Pathfinder

        Salutations, friends! Today I will be reviewing Orson Scott Card's most recent book, Pathfinder. It stars a 13-year-old and is marketed to teens, but really it is not a YA novel at all, and definitely not a children's book. It's pretty complicated and heavy in both plot and themes, not to mention it's over 600 pages. Not that a teenager wouldn't like it, of course - I think many would. But teen lit it is not.
        It is the first of a series, but it stands alone very well - by the end, the story is resolved enough that you don't feel like you need to have the next one right now immediately this very second or you will scratch your eyeballs out. (Speaking of which, what is OSC doing writing a new series when Master Alvin is still unwritten??? I swear I will kidnap him and chain him to a computer.)

         Anyways. Pathfinder centers around the story of those who have the power to change the past. Following the death of his father, the young protagonist, Rigg, and his friends set out to find his long-lost mother and sister, a quest which leads to startling revelations about his heritage, his powers, and his future. He finds that he is the center of a political upheaval, and factions on every side want to force his hand, or kill him. He must go on the run with the people he cares about, and each of their special gifts will determine their survival - and what they discover about the world they live in.

        Pathfinder is science fiction and not fantasy, but, as in many of Card's books, the line between the two genres is slightly blurred. I don't mean his science is faulty (though I would hardly know if it was), but that he uses thematic and genre elements that are characteristic of both. It is set in a quasi-medieval world, complete with scheming queen and not-as-helpless-as-she-seems princess, and the time-manipulation talents possessed by the characters function, on the surface, as magic. However, the science fiction aspect and many of the novel's most important themes are revealed in the segments that take place several thousand years before the main plot, on board a space ship. (Protip: don't read these ahead, no matter how interesting they are. It works much better if you get the new information at its proper place.) Oh, and I guess there's some scifi right at the end of the main plot, too, if we're going to be picky. Together they weave a complete and compelling narrative. In my opinion, Orson Scott Card is very, very good at fusing genres; Pathfinder is a book that would appeal to both the adamant fantasist and the hardcore scifi nerd.

        A note on time travel: there's lots of it. And it's confusing. The book centers around the concept, but even if you read tons of time travel lit, you'll still be confused. OSC says it himself: the book is "in deliberate defiance of the consensus rules of science fictional time travel" (from the acknowledgments). What does that mean? If you're a logician, you'd better not read this book. Still, don't let that stand in the way of your enjoyment of the book. As a highly reputable and trusted source once said, "time travel is never non-confusing, and if you make it non-confusing, it's cause you're ignoring stuff."

        In terms of literary mechanics, Card is superlative as usual. His characters are likable and realistic, if perhaps not quite as personable as in some of his previous books. The plot is gripping, especially when you don't try to skip to the end and find out what's really the deal with this planet. The magic system (I mean, the science system) is very original and convincing. I always like his systems. Style and themes are a given; the man's a genius, he probably writes meaningful, relevant, beautiful prose in his sleep. Pathfinder is certainly a thinking book; if it doesn't make you wonder about a few things you're probably not paying attention. And of course Card has something profound to say about the human condition. He always does, you know.

        In conclusion, read it. If you like fantasy, if you like scifi, if you're a Card fanatic like me, if you've never heard of him before, teen, adult, whatever, just read Pathfinder. If you are a small child, have an easily explodable head, are a slacker who can't read more than 500 pages at a time, or hate all genre books, it probably is not for you. But the rest of you awesome people out there, read it.

Summer Reading List

       I am terribly sorry about the long time between posts. Finals, you know. But now I am free! Summer lies ahead, during which I can catch up on my reading. So here is a non-comprehensive list of what I intend to read over the summer, in no specific order. If you have any you recommend adding to the list, or if there are any here that you would especially like me to review, please comment!

