Tag: Lev Grossman

The Silver Arrow by Lev Grossman: Every once in a while the world is unfair in a good way.

The Silver Arrow

The Silver Arrow

by Lev Grossman

Hardcover, 259 pg.
Little, Brown Books for Young Readers, 2020

Read: December 3-4, 2020
Grab a copy from your local indie bookstore!

You really don’t appreciate how incredibly colossal a steam locomotive is till one shows up parked on the street in front of your house. This one was about fifteen feet high and fifty feet long, and it had a headlight and a smokestack and a bell and a whole lot of pipes and pistons and rods and valve handles on it. The wheels alone were twice her height.

What’s The Silver Arrow About?

Kate lives a life that she doesn’t find that interesting. It involves a lot of reading (mostly books about science, or books where people discover that magic is real), wishing her parents would pay her more attention, or that something interesting would happen. I don’t think her younger brother, Tom, is any more satisfied, but he seems generally more upbeat. They have an uncle they’ve never met—because their parents describe him as irresponsible, but incredibly rich.

For her 11th birthday, Kate writes him a letter, asking for a present. What arrives is her uncle—who may be irresponsible, but he seems like a nice guy (even if her parents have a seemingly irrational amount of anger toward him) who arranges for a steam train, The Silver Arrow, to be delivered to her (and a small line of track installed in her backyard). While Kate and Tom climb all over it, her parents demand that Uncle Herbert remove the train. Before he can, it leaves with them on board.

Not only does it start by itself and travel through places it shouldn’t—the train communicates with the children. Before they know it, they’re at a hub where they add on passenger cars (among other things) and then start picking up passengers, all of whom are talking exotic animals (fully ticketed). Sure, by definition, a talking animal is fairly exotic, but I’m talking about things like a pangolin, a polar bear, a mamba, a fishing cat, and so on.

While they travel through the world (including many places that non-magical Steam Trains can’t go) the siblings have to overcome various challenges, defy the laws of physics (but never in a way that feels like violating physics), learn to work together, and learn a few lessons about some pretty heavy topics (in an entertaining and age-appropriate manner).

This really reminded me of…

Life always seemed so interesting in books, but then when you had to actually live it nothing all that interesting ever seemed to happen. And unlike in books, you couldn’t skip ahead past the boring parts.

The marketing for the book mentions both Roald Dahl and The Chronicles of Narnia. I honestly don’t remember the Dahl books I read in enough detail to comment on that—but it feels mostly okay. But Narnia? No. Sure, there were talking animals—but not that kind of Talking Beasts. Also, there’s no allegory at work here. That comparison didn’t work for me.

Julie Edwards’s The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles came to mind while thinking about the book—the mix of science and magic, the way that adults talk frankly to children, the feel of the narration—all hearkened back to that for me.

But primarily, this reminded me of The Phantom Tollbooth—from the unexpected arrival of a magical form of transportation, to the encounters with strange realities, and lessons learned, the occasional feel of absurdity (that never feels absurd)…it speaks Tollbooth to me.

Neither of these books have the marketing pull of Dahl or Narnia, so I get why the Publisher went with the ones they went with, but it irks me that they were so far off.

The Things Beyond the Story

Deep in her heart Kate knew that. She knew that her problems weren’t real problems, at least not compared with the kinds of problems kids had in stories. She wasn’t being beaten, or starved, or forbidden to go to a royal ball, or sent into the woods by an evil stepparent to get eaten by wolves. She wasn’t even an orphan! Weirdly, Kate sometimes caught herself actually wishing she had a problem like that-a zombie apocalypse, or an ancient curse, or an alien invasion, anything really-so that she could be a hero and survive and triumph against all the odds and save everybody.

As Milo did in The Phantom Tollbooth, Kate (and, to a lesser extent, Tom) learn a lot from their travels and the atypical people they encounter. Some of the things I noted they experienced—and that young readers will encounter include maturity/embracing responsibility; engaging in life, not merely observing (via smartphone or books); animal preservation/conservation—notably of threatened or endangered species; and a strong hope in the future of and for Humanity. I don’t usually see the latter two themes paired together but I found Grossman’s use of the two to keep the book from being too heavy or too light.

This is a Book to Read Aloud

The best part of the book for me was Grossman’s use of language, his style, and voice. He sucked me in with the way he told the story before Kate and The Silver Arrow got their hooks in me. There’s a charm to the language that would attract (I can only imagine) middle-grade readers in a similar way that Norton Juster did me decades ago.

