The Decoy Princess Duo

Happy September people! So I may not be at Hogwarts getting sorted into a house (way past my time unfortunately), but I still have another review to share with you. Dawn Cook, also known as Kim Harrison, wrote The Decoy Princess and Princess at Sea. Although an enjoyable read, both books had a couple of things missing…

Firstly, the whole premise of the book is that there are people called Players who basically control their countries behind their monarchs – kind of like a power-behind-the-throne set-up. However, Cook does not quite explain this well enough. Simply mentioning this kind of power dynamic just wasn’t enough for me. I wanted details and illustrated situations to show me how these Players managed to control entire courts and countries without anyone realizing it. Yes, she does explain how they get extra-human powers and sixth senses through the build up of tolerance to a certain kind of animal poison, but those powers did not fully explain their ability to secretly rule and manipulate everyone around them. Furthermore, the heroine (Tess) receives training from her mentor (Kavenlow), but it all happens ‘off stage.’ As a major premise of both novels, I really felt like I needed more to work with in order to fully suspend my disbelief.

Secondly, both romances that Tess experiences are similarly flat. I simply did not believe the chemistry between Tess and Duncan, her card shark and accidental sidekick. It felt like Cook was expecting the reader to just accept that they had chemistry without really giving us convincing episodes of growing attraction. Yes, there are moments when Tess very blatantly is physically attracted to Duncan, but even she admits that she is inexperienced in this arena. In contrast, I think Cook developed the chemistry between Tess and Jeck (the Misdev captain and secret Player) much more thoroughly. They are thrown into highly emotional and stressful situations together and slowly learn how to interact successfully. The second novel ends in a pseudo-cliffhanger that left their romance half-baked though. Kavenlow, obviously a third party in this relationship, tells both Tess and the reader that Jeck is in love with her but that’s all we get. The book ends. And that’s it. Come on! Their romance was just starting to pick up when she decides to cut it off? That’s simply unfair.

So while I enjoyed both of these books, I ultimately wouldn’t recommend them. I was left dissatisfied by the ending, both plot-wise and romance-wise. Moreover, Tess as a heroine was simply not strong enough to pull of the kind of stunts that the plot required of her for me.

 

What did you guys think? Were you as dissatisfied as I was?

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The Fight between Survival and Morality

Here’s the cover to David R Gillham’s novel, City of Women. I love how provocative it is – for me, it evokes both sadness and sensuality.

In David R. Gillham’s novel, City of Women, Sigrid Schröder starts out as the ideal ‘army wife.’ Berlin has become a city of women, children, the elderly, and the disabled – all of the able-bodied men have been drafted into the military. After her husband’s draft to the frontline service, Sigrid lives with her irritable and cantankerous mother-in-law, which only heightens her sense of claustrophobia. In order to escape, Sigrid finds refuge in the cinema and meets a man that changes her life just as much as the war does.

As the war builds, so do Sigrid’s secrets. This mystery man that Sigrid meets in the cinema becomes her lover. As if that wasn’t enough, this mystery man that Sigrid can’t get off of her mind is a Jew named Egon Weiss. As Sigrid lives her life in a slowly deteriorating society and city, she can’t help but become involved in the Jewish cause by hiding a Jewish mother and two young daughters, who she believes are her lover’s family.

Although the premise of a German hiding Jews during World War II isn’t exactly a new one, Gillham tackles this theme with gusto. In contrast with other authors, Gillham approaches his novel from a strong, liberated, and female perspective. Aside from her bold personality, Sigrid’s entire world is made up of women. She lives with her mother-in-law, she has strange encounters with her neighbors’ daughter, and she resides in a city that is bereft of men. Literally, everyone she meets, knows, and sees is female. And, as both the war and the novel progress, Sigrid transforms from an oblivious housewife into an aware critic of her government and her complacent community.