-The Apocrypha, the Koran, and the Vedas; possibly also the Talmud, the I Ching and the Mahabharata. It's about time I got to know some other religions' scripture.
-L'Morte D'Arthur, by Thomas Malory. I checked this one out but had to return it before I read more than a couple pages. It was very sad.
-The Children of Hurin, by JRR Tolkien. It's been in my house for over a year now and I still haven't read it!! I'm also going to read The Lays of Beleriand, which I have OWNED for almost a year and haven't read. Shocking.
-Hood, Scarlet, and Tuck by Stephen Lawhead. I have an intense Robin Hood obsession and these sound really good.
-Everything by Jane Austen.
-Ivanhoe, by Sir Walter Scott. Also anything else by him that looks good.
-A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens. I started it but didn't have time to finish, and apparently it is amazing. More Dickens if I have time.
-The Brothers Karamazov, by Fydor Dostoyevski. I loved Crime and Punishment, and I've heard that this one is even better.
-The Kite Runner and its sequel, by Khaled Hosseini.
-Moby Dick, by Herman Melville.
-An Acceptable Time, by Madeleine L'Engle.  The fifth book in what I thought was the Time Quartet (beginning with A Wrinkle in Time). I started this one weeks ago but was interrupted by an attractive male about ten pages in. Then, when I went back to it, someone had checked it out! The nerve. Also I am going to read everything else by Madeleine L'Engle I can find because I love her with enormous amounts of love.
-The Gemma Doyle Trilogy, by Libba Bray. I dunno. It looks good.
-Mockingjay, by Suzanne Collins. I have to keep up my reputation as a connoisseur of teen lit.
-More poetry. I need to find a good anthology or something. I love poetry.
-Saints, by Orson Scott Card.
-Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, by Susanna Clarke.
-The Four Loves and The Pilgrim's Regress, by C.S. Lewis. Something by Lewis I haven't read??? Unbelievable!
-Something famous by Faulkner or Joyce or someone. Because I feel like I should.
-Shakespeare.
-The Hunchback of Notre Dame, by Victor Hugo. Because I like him.
-Various examples of mediocre teen lit and fantasy that my brothers bring home, and which I will enjoy immensely. Scifi paperbacks from my dad's bookshelf. Probably a terrible mystery named after a food or holiday. Newspapers, poetry, internet articles, back copies of National Geographic, the Ensign, and Reader's Digest, blogs, more poetry, graffiti, cereal boxes, and street signs.

       That ought to keep me occupied for a couple months, since I'll have a job and responsibilities and everything, like a real person. And if it doesn't, well, I'll probably be updating it for a few weeks as I remember things I've been meaning to read. If you have a favorite I don't know about, please, let me know! And a very happy summer to you all.

On C.S. Lewis, On Fan Fiction, and then A Little Bit of Both

      As you may have noticed, this post is slightly on the long side – it is, in fact, the surprise big thing I'm sure you have been eagerly awaiting. And really, it's more like three and a half posts rolled into one. I apologize. If you do not read it, I will not be offended. I am sure you have better things to do with your time. Also, if you have not read The Last Battle recently, or at least remember the basic premise of the last couple chapters, this post will not make an iota of sense. (Go on, reread it, I'll wait.) However, if you are feeling exceptionally bored, brave, or in a C.S. Lewis sort of mood, read on.

      I love C.S. Lewis. I adore C.S. Lewis. Sometimes if I haven't read anything of his in a while, I go into C.S. Lewis withdrawal. He is clever and imaginative in plots and perspectives, he knows far more than any Anglican really has a right to know, and he writes beautifully. In fact, my own writing style has been irreversibly altered by his. Not to mention everything he ever wrote (except his poetry. Please never try to find his poetry. There's a very good reason no one knows he wrote any) is marvelously fun to read.

       That being said, I have one major problem with C.S. Lewis. Actually, I have two, but the other one is a bit personal and is probably best left off the internet. The problem I am addressing here has to do with Susan. I think it is terribly, terribly unfair what he did to Susan in the last Narnia book. (Note: if you have not read Narnia, you have no business reading this blog when you have far better things to be reading. While you're at it, read Till We Have Faces and the Space Trilogy too.) He let her down just because she was not the Innocent or the Repentant or the High King. She was just Susan. And it's not right.

       Now, I hope you'll bear with me while I talk a little about fan fiction. I used to hate fan fiction. HATE. It was what the devil would write if he had any creative inclinations. I even had a strong distrust of open worlds, where an author lets other writers publish things set in his/her own created world – good examples of these are Star Wars and Dragonlance. I thought people who wrote fan fiction were even lower down on the scale of creativity and worth than rappers (no offense to any rappers out there. I mean a lot lower down.). What changed my mind? I started writing.

       Once I was (somewhat) seriously writing fiction of my own, I realized that sometimes there really is more than one way a story could go, and it's equally good. But the author can only choose one. I realized that there are going to be things left out, and sometimes it's okay to explore them. Now, my acceptance of fan fiction has a few caveats. I still am rather wary of it, and haven't actually found much that was good enough to read (though I have been known to guiltily enjoy some of the Star Wars stuff). And of course I still abhor the monstrosity known as “slashfic,” which is basically just porn with some famous characters' names stuck on. With regards to that, I maintain my position that it is written by Satan himself. And also I'm pretty sure that every Harry Potter fanfic ever is a abomination. But I have decided that on some rare occasions, fan fiction can be done tastefully and in a way that enhances the original, or at least doesn't degrade it. And I certainly hope so, because I'm about to write some.

       Back to Susan. As I said, it was horrifically unfair of Lewis to drop her like that for the sake of an unnecessary example. In my personal opinion, characters are people too and they deserve to be treated with respect. Not that everything has to turn out perfect (or even well), but they at least ought to be treated like people and not symbols. Enter my fanfic. I'm not interfering with the story itself, of course – I still despise that. And I could never hope to reproduce Lewis' style – so I didn't try, and anyway it wouldn't really have fit. But I hope I've been true to Susan's character and the world of the story, and that this is a faithful representation of what might be. For Susan, as you know, has not quite begun her story yet. And if that's so, well – there's still time to make a few changes to the title page.