The other thing that kept coming to mind was just how fun this would be to read aloud to a kid of the right age. There are several lines that just beg to be hammed up while reading to a receptive third-grader, like:
bullet “Herbert,” he said. “What the blazes is this?” He didn’t really say blazes, but you can’t put the word he did say in a book for children.
bullet [After several sentences of the mamba speaking full of “ssssss”s] (I’m not going to keep typing all the extra s’s, so just keep in mind that the snake hisses a lot when he talks.)
bullet Weird how boys had feelings, too, but pretended they didn’t.

Those probably work better in context, but he breaks the fourth wall enough to add plenty of opportunities to have fun while you read it.

So, what did I think about The Silver Arrow?

She’d almost forgotten that the train could talk. There’s a lot going on in your life when you have more urgent things to think about than a talking train.

I think if I was about 40 years younger, I’d probably rate this at least 4 Stars, or maybe if I’d actually read it to someone, that might have done the trick. But I’m an old(er) crank and I could only imagine what it’d have been like to read to my kids.

This is a fun book, a kind of adventure that I’d want to give to kids, I’d want kids to be exposed to. And, yeah, it’s good for the inner child of older readers who like to remember how much fun certain books can be.


3.5 Stars

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The Friday 56 for 12/4/20

The Friday 56This is a weekly bloghop hosted by Freda’s Voice

RULES:
The Friday 56 Grab a book, any book.
The Friday 56 Turn to Page 56 or 56% on your ereader. If you have to improvise, that is okay.
The Friday 56 Find a snippet, short and sweet.
The Friday 56 Post it

from page 56 of:
Next to Last Stand

The Silver Arrow by Lev Grossman

“Kate. Tom. Good to see you. You made it this far.”

“Uncle Herbert!”

“Uncle Herbert!” Tom said. “We went through the woods and didn’t crash and then we saw a station and it was full of animals and they talked and then the train talked!”

Tom said this as one long continuous word. Uncle Herbert didn’t look particularly surprised at any of it.

The Magician’s Land by Lev Grossman

The Magician's Land (The Magicians, #3)The Magician’s Land

by Lev Grossman

Hardcover, 401 pages
Published August 5th 2014 by Viking Adult
Read: August 16 – 20, 2014

This is one of those books that I’ve been waiting for since about 30 minutes after I finished the previous book in the series — and at the same time, one I didn’t want to arrive, because that means I have to say good bye to Quentin, Brakebills, Fillory and the rest of the gang. The nods to Lewis’ The Last Battle were pretty obvious, but naturally, there was a lot more going on than that. Unlike Lewis, the book never really felt like the end of anything but a chapter in the lives of most of these characters, and that their lives went on beyond these pages (you know, those that survived). I really like that kind of finale — one which is definitely an end to the story, but one that the characters go on from, having adventures (however mundane those may be) that we don’t get to see.

It’s obvious straight away, that Quentin didn’t respond too well from the events of The Magician King all too well — but for the record, neither did Eliot. So at least that’s fair. We get Quentin’s story told to us in two timelines — first, in the present, and the other starts shortly after King. I’m sure there was a point to that, but it didn’t strike me as necessary (although I should add, now that I’ve typed this, I can actually start to appreciate why Grossman may have chosen this. Still, I’m sticking with not necessary). But it didn’t interfere with anything, either, so I’m not going to complain.

Upon his exile, Quentin ends up at Brakebills, looking for answers, looking for hope and ends up becoming an entry-level professor there. And he’s good at it, for the first time, really since his student days there, he seems content, he seems at home. You really start to think that he’s got a happy ending in a quiet life ahead of him. And you know that you’re wrong, if only because the book has a lot more pages in it — but also because you know Quentin. Still, it’s a nice oasis for both character and reader.

In the present, however, Quentin’s part of a magically powered team of thieves — by the time you get an explanation for how he ended up in this situation, with his new companion/disciple Plum, you almost don’t care. You’ve just accepted this reality, and really want to find out (as much as Plum and Quentin do) just what they’re after and how they can pull off their heist.

Part of their research requires a trip to Fillory’s Antarctica campus. Which I’d forgotten all about, much to my chagrin. Instead of traveling there as birds, they opt to travel as blue whales. A choice I just loved.