Interestingly, I found myself sympathizing with Sigrid despite her reluctance to involve herself in anything dangerous. In fact, Gillham made it very easy for me to understand why she resists joining the Jewish cause. Although I hoped that Sigrid would risk herself for those being persecuted by the Nazis, I still could easily understand her anguish and anxiety. It was refreshing to see how Gillham develops Sigrid’s changing psychological standpoint without writing off her initial reluctance as selfishness. Thus, Gillham constructed a protagonist that is complex, layered, and resistant to clichés.

The novel as a whole progresses in a slow burn, milking every moment of heart-racing suspense. It is most definitely not a fast-paced thriller, but I appreciated it even more for its unhurried pace. Gillham knows how and when to take his time, but he never allows the reader to become bored with the plot or the characters. His minute care in developing Sigrid’s character is especially impressive – by the end of the novel, I felt like I knew Sigrid intimately and like she had been telling me her story in person despite the third person narrative.

It came as no surprise to learn that Gillham was trained as a screenwriter. His description of an almost abandoned Berlin is impeccable. I could almost see the camera sweep across a scene of the city in a cinematic arc. With accurate and vivid historical details, Berlin itself became its own character, sometimes overriding Sigrid’s plot within its own inevitable trajectory.

The only aspect of the novel that left me dissatisfied was the lack of a glossary of German words. Throughout the novel, Gillham used German words in order to lend authenticity to his writing and to his reader’s experience. While most of the time I was able to glean meaning from the words’ contexts, I think that a glossary would have streamlined the reading process. I didn’t want to have to struggle with German words while trying to keep all of the characters and subplots straight.

Although on some levels City of Women is a simple book to describe in terms of Sigrid’s individual plot, it is really about the greater choices that must be made in impossible times. If good people act amorally in the name of self-preservation and survival, are they no longer good? If a bad man makes a righteous move, is he no longer bad? Even characters refusing to recognize their decisions is cast as a choice in and of itself. Thus, Gillham forces his reader to reconsider the fuzzy boundaries between right and wrong and our classifications of such actions and people. His details and artistically delineated dilemmas make City of Women a novel to be read and to be remembered.

 

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Dance Dance Dance – No Dancing Allowed

In Haruki Murakami’s novel “Dance Dance Dance,” there is no actual dancing. I see what you did there, sir!

This is my second Murakami novel and it did not disappoint. After reading “Kafka On The Shore,” I wasn’t sure that this one would live up to my first experience. Now, although I did ultimately prefer “Kafka,” reading “Dance Dance Dance” was a true pleasure. All of the characters are deeply detailed and honestly realistic in a world of magical realism. Murakami flawlessly molds these characters in a realistic world that just happens to have magical secrets, including a Goat Man, a high tech hotel with a between-worlds floor 16, and a prostitute that may or may not be dead/murdered popping up in Japan and Hawaii. Get it?

 

This may sound convoluted and confusing, and it is, but in a good way. Murakami exhibits his characteristic humor and surrealism in everything from his descriptions of capitalism to his characters’ individual quirks. However, underneath this lighthearted side lies a darker undertone that criticizes both urbanization and capitalism. Throughout the novel, the unnamed protagonist laments capitalism’s influence on everything from business to personal relationships. He is constantly commenting on this theme, both internally to himself/the reader and conversationally with other characters. He prefers his used Subaru to his celebrity friend’s Maserati. He prefers his small apartment to his ward’s father’s opulent home. And he prefers the rundown, small, dirty Dolphin Hotel to the fancy, huge, streamlined l’Hôtel Dauphin. He is representative of the working class in Japan, but diverges from the norm in his disdain for his work, seeing it as a means to an end that he doesn’t really appreciate, and in his difficulty in connecting with others. Although he encounters many characters in the 393 page novel, he really only establishes meaningful connections with three of them: firstly, a hotel clerk at l’Hôtel Dauphin with whom he falls in love with; secondly, a thirteen year old girl who transforms from a reluctant ward into a close friend; and thirdly, a childhood classmate and TV celebrity who shares the protagonist’s connection to a disappeared protagonist. Out of these three characters, I believe that the protagonist’s relationship with the thirteen-year-old Yuki (means “snow” in English) is the most meaningful. With Yuki, the protagonist finds a different kind of soul mate – although she thinks he’s weird and he thinks she’s spoiled, the two strike a up a friendship that catches both of them off guard. Yuki reconnects the protagonist to the world that he has fallen away from while the protagonist provides Yuki an escape from her majorly dysfunctional family. Together, the two bond over music and ultimately save each other from themselves and from their respectively failing lives.