_____

Susan's Broken Heart

       “I believe he's looking at you, Susan.”

       “What, Tom?” said Susan. She glanced over to the corner, where a gangly young man was indeed gawking at the two girls. “Please, Judith, I certainly hope I can do better than Tom.”

       “No, not Tom,” Judith hissed. “Over there – careful, he really is looking now.” Susan tilted her head slightly so as to look behind her. She caught the eye of a tall, handsome man sitting by himself, and gave him a very small smile with her eyes half-closed before turning back to her conversational partner.

       “Oh,” she said, “now that is a different matter.”

       “That's Hugh Wood! He's one of the most successful businessmen in London! And only twenty-two. Honestly, I was surprised he accepted my invitation at all. Usually he goes to much better parties.”

       “Well then, he could hardly have an interest in me,” said Susan, but she smirked as she said it.

       “Don't be ridiculous, Susan. There's hardly a man anywhere who could see you and not 'have an interest'.” Judith's eyebrows went down a bit, then lifted to halfway up her forehead. “He'll ask you to dance, I'm sure of it!”

       “No, he won't. He hasn't danced with anyone all evening.”

       “Ah! You've been watching him!” said Judith. Susan looked pleased with herself and a bit embarrassed.

       “Hmm,” she said. “Do you think he would dance at a party of mine?”

       “Ooh, are you giving one? It would be your first!”

       “I have been thinking about it, actually. Mother and Father will be back from Bristol next week, and they could help me plan for it.”

       “Oh yes, do! And you must invite Hugh. And do let me help you with the guest list. I know lots of young men who would love to come. Oh, Susan you must! But don't you worry your little brother and sister will get in the way?”

       “Not at all,” said Susan. “They're away as often as not, visiting some boring old professor. Lucy's not at all interested in parties and things. Probably not even Peter would come.”

       “Hm, too bad,” said Judith.

       “Oh, stop it!” laughed Susan. But Judith suddenly let out a muffled squeak.

       “Oh! He's getting up! He's coming this way, Susan!” her voice had sunk to a breathless whisper. But Hugh was stopped by another man in a gray suit, who seemed very intent on saying something to him. Susan quickly pulled out her lipstick and applied another coat to her already deep red lips.

       “Do I look all right?” she asked Judith.

       “Your dress is a little crooked – there.” Susan adjusted her dress and glanced back again. Hugh was still talking to the suited man. “Here's another song starting up, I'm sure he'll ask you!” said Judith.

       Susan felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up coyly, but, to her disappointment, it was only a maid. “A telephone call for you in the parlor, Miss Pevensie.”

       “Oh,” said Susan distractedly, looking back at the handsome businessman. “Take a message.”

       “Susan,” said the maid, and for no reason at all Susan's heart suddenly felt cold as ice. “You should take it, Miss.” Susan noticed the girl's hands were trembling. She rose, walked slowly through a room which seemed to have fallen utterly silent, and picked up the phone.

       The cab pulled up in front of the Pevensie house. Susan stared at its dark windows.

       “You be all right, Miss?” asked the cabbie. “Cause I got an aspirin here, if you're not feelin well.”

       “No, I mean, yes, I'm fine,” said Susan.

       “Only you look so pale,” said the cabbie, but Susan was already getting out.

       “Miss, your purse,” he called after her. She retrieved the bag and hurried to the door. Her mind was empty. She had already forgotten the party, forgotten the hurt look on Judith's face when she had rushed out without explanation; forgotten, it seemed, all she had ever known, except for one thing.

       The dark sky seemed unbearably vast and she so exposed under it. She fumbled in her purse for the house key. Quickly – quickly, where is it – ? In her haste she let go of one side, and the contents of the pursed tumbled out; her mirror to smash on the concrete, her lipstick to roll away into the bushes. Her contacts book flopped weakly to the ground like a wounded bird. She heard the key fall too, with a metallic jangle. It was too much. Susan sunk to the ground, gasping and sobbing tearlessly. It was too much, it was all too much. How could she do anything, how could she even open that door? How could she ever stand again? Her shoulders shook and heaved.

       When she finally picked up the key and turned it in the lock, her face was dry and very, very pale.

       Inside, she let the key drop to the floor; it was too much effort to keep it in her hand. She took one step, then another, walking down the hall that led to her bedroom. She walked past the table full of photographs. There was one of her parents' wedding. There was Peter at his graduation, and there was her. There was one of Peter and Edmund and Lucy and Susan –

       She took another step. There was a painting, done a few years before. Lucy wasn't a bad artist, but she would insist on drawing these silly –

       Susan slammed the frame face-down onto the table, but she could still feel the two great eyes, staring  with more intensity than paint could give. She remembered one more thing.

       She turned and fled to her room. She stumbled inside. Then Susan collapsed, with her head and arms on her bed, and wept like her heart was broken.

      Behind her, the light from the hall carved a broad golden pathway in through her open door.