Searching for that magical world.

The premise of Justine Larbalestier’s first book in her Magic or Madness trilogy is basic enough: Reason, a fifteen-year-old whose existence has taken place largely in the Australian bush, is sent to live with her grandmother, a woman whom Reason’s mother has always regarded as the worst type of evil on the face of the planet. When her mother, Sarafina, lands in a mental institution, Reason uncovers enough signs that her mother wasn’t entirely lying: the remnants of a cat skeleton buried in the cellar, talismans hidden in picture frames of family members, and most intriguingly of all, a large antique key that seems to fit the lock of door that Grandma Esmeralda doesn’t want used.

Well, we can see where this is heading. And sure enough, as soon as Reason steps through that door, odd things begin to happen. Or at least that’s the promise. In spite of a solid, if somewhat uninventive setup, Magic or Madness is seriously lacking in either magical moments or scary instances of madness. On the other side of the door, Reason lands in a deep snowdrift—at the very heart of New York City’s East Village. This is enough to convince her of the existence of magic, and the sudden arrival of a ‘friend’—the magically savvy Jay Tee—suggests that her appearance was somehow expected. But by whom? Why does the door open onto this particular street? And what is the purpose of Reason’s own magic—a particularly astute sense of numbers and mathematics—in this world where magic is so close at hand?

The fact that Larbalestier’s book is the first in a trilogy following Reason points to revelations to come. But there are some serious holes in the first book that aren’t explained and were enough to drive me to distraction. Sarafina is left in the mental hospital, her story largely dropped. The relationship between Reason and Esmeralda changes, but without much justification why this is the case. With the exception of Tom, the neighbor boy who befriends Reason and displays some surprising magical qualities of his own, none of the characters feels fully developed. Finally, Larbalestier tends to hand the narrative off to various characters. One chapter we’re in Jay-Tee’s mind, the next we see things from Reason’s point of view, and after that from Tom’s. The effect is hard enough to do in a solid plot; here, it only serves to annoy. Perhaps in the remainder of the trilogy, Reason and her predicament are whipped into a fabulous tale of secrets and exhilarating danger. But with such a lackluster beginning, it’s hard to imagine any teens willing to extend their attention for another few hundred pages.

Pithy Verdict: A little magic, less madness. Mostly mundane.

The royal reader.

This is a wickedly funny little novella. It's a simple conceit: the Queen, out exercising the corgis, stumbles on a municipal bookmobile. In the name of good PR, she picks out a title, and obliging reads it. And the floodgates are opened. Soon HM is blowing through Trollope, putting the French president on the spot with her questions on obscure playwrights and drilling her subjects on their current reading during receiving lines. Needless to say, the Establishment is in an uproar. Even the corgis retaliate, chewing the library copy of the McEwan to a pulp. This passage, when the Queen is on her way to the opening of Parliament with a contraband novel, is particularly genius, and worth quoting at length:

Still, it is an ill-tempered royal couple that is driven down the Mall, the duke waving viciously from his side, the Queen listlessly from hers, and at some speed, too, as the procession tries to pick up the two minutes that have been lost.

When they got to Westminster she popped the offending book behind a cushion in the carriage, ready for the journey back, mindful as she sat on the throne and embarked on her speech of how tedious was the twaddle she was called on to deliver and that this was actually the only occasion when she got to read aloud to the nation. 'My government will do this...my government will do that.' It was so barbarously phrased and wholly devoid of style or interest that she felt it demeaned the very act of reading itself, with this year's performance even more garbled than usual as she, too, tried to pick up the missing couple of minutes.

It was with somer elief that she got back into the coach and reached behind the cusion for her book. It was not there. Steadfastly waving as they rumbled along she surreptitiously felt behind the other cushions.

'You're not sitting on it?'

'Sitting on what?'

'My book.'

'No, I am not. Some British Legion people here, and wheelchairs. Wave, for God's sake.'

When they arrived at the palace she had a word with Grant, the young footman in charge, who said it was security and that while ma'am had been in the Lords the sniffer dogs had been round and security had confiscated the book. He thought it had probably been exploded.

'Exploded?' said the Queen. 'But it was Anita Brookner.'

The young man, who seemed remarkably undeferential, said security may have thought it was a device.

The Queen said: 'Yes. That is exactly what it is. A book is a device to ignite the imagination.'

The footman said: 'Yes, ma'am.'

It was as if he were talking to his grandmother, and not for the first time the Queen was made unpleasantly aware of the hostility her reading seemed to arouse.

'Very well,' she said. 'Then you should inform security that I shall expect to find another copy of the same book, veted and explosive-free, waiting on my desk tomorrow morning. And another thing. The carriage cushions are filthy. Look at my gloves.' Her Majesty departed.

'Fuck,' said the footman, fishing out the book from where he had been told to hide it down the front of his breeches.

Brilliant. The reviews have quibbled that the story is slight, and that Bennett uses too snobby a tone. Well, there's not a whole lot to it, but the whole point of the snobby tone is to mimic that stiff upper lip the Establishment is so apt toward. Bottom line: a fun, quirky read, perfect for a lazy Sunday morning.

Pithy Verdict: We are very amused.

Where have we been, where are we going?

Well, it's been ever since I've posted anything on my humble blog here. Mostly this is due to sheer laziness on my part, but I like to tell myself that because it's finally sunny out in this stretch of the woods, I'm entirely justified in laying off the laptop and absconding to the nearest park to loll around in the shade with the book du jour.

But another idea has been playing around in the back of my mind. This reader's year has been up for quite a while, and I'm wondering if it's time to take the blog in another direction. There will still be reviews of the books I'm reading (I'm pretty sure, at least), but maybe there'll be some more musings on reading, library life, publishing or culture in general. Perhaps some linking to whatever strikes me as especially amusing--or particularly galling. Which will probably make it just like every other blog out there, but as it's my blog, it will be that much more special. I feel the need to do something different. God knows, if it wasn't this, it would probably be rearranging the furniture in the living room. I'm a little frightened of what I might find under the sofa, so this seems like a better choice for all involved.

So, stay tuned. The address won't change, the old posts will remain accessible in the archive (Blogger willing), and I might change my mind in a few days anyway. Stay tuned and check back.