Depth and quality to keep every child happy June 27, 2023
Posted by dolorosa12 in books, review reprint, reviews.Tags: books, children's books, children's literature, fantasy novels, ya literature
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This post is part of a series of articles that I previously published in various Australian newspapers when I was working as a reviewer between 2001 and 2012. The vast majority of these do not exist in digital format, and I’ve decided to reprint them here for digital preservation. Much of what is said in these republished reviews does not represent my current thinking, but rather my understanding at the time of writing and original publication. The titles of the posts are the titles that were given to the articles by subeditors upon publication.
With Christmas and the long summer holidays ahead there’s no better time to think about some new books for that avid young bibliophile — or even reluctant reader — in your life.
The bookshops will be offering, as usual, almost too much choice and it’s tempting to reach for the latest novel that’s been turned into a movie (A Series of Unfortunate Events) or a book with ‘bum’ or ‘fart’ in the title. A little searching through the back catalogues of some established children’s writers might yield some more imaginative choices.
Emily Rodda is arguably one of Australia’s most popular and successful children’s authors. Her ever-expanding Deltora Quest series has a cult following among the eight to twelves. She is a prolific author who has been writing for children since 1984, but it was Rowan of Rin, which won the Children’s Book Council of Australia Book of the Year Award for Younger Readers in 1994, that really saw her hit her stride.
This now five-part series follows the story of young Rowan, an ordinary boy destined, despite his fears and self-doubt, to save his people from destruction. Rowan is mostly unappreciated by his fellow residents of the village of Rin: where they are active and athletic, he is shy and contemplative, and is viewed as a bit of a weakling. In each story he reconfirms his bravery, triumphing not only over the perils of the quest, but over his own terror.
Rodda wants to tell the reader that the brave person is not necessarily one who has no fear. The Rowan of Rin series demonstrates that it’s possible to fuse a strong moral message with a satisfying story.
Gillian Rubinstein’s Space Demons trilogy was written just as home computers entered our lives — in the late 1980s and early ’90s — and is built on the dreams and possibilities of this technological dawn. It is written for slightly older readers — probably late primary school to early high school — and deals with the challenges of adolescent life. However, it does so in the context of a richly imagined virtual reality inside computer games. These games are definitely not brainless shoot-’em-ups: they force their players — Andrew Hayford, Ben Challis, Elaine Taylor, Mario Ferrone and, in the fanl book, Shinkei, Midori Ito and Toshihiro Toda — to confront their prejudices and anxieties, and re-examine their aspirations.
They are adventure stories, but the action, in a sense, takes place in the characters’ own minds. The stories accurately portray the adolescent perception of the world as a confusing place where the struggle for self-understanding is of supreme importance.
This psychological quest becomes literal in the world of Space Demons: the protagonists must physically battle demons of hate, flee from the dark clouds of terror, and rescue their idealistic dreams from teh exploitation of greedy entrepreneurs and manipulative authorities.
In contrast to the books of these two Australian writers, The Story of Holly and Ivy, by Rumer Godden, is a book for a particular kind of reader — one who also enjoys The Secret Garden and A Little Princess — stories set in a quaint and gentle past. This is a Christmas book, ‘a story about wishing,’ which draws together the stories of Ivy, an orphan girl, Holly, an ownerless doll, and Mrs Jones, a childless old lady. In Dickensian fashion, all ends happily, with philanthropy and fortuitous meetings saving the day. This is a simple yet beautiful story, suitable for either young children beginning to read alone, or for parents to read aloud.
In rereading these excellent and very different books, I was struck by their shared qualities. Most importantly, they are all ‘plot-based,’ that is, story and characterisation are central, in contrast to the now more common (and unpleasant) trend in children’s fiction which makes themes the focus of the book.
This is not to say that Rodda, Rubinstein and Godden do not have ‘messages’ in their books — they certainly do. It is just that their messages are not rammed down their readers’ throats — and the ideas are the stronger for that.
Rodda’s central doctrine that people who overcome fear are braver than those who were never afraid in the first place, Rubinsteins empathetic understanding of the emotional world of teenagers, and even Rumer Godden’s simple message of compassion and yule-time charity, shine clearly through their well-crafted and interesting stories. But that is the point — the quality of the story and the believable characters not only give the books a moral subtlety, but make them good to read. What more could the Christmas shopper ask of a book?