 

After reading “Dance Dance Dance,” I was simply affirmed in my appreciation for Murakami’s style and writing aesthetic. His characters and descriptions are stunningly detailed and his portrayal of the protagonist’s mind and voice is both convincing and enthralling. I definitely recommend this read – you’ll get social criticism, psychological exploration, and humorous surrealism all wrapped up in one!

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Religious Problematics – Hope Leslie as a Teenage God

Hope Leslie’s aunt, Mrs. Grafton, here shows the dual conception of femininity – she can be a fickle and shallow widow OR a powerful influence in social change.

In Hope Leslie, Catharine Maria Sedgwick presents to the readers multiple models of religion with varying levels of approval and advocacy. Aside from the clear disdain for Catholicism as embodied by Sir Phillip Gardiner, Sedgwick also confronts the faults in Puritanism, Anglicanism, Islam, and Native American Spiritualism. However, Sedgwick also includes a subtler version of religion in the form of Master Craddock, who literally worships at Hope Leslie’s feet. By including this version of unorganized and more physical version of religion, Sedgwick reveals the problematic nature of religion as a whole.

Throughout the narrative, Master Craddock is depicted as a senile old man whose greatest pride and pleasure is tied into Hope Leslie’s person: “Craddock was so absorbed in the extraordinary happiness of being selected as the confidential aid and companion of his favourite, that he would have followed her to the world’s end, without question […]” (321). Hope Leslie needs her tutor’s help in order to free Magawisca from prison and, after having been easily persuaded to join her in helping an unnamed friend, Craddock behaves more like a blind lapdog than he does like a tutor. He is consumed in blissful pleasure at the intimation that Hope desires his company and does not discern her unusual behavior in fleeing the house undetected. This happiness comes upon a passive Craddock, who revels in his having been “selected.” This language of selection is reminiscent of the Puritan conception of the Regenerate class, who are selected by God to be saved. Similarly, Craddock is described as an unquestioning follower, trusting in Hope and in his blind faith for her. Thus, Craddock is depicted as a zealous and devoted disciple and Hope as his prophet or even his God.

Moreover, Craddock proves to her that he would do anything for her, even when his actions go against his own moral code: “Such was Craddock’s habitual deference to his young mistress, that it was morally impossible for him to make any physical resistance to her movements […]” (328). Craddock’s following and trusting in Hope is so ingrained in him as a habit, that he is unable to stop himself from complying with her wishes, even when he knows they go against social propriety. This “habitual deference” echoes the regularity, consistency, and uniformity of religious prayer and behavior – Craddock’s immediate acceptance of Hope’s wishes is linguistically reflective of the Puritan’s recitation of scripture and strict adherence to manners.

Additionally, Craddock is physically powerless against Hope. As the dominant agent in their relationship, Hope is once again depicted as a God-like figure who has physical, behavioral, and perhaps even spiritual control over her follower: “[…] but neither his conscience nor his apprehensions for her, would permit him to be silent when he felt a conviction that she was doing, and he was suffering, an act that was a plain transgression of a holy law” (328). Despite his misgivings over her actions, Craddock is physically paralyzed and is thus unable to disobey Hope’s directives. However, Hope is unable to stop Craddock from voicing his misgivings, demonstrating his oral propensities and her limits as a God-like figure. Here, Sedgwick encourages the reader to pity Craddock and his powerlessness against Hope and, in doing so, paints Hope as almost tyrannical in her uncaring disregard for Craddock’s physical safety and emotional turmoil.

