the orchard while very drunk on cider, and Merrily starts hearing noises in the Vicarage at night, and getting lost in its empty rooms.

There is a brilliantly realised cast of supporting characters, including Collette Cassidy, Jane’s sexually precocious teenage friend, Lol (Laurence) Robinson, an erstwhile rockstar who appears to be afraid of teenage girls and listens to too much Nick Drake, and Lucy Devenish, the local wise-woman who runs a gift shop that doubles as a shrine to apples. There is also a good cast of villains, including Dennis Child, the small creepy organist who has a thing for female priests, James Bull-Davies, the local squire who loves Tradition and thus really doesn’t have a thing for female priests, Karl Windling, bassist, entrepreneur, and chief tormentor of Lol, and Alison Kinnersley, Wanton Woman.

One of the book’s greatest successes is that does not become apparent until the very end whether it is discussing human crimes or supernatural occurrences, and even then the line between the two is delightfully blurry. The novel evokes the feelings of unwelcome strangers living in a village steeped in ancient secrets, and investigates what happens when these secrets are blown open. Overall, it seems to argue that change is a good thing, but explores the implications of change in the context of tradition.

There is a reasonable amount of death, sometimes in unexpected places, some of it involving sheep, but none of it is gratuitous. There are some disgusting moments as well, but again, all within the realms of the acceptable (and I’m really squeamish).

The final twist is chilling, but in the end all is resolved as well as it can be, and the denouement causes the characters to grow rather than breaking them. It actually takes a while for the story to conclude itself, but the suspense and pacing are managed so well that is definitely doesn’t get boring, it just becomes incredibly hard to put the book down (so make sure you have no plans when you start reading the last fifty pages or so). The ending is satisfying, but not artificially neat, and although it is the first book in a series, it doesn’t leave any annoying mysteries that would compel you to start the next book immediately. But I did that anyway, because I enjoyed the experience of reading this one so much.

The Unicorn Crisis (The Hidden Academy), Jon Rosenberg

This is a terrible book, which I guess I should have expected, given that it doesn’t really have a cover, and it cost me 99p. You may wonder why I am reviewing it. (I sort of wonder that myself). The fact is, although the writing style annoyed me, and the characters could be divided into three stereotypes (male, female, evil), I did actually read the whole thing to see what happens in the end, so the author must have done something right. Right?

I have three major criticisms to make:

a) The text had not been edited.
In addition to a proliferation of typos and missing words, there were several instances where the author used words incorrectly, and the crimes committed against the common comma alone are deserving of extreme and creative punishment.

b) The characterisation sucks.
The ‘show don’t tell’ rule clearly hasn’t found purchase here. Furthermore, the way characters respond to situations makes absolutely no sense in the context of the narrative. They go wide-eyed when they should raise their eyebrows, they blush when they should blanch, and generally feel about as genuine as a banker’s apology.

c) The dialogue. Oh, the dialogue.
It is so unfathomably bad I can’t describe it, so I’ll just have to give you an example:

”So, where are the others?” I asked her.
“Alanza said she needed some stuff if she was going to spend the day here, so Llwellyn took her to the store.”
“Just as well, as there is something I wanted to ask you.” I continued eating.

Can you tell where any of these people are from? No. Because nobody talks like that. Llwellyn’s ‘regionalese’ is even worse. Basically, he says ‘boyo’ every three words, I’m assuming to indicate his Welshness.

Setting the above catastrophic failures aside, the novel does sort of function. The plot is engaging, although there’s a massive slump in the middle where they wander around the main character’s house doing nothing because the author wasn’t sure how to progress things, the characters are, though dull, likeable, and there is definitely no question of the magic aspect leaving the characters with too few limitations. Summoning, which is what they can do, appears to be completely useless, although I had a vague sense that I was supposed to think it was cool.

So, don’t read this book. It sucked. But I get the impression that Rosenberg may write something good in the future, assuming he finds a sufficiently ruthless editor and a book explaining the difference between commas, question marks and full-stops?

Fated: An Alex Verus Novel, Benedict Jacka

I read this because it was promoted as Urban Fantasy, and alleged to be similar to the Rivers of London series, with which I’m a bit obsessed. I suppose there are some similarities, but Fated is markedly less good. I feel this may be because Mr Verus spends a lot of his time being knowing about things that are completely alien to the reader, so we don’t really get what he’s being knowing about, or why it’s impressive. Also, the decision to call the great Dark Mage who scarred Verus’ youth ‘Richard’ was perhaps not the best. Funnily enough, Looking For Group uses that very name as a name hilariously unsuitable for a Dark Lord:

So every time the Dread Richard was mentioned as a demon from Verus’ past, I had a mental image of LFG Richard going ‘Fwoosh!’ which ruined the image of cold sophistication Jacka had been going for.

I was also led to expect a realistic evocation of the city of London. Unfortunately, the descriptions did not resonate with me, possibly because I have been spoiled by Ben Aaronovitch, whose descriptions of both place and people are just better. Fated could have been happening anywhere that has tall buildings. The British Museum features quite centrally, but I didn’t get much of a sense of uniqueness of the space. Overall, I felt like I was being told a lot of things rather than being shown them, which grates a little. Then again, given that I want to write and publish myself, I feel like I should try not to be too judgmental: I did enjoy the book, I’m just being picky. (Although I can’t resist pointing out that the author’s headshot on his webpage is truly hilarious:

The Aristotle pose? Really?)