This article first appeared in the 11 December, 2004 issue of The Canberra Times.
Only one has the magic touch June 27, 2023
Posted by dolorosa12 in books, review reprint, reviews.Tags: children's books, children's literature, fantasy novels, reviews
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This post is part of a series of articles that I previously published in various Australian newspapers when I was working as a reviewer between 2001 and 2012. The vast majority of these do not exist in digital format, and I’ve decided to reprint them here for digital preservation. Much of what is said in these republished reviews does not represent my current thinking, but rather my understanding at the time of writing and original publication. The titles of the posts are the titles that were given to the articles by subeditors upon publication.
Two new books have tumbled out of the rift caves to join the rapidly expanding collection of The Quentaris Chronicles. Unfortunately, they are not quite up to the standard of previous books in the series. John Heffernan’s book, The Mind Master, relies a bit too heavily on fantasy literature clichés, while Treasure Hunters of Quentaris, Margo Lanagan’s contribution, is slightly too didactic and preachy. Much more rewarding for fantasy readers is Dragonfang, the second in the Jelindel Chronicles, one of the brains behind the Quentaris series.
The Quentaris Chronicles is the brilliant invention of authors Michael Pryor and Paul Collins, who created the world of Quentaris and now edit this series of stand-alone books by various Australian fantasy writers. Pryor and Collins have set up an excellent device to allow other authors into the series — Quentaris’s ‘rift cave’ portals which can connect with endless other imagined worlds. Previous books have ranged from tension-filled adventure stories to philosophical musings about the nature of true beauty.
The Mind Master is CBC Award-winning author John Heffernan’s first foray into the world of Quentaris, and it reads like an earnest creative writing student’s crack at the generic fantasy literature plot — insignificant boy discovers both that he must save the world and that he has magical powers.
The book’s hero, Torrad, a low-born servant, must fight a maverick magician bent on destruction. There is even another staple of the genre — a snobbish, ice-queen contessa to be rescued. Heffernan’s use of these fantasy literature clichés demonstrates at least his wide reading in the field, but he fails to animate them with originality.
The book’s most interesting and enjoyable aspect is the invention of a gang of ‘roach people’ who scurry, like their insect namesakes, through a network of tunnels and cellars under the city of Quentaris, passing on gossip, eating scraps, and avoiding the tangled web of Quentaran alliances.
Margo Lanagan is also a prize-winning author, having won the young adult section in the 2000 Aurealis Awards, as well as being shortlisted for various other awards. Treasure Hunters of Quentaris is the story of two outsiders, both born into families of explorers and guides, and their adventures in worlds they discover through the rift-caves.
As the title suggests, the pair are searching for treasure, and the story quickly turns into a fable about the folly of valuing gold and wealth over living beings. While this didacticism is not fatal to the story, it does tend to dominate it.
In contrast to the rather wooden offerings of Heffernan and Lanagan, Dragonfang is exciting and full of surprises. It is a continuation of the story of the former Countess Jelindel dek Mediesar, Adept-9 mage, resourceful adventurer and keen scholar, and her struggle to prevent the evil Preceptor from getting hold of five magical gemstones which would greatly aid him in his quest for world domination.
While Collins’s characters do tend to conform to fantasy stereotypes (the book’s heroine is at once awe-inspiring in her goodness and talent, and empathy-evoking in her fallibility, while her two sidekicks are opposites: charming rogue and honour-bound fighter) he is able to inject much more originality and surprise into his storyline and setting than the two Quentaris authors.
Ultimately, the neat idea behind The Chronicles of Quentaris cannot bear fruit. This is due partly to authorial constraints — the books are short and so provide little space to fully develop characters or explore complex themes. Writers are further limited by the fact that each book must stand alone.
Speculative fiction authors traditionally prefer to write trilogies or longer series in order to provide their readers with a wealth of characters and a richness of setting, necessary in a genre of writing which by its very definition is set in worlds which are not our won. Paul Collins’s intriguing Dragonfang demonstrates this principle. Both Heffernan and Lanagan do their best with the limited tools they have been given, but reliance on archetypes on the one hand and moralising on the other weaken the overall effect.
This review first appeared in the 11 September, 2004 issue of The Canberra Times.