Therefore, through Craddock’s worshiping of an oppressive Hope, Sedgwick demonstrates that blind faith in religion is harmful and even dangerous to the physical and moral safety of its followers and perhaps that not all religions are able to provide the eternal guidance and deliverance expected of them.

Now, I wonder whether Sedgwick included this microcosmic religion as a warning or as a beacon – is it a warning against the dangers in blind faith and zealotry? Or is a beacon for feminist potential in her contemporary place in a world beginning to consider women’s rights?

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“Forever” Young – A Grandmother’s Influence

In Judy Blume’s Forever, which is set in the 1970s, Katherine Danziger straddles the transitional moment between adolescent teenager and mature adult. During the novel, she graduates from high school and gets her first job, all while navigating her first serious relationship. Through her experiences, Katherine accurately depicts the consuming nature of adolescent life and the teenager’s striving for a fully developed self-identity. Throughout the novel, she utilizes the narrative as a confessional, establishing an intimate relationship with her audience and a unique archetype of the typical teenage experience: Katherine is immature, inexperienced, and inconsistent.

In her struggle to achieve self-knowledge and self-definition, Katherine undergoes moments of progress followed by revealing setbacks while imitating the model of maturity presented to her by her adult family members. More specifically, Katherine’s grandmother establishes a model of maturity defined by openness, responsibility, and wisdom. By presenting maturity as tolerant and accepting, Katherine’s parents and grandmothers are characters upon whom Katherine can depend and understand and whom Katherine subconsciously models in her journey towards adulthood.

Katherine’s grandmother, Hallie Gross, provides the novel with a definition of maturity that includes both frankness and impartiality. She is a lawyer and a feminist rights activist, which comes across most apparently in her direct and unembarrassed view on sex. On multiple occasions, Hallie advises Katherine to be careful with sex and with her body in open conversations. She refuses to hedge around the potentially awkward ‘sex talk’ and treats Katherine like an adult – it is this treatment that forces and enables Katherine to gain maturity in her mindset and in her actions.

Also, by not treating sex as a taboo subject, Hallie importantly establishes herself as a trustworthy source of advice – both for Katherine and the reader. She also talks directly about the danger of sexually transmitted diseases, which imparts to Katherine the importance in being both knowledgeable and realistic about sex. Importantly, Hallie also recognizes Katherine’s thinly veiled embarrassment in talking about sex. By approaching the subject first, Hallie tries to show Katherine that sex is nothing to be embarrassed about. Hallie does not allow Katherine to pretend that she is not embarrassed: although she doesn’t drag out an uncomfortable conversation, Hallie prevents Katherine from deceiving herself and her grandmother and thus establishes a model of maturity that is self-aware, honest, and open.

By establishing this model of maturity, Hallie indirectly influences Katherine’s ability to handle her first relationship and her first breakup. Although hard to accept and hard to do, I believe that Katherine is ultimately able to move past her breakup with Michael because she has her grandmother’s model and advice to rely on. Where Katherine starts off the novel (i.e. immature and flighty and totally unprepared), she would not have been able to handle the relationship in the first place, never mind the breakup!

What do you guys think? Do you think Blume put Hallie in the novel to push Katherine to grow up?

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Twilight – More Incest Than Romance

Here’s a clip from the movie that I think demonstrates Edward’s paternalism – he’s patting her on the head!

After writing my thoughts on Fifty Shades of Grey, I started thinking about how E.L. James initially wrote it as a Twilight fan-fic. I hadn’t read the first novel in Stephenie Meyer’s series in years and decided to take another go at it. I noticed some things this time around that I definitely did NOT catch back in my tweenage years.