To summarise the plot: Alex Versus, probability mage, nightmare-sufferer and all-round mensch, runs a magic shop in Camden. His magic skill enables him to look into the future, and see the outcome of any given potential action. On a day like any other, a nefarious Greek-looking person from his past walks into the shop to offer him a job for The Council. At this point the reader discovers that there is a Council of Light Mages, and a bunch of fractious Dark Mages to whom teamwork is like altruism to cats. Versus likes neither, but through a series of coincidences somewhat frustrating for someone who can see the future, he manages to end up working for both.

The controversy centres on a statue, which contains a priceless artefact that has been locked away for centuries, and is reputed to give the possessor endless power. Understandably, everyone wants it for themselves, and all are willing to kill to get it. Except for Alex, because he’s a mensch. And mostly everyone wants to kill him.

Alex is joined by Luna, a girl with an ancient curse that causes everyone who comes near her to have terminally bad luck, and Starbreeze, an air elemental of female persuasion, who is described as being simply dumb. They are helped out by Arachne, who is an enormous spider that makes beautiful clothes with magical properties, and a straight-edged bureaucrat/ Council member whose name I’ve forgotten, which fits with the character.

The magical elements of the story are managed reasonably well – Verus’ ability to look into the future is not overly deterministic, and doesn’t give him too much of an edge over the other characters. Luna’s curse is incredibly depressing, but hope is introduced gradually over the course of the narrative, which is nice. There are also lots of jolly explosions and things being smashed, which is always good in an urban fantasy story.

One final thing that was a bit annoying: throughout the novel there are allusions to the past that don’t always gel with the narrative of the present. They are generally important for character development, but the way they are introduced and the amount of information they convey doesn’t work. A lot of the time, I felt like the narrative was presenting itself to me as an outsider, instead of feeling completely absorbed by the story.

But, all whingeing aside, I quite enjoyed this book, and I look forward to reading the next one, to find out what happens to Luna and her curse. Oh, and to see if I’ll finally be introduced to this nefarious, ballroom-dancing Richard.

Dodger, Terry Pratchett

I've stewed over this review for a while. Like many people out there in the wilds of the internet, I have difficulty separating this novel from the rest of Pratchett's oeuvre, which has had a defining influence on my development, both as a reader and as a person. While I enjoyed reading the book very much, the experience was not unproblematic for me, so it took me a while to digest my feelings and come out with a coherent sense of what I thought about it. The gist of it is that I found it good, but different.

Dodger is from the Nation school of Pratchett novels: optimistic to a fault, self-indulgent in its degree of wish-fulfillment. It reminds me of the idealistic narrative of the collapse of the Eastern Bloc created by Alex in Goodbye Lenin: well-intentioned, but ultimately silly. And yet, I can’t begrudge Pratchett the relentless series of serendipitous happy endings that is Dodger.

The novel is set in a fictitious but well-researched Dickensian London, and features both Dodger, the character from Oliver Twist, and Charlie Dickens himself, imagined as an investigative journalist. Other famous Victorians make appearances, including a young Benjamin Disraeli, Henry Mayhew champion of the poor, and Queen Victoria herself. Sweeney Todd, demon barber of Fleet Street, makes a cameo appearance, acting as the foil for Dodger’s change of circumstances, and instigating a discussion of mental illness and the way it is handled by society.

The plot is a little bit flabby – Dodger rescues a young Lady from some very unpleasant gentlemen, which motivates his meteoric rise through the echelons of Victorian society, achieved as a result of a series of convenient coincidences following his kind disarming of Sweeney Todd. There are rather a lot of coincidences, much like in a Dickens novel, but these are revealed too gradually to have any kind of effect. On the other hand, there is something delightful about the delicate web of references to the urban mythology of London: to use the example of Sweeney Todd again, at the moment when Dodger walks into a barbershop on Fleet Street, I experienced a thrill of recognition, followed by surprise at the way the narrative subverts the myth, bringing in the issue of soldiers’ unimaginable experience of civilian life after the battlefield.

Nevertheless, the weakness in plotting persists: the mystery side of the plot is too veiled in, well, mystery, to be effective. Dodger has a plan to rescue his Lady-friend permanently by somehow staging her death, but the details of his plan are left unexplained until it actually fails. This does not allow dramatic tension to build while he is attempting to carry out his plan, because the reader doesn’t know exactly what to expect, so one can’t be surprised. Having said that, there were probably references to other London novels that I missed, which may make the whole situation more clear. I also felt like the ‘Happy Families’ game could have had a more clear function within the plot – the mysterious rescued girl has a pack of the cards in her possession, but her explanation of why is, although sweet, somewhat anticlimactic.

Dodger is different from Discworld: the jokes are more literary than situational, the plot is looser, and the overall experience is different. It seems that the subject of the novel is not the rescue of the damsel in distress, or the transformation of a street child into a gentleman, or the mysterious identity of the mystery assassin; rather, it is Dodger himself who constitutes the core of the narrative. The interest lies chiefly in observing his reactions to new experiences, involving rich people, firearms and heavenly soft unmentionables (underwear, for those unfamiliar with the term). The whole novel is a deliciously divine pursuit of a series of ‘what ifs’. What if Sweeney Todd had been misunderstood? What if a woman in desperate need of help had got it, for once? What if Dickens’ Dodger had been given the choice between good and indifferent, in the face of pure evil? What if under his grimy clothes and sporadic education he had a truly powerful moral compass?

All quibbling aside, this is one of those books that left me feeling inexplicably better about the world and humanity at large when I had finished it, which is what I have always loved about Pratchett’s writing. I didn’t giggle through it like I do with most Discworld novels, but it often made me smile, and I finished it feeling an even deeper affection than before for the man who wrote it.