Comforting reminder of a simpler world June 23, 2023
Posted by dolorosa12 in books, childhood, review reprint, reviews.Tags: books, children's books, children's literature, reviews
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This post is part of a series of articles that I previously published in various Australian newspapers when I was working as a reviewer between 2001 and 2012. The vast majority of these do not exist in digital format, and I’ve decided to reprint them here for digital preservation. Much of what is said in these republished reviews does not represent my current thinking, but rather my understanding at the time of writing and original publication. The titles of the posts are the titles that were given to the articles by subeditors upon publication.
Reading one of Rumer Godden’s books is like dipping into a chocolate box of childhood memories. Writing from memories of growing up between the wars, her works have the same power of comforting innocence, serving as reminders of an age where the world appeared not only more simple, but really offered children greater opportunity for physical and imaginary adventure.
Godden’s life spanned the 20th century — she was born in 1907 and died in 1998 — and her writing springs from a time when children inhabited a world free from television and the dominance of the car in the suburbs. She was one of the central authors of my childhood; her novels had that rare and highly prized quality of being considered worthy starting points for the imaginary world of games.
Her heroes and heroines had the resourcefulness of those of Roald Dahl, without sharing their suffering, and even J.K. Rowling would envy her ability to describe food. In short, she understood the way children see the world — she was whimsical without being sentimental, and she wrote with an innocent wonder that was not condescending or contrived.
And so I was very happy to see that one of Godden’s books, The Greengage Summer, is being reprinted — proof of its enduring appeal.
It was first published in 1958 — my own childhood copy was the third reprint, published in 1993. The novel was even made into a movie in 1961, wiht Kenneth More and Susannah York.
The Greengage Summer is a fictionalised account of a real holiday spent in the champagne country around the Marne River in France. When their mother becomes ill, the four fictional daughters and their brother are forced to rely on their schoolbook French and a charming rogue staying in the same hotel.
The most intriguing aspect of the book is the fact that it is to some extent based on events which took place in the author’s life. Struggling to control her adolescent daughters, Godden’s mother hatched a scheme to take them to see the war graves of World War I in France, to understand the sacrifices others had gone through in order that they should live.
This unfortunate parent got septicaemia after being bitten by a horsefly at the Gare de l’Est in Paris, and spent the rest of the holiday flat on her back.
The Greengage Summer is essentially a memoir of this episode — personal and place names have been changed, several characters have been conflated and events exaggerated or accentuated to provide a more satisfying story.
In a manner common to children’s books, which require absent parents to give children freedom to have adventures, the book’s quintet are adopted by the staff and guests at the Hotel des Oeillets, yet given free rein to roam and explore the town. During these weeks of independence, the children grow up very quickly. They learn about love and death, drink their first champagne, smoke their first cigarettes — and at the same time are duped by a handsome charmer, Eliot, the lover of the hotel owner, who turns out to be an international jewel thief.
These themes of lost innocence and of trust betrayed are central to the book, and yet Godden does not allow them, as so many modern authors do, to take over the story at the expense of plot. Her eye is that of a child, finding significance in small events and ordinary things. The book is written with both a sense of immediacy which would appeal to a child, and a poignant reflexiveness which speaks to adults of the sadness and finality of the move from childhood to adolescence.
Godden makes no moral judgement about this coming of age. It just happens, as it does in real life, and part of this process is the discovery that adults aren’t somehow better than you.
What Godden’s children’s books, including The Greengage Summer, have to offer is a window on a very different reality. It’s a world that can also be found in the works of Noel Streatfield and Adele Geras, and in some of the books of Robin Klein, Jackie French and Elizabeth Honey — a place where children are powerful and imaginative, where a bus can become a Chinese dragon or an old kimono can provide hours of enjoyment.
While it is impossible to turn back the clock to a time without the small screen, where the streets were safe for children to play and everyone had a big backyard or something like it, it is possible to read books, such as Godden’s, which can transport you there for a couple of hours.
This was originally published in the 29 August, 2004 issue of The Canberra Times.
Convict tale full of twists and treats June 20, 2023
Posted by dolorosa12 in books, review reprint, reviews.Tags: children's books, children's literature, reviews
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This post is part of a series of articles that I previously published in various Australian newspapers when I was working as a reviewer between 2001 and 2012. The vast majority of these do not exist in digital format, and I’ve decided to reprint them here for digital preservation. Much of what is said in these republished reviews does not represent my current thinking, but rather my understanding at the time of writing and original publication. The titles of the posts are the titles that were given to the articles by subeditors upon publication.