[Quentin]’d imagined that he’d get some kind of deluxe ocean-vision as part of his package of new whale-senses, but in fact he didn’t see much better than he had as a human. With his eyes on different sises of his head his binocular depth perception was shot, and having no neck, all he could do to change the view was roll his eyes around or steer his whole humongous body. Also, unnervingly, he didn’t seem to have any eyelids anymore. He couldn’t blink. The urge decreased over time, but it never completely went away.

The whole whale episode — all 3 pages and change of it — was so brilliant, that even if the rest of the book was a wreck, I’d be tempted to give it 5 stars. Your results may vary re: the whale sequence, but I can assume there’ll be something like that for you. There are lots of little moments like this in this book vying for a spot in your personal Top Ten Moments list — like, say, Eliot engaging in single-combat, or learning about the restorative power of bacon.

Meanwhile, back in Fillory, the world is ending. And, sadly, that’s not hyperbole. Enter The Last Battle parallels. This part of the book could’ve been doubled in length and I wouldn’t have blinked a bit. Eliot and Janet take off on a quest to see if it’s possible to stop the world ending — and if so, you know, to stop it.While they’re on this quest the thing that struck me most was how little we ever got to see of Fillory (and nearby lands and peoples), and how much more I wanted to see, so I really enjoyed that aspect of the story. There were some great moments for Janet in particular here. Eventually, as the world begins to end, a massive civil war erupts magical and non-magical creatures fighting against each other, alongside the humans. From Janet’s perspective we see much of this, including what happens when unicorns and centaurs enter the fray on opposing sides:

You only had to see a unicorn lay open the side of a centaur once, the ribcage flashing white when the ripped skin flopped down, to swear a mighty oath never to fuck with or even look at another unicorn again. I’m putting down the hearts and fluffy clouds and backing away slowly. Don’t want any trouble here. You can have all the rainbows.

Yet, as usual, as interesting, explosive or world-ending as the other story might be, if it didn’t involve Quentin, I just couldn’t care as much. The further into the story I got, I did get more invested in the non-Quentin story than I initially was — and it was epic enough, important enough that I should’ve been invested, but without him it wasn’t as compelling. Quentin was our entry point to this world (these worlds, rather), and he stayed the focal point. So even an actual pending apocalypse paled in comparison to Quentin as Brakebills professor. By the end of the book, this wasn’t as true as it was in the beginning, but it spent too much time being true for me to overlook it. Thankfully, shortly after that, all the storylines merge, the band gets back together (with some needed augmentation), and they finally get a solid answer about whether they can prevent the end of Fillory.

Ultimately, Quentin’s not the hero of the series, nor is Janet, or Eliot, or anyone else. It’s Grossman — his use of the characters, his use of — and exploitation of — fantasy tropes, his messing with fantasy tropes, his facility with language, metaphor, and humor is what makes this series stand out.

As with the other two books, Grossman’s word choice is this great, seamless mix of poetic, flowery, rich vocabulary (I occasionally had to look up words to make sure I was sussing out the context clues correctly) with non-ironic uses of things like “lulz” or “I heart you.” Somehow, he’s able to pull this off without the reader blinking — or even noticing it most of the time.

Grossman starts in right away puling the reader in with:

Quentin didn’t care. It was a bookstore, and he felt at home in bookstores, and he hadn’t had that feeling much lately. He was going to enjoy it. He pushed his way back through the racks of greeting cards and cat calendars, back to where the actual books were, his glasses steaming up and his coat dripping on the thin carpet. It didn’t matter where you were, if you were in a room full of books you were at least halfway home.

There’s not a reader in the world that doesn’t know that exact feeling, hasn’t had that experience. It’s sort of a magical moment before the plot begins. Then a few chapters later, he somehow supports and underlines this moment, while undercutting it with:

The lights were too bright, and there were too many TVs, but it was a bar, and that was another place, like bookstores, where Quentin felt at home. Drinks were a lot like books, really: it didn’t matter where you were, the contents of a vodka tonic were always more or less the same and you could count on them to take you away to somewhere better or at least make your present arrangements seem more manageable.

The tragic, inevitable, brilliant, and awe-inspiring climax was the way this saga had to end. It wasn’t the ending you wanted, but in retrospect, you totally you did want this ending. If that even makes sense. Grossman has given contemporary fantasy readers a real gift here in this series and I think it’ll be one that holds up pretty well to re-reading and the passing of years. I certainly look forward to testing that hypothesis. If you’ve read this far, and haven’t read The Magicians, go get started with that one, and I dare you not to plow through the rest.

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5 Stars

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