Is Jackie French an author or a machine? The dynamic Australian writer has just published another book, Tom Appleby: Convict Boy, which tracks the life of a fictional child convict and his rise in colonial Australian society.
Although equally well known for her ecologically inspired fantasy writing, once French gets out the history books, the reader is in for a treat. And this outing is no exception. Like her earlier works — the Depression-era Somewhere Around the Corner, Lady Dance, a story set during the bubonic plagues of the medieval period, and Soldier on the Hill, set in rural Australia during World War II — Tom Appleby makes history real for the younger reader.
Australians, especially those descended from convicts, have always had an uneasy relationship with their country’s colonial heritage. The past 30 years or so, however, have seen a transformation of the accepted view of convicts. They have been converted from criminals into victims of a harsh system. Literature has reflected this reversal.
French follows her hero along a path recognisable to anyone now familiar with convict history. The story of an eight-year-old London chimney sweep found guilty of stealing a handkerchief and condemned to be transported to Botany Bay is almost archetypal.
What makes it more than a cliché is the attempt to dispel many of the popular myths about the First Fleet. Instead of being convicted for stealing a handkerchief, the fine detail of Tom’s life reveals the truth underpinning this and other trite images. French’s passion here is possibly fuelled by a little personal family history, as she refers in her endnotes to stories of ancestors her mother told her as a child.
The narrative is heightened by dramatic contrast. Her hero is transformed from a pitiful, helpless little boy to a man with a deep love for, and understanding of, the Australian bush, who ultimately prospers in the country to which he had been transported. His success is contrasted with that of the early colonial settlers, whom French portrays as bewildered and overpowered by the strange new environment in which they find themselves.
It is this aspect that will be familiar to all Jackie French fans — none of her books would be complete without some expression of her reverential respect for, and awe of, the Australian bush. No clichés here — she does it well.
This was originally published in the 17 July, 2004 issue of The Canberra Times.
Timeless August 8, 2009
Posted by dolorosa12 in books, reviews.Tags: books, children's books, conversations with little people, michael ende, momo, reviews
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This morning, I tucked myself away in a corner of the University Library’s West Room, and read Michael Ende’s glorious, gem of a fable, Momo (spoilers in the link and in my review). You might think it odd that I had not read this book as a child, but my youthful reading list, A Little Princess aside, was remarkably Australian, now that I think about it. The edition I read was translated by J. Maxwell Brownjohn.

Ende is the author of The Neverending Story, which is certainly next on my reading list!
The eponymous heroine of Momo is a wise little girl who, in the tradition of fairytale heroines everywhere, knows how to see the heart of things. She lives in a ruined amphitheatre on the outskirts of a city never named, but which is probably Rome. Momo has a remarkable talent for listening and hearing the stories that everyone, even the most mundane, boring people, have inside them. She has a startling imagination and always makes the games of other children more entrancing. In short, she gulps life down with relish.
That’s a threat to the grey, sinister members of the ‘Timesaving Bank’, who are out to convince people to live life at a rushed, manic pace. In their opinion, the small joys of life – chatting to customers, singing with friends, lingering over a meal, and even dreaming – are time-wasting distractions. They convince most of the members of Momo’s neighbourhood to sign over their ‘free’ time. When Momo objects to this, they target her friends in an attempt to frighten her.
But Momo has an ally in Professor Secundus Minutus Hora, a benevolent, disinterested god (in the ‘clockmaker’ model; why is it that gods and imagery of time seem so perfectly wedded?), who helps Momo see time for what it is – life in all its wonder. With this knowledge, Momo is able to save her friends from a miserable existence of fast food, regimented activities and toys that sap creativity and imagination (in one scene, Ende parodies Barbie dolls with broad brushstrokes – Momo comes upon a doll with which she cannot play, that only asks for more and more consumer products).
It’s hard to tell if Ende’s story, which was written in 1973, is anti-communist (Karl Marx is all but named as the ‘architect’ of the world in which Momo and her friends live), anti-capitalist (the aforementioned diatribe against toys which encourage consumerism supports this reading) or simply anti-twentieth-century values. In the end, Ende’s ideological position is irrelevant. He’s for the storytellers, the stories, and the small moments needed to listen to them, and that is all that matters.