What struck me the most while reading it now was how creepy the relationship between Bella and Edward actually is. Yes, I can see why it has become such a phenomenon – it is clearly a love story that overcomes all odds. But beyond that, Meyer endeavored to create the perfect boyfriend in the form of Edward and, my question is, why does she portray “the perfect boyfriend” as a semi-pedophilic stalker? Sure, Edward is a vampire so he’s instantly glorified in his stoic mysteriousness, but that does not change the fact that he is so much older and more experienced than Bella – he constantly takes advantage of and condescends down to her because of her unquestionable naïveté! This creates an imbalance in their relationship that, in actuality, gives Edward the role of father more than boyfriend…

Meyer reinforces throughout Twilight that Bella is effectually parentless – her mom lives on the other side of the country and Bella takes care of her dad more than he takes care of her. Thus, Edward takes on the role of Bella’s father as both teacher and protector. He is the one who introduces Bella to new worldviews and experiences. He is the one who, let’s be blunt, stalks her in order to make sure she’s safe. Throughout the first book and the entire series, Edward obsesses over Bella’s safety – he’s really the one with the proverbial shotgun on the porch, not Charlie. He goes to such extreme extents to ensure she’s safe that it even makes Bella uncomfortable at times! Sure, she’s relieved when he saves her from the thugs in the back alley, but she does question why he was there and how he knew where she was. Edward’s vampire ability to read minds only helps him “protect” Bella all the more effectively – in my opinion, this seems like it would be more stifling than reassuring. Through Edward’s obsession as her protector, Bella really loses all personal freedom not only in their relationship, but also in her entire life.

What I find the creepiest of all, though, is Edward’s paternal reluctance to have sex with Bella. Ok, I get it – he’s afraid he’s going to hurt her or eat her alive, but that doesn’t explain his stubborn inability to even talk about sex with Bella. In Twilight, Bella is the one who pushes for sex but, in the only conversation that they actually have about it, they don’t even mention sex! They dance around the word itself, making the conversation feel more like an awkward “birds and the bees” type of talk than a conversation about mutual sexual attraction. Even more, Edward doesn’t really listen to Bella at all – he just resolutely sticks to his own decision on the subject and refuses to even consider Bella’s wants and needs. Does that really sound like a conversation held among equals? I didn’t think so…It gets worse though! During this rather uncomfortable conversation, Edward physically treats Bella like a child – while she expresses her sexual frustrations, all Edward does is pat her on the head. Because, you know, that’s neither paternal nor condescending, right?

Ultimately, I find Meyer’s portrayal of Edward and Bella’s relationship problematic at best. I obviously thought Edward’s paternalism the most disturbing, as it suggests an aspect of incest that I don’t think belongs to “the perfect boyfriend,” but there’s more to it. Even Bella’s extreme dependence and obsession with Edward is disturbing. I can see why Twilight is considered the quintessential love story in today’s pop culture but, after re-reading it, I honestly wish it wasn’t. I also am not sure what I think about the movies – while I don’t think the pedophilic/paternal/incestual aspects of the relationship are on the forefront in the films, I can’t help but feeling that they can’t (and perhaps even don’t want to) escape Meyer’s original vision of Edward as “the perfect boyfriend” completely.

What do you guys think? Am I reading too much into this? Or is the relationship really more creepy and off-putting than it is romantic?

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Not only a background image…

Here’s the background image to Churning Pages – I took it myself and included some of my very favorite reading elements. Firstly, there are books – what a shocker! These are some of the favorites that I have and will read over and over again. Secondly, there is tea – if tea is involved, then I am instantly comfortable and in the mindset to read. And thirdly, there is the perfect quality of light that only happens mid-afternoon – I love to read at this time because it means that I have a whole lot of reading time left to go!

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Fifty Shades of Feminist Debate?

So after about four days, one of which involved 6 hours on a plane from NY to LA, I have finally finished all three of EL James’s BDSM/erotic novels, aka the Fifty Shades trilogy. Sitting on a small, cramped economy class seat on American Airlines while reading all about Ana’s sexual exploits with Christian Grey was something that I can’t say I’ve ever experienced before…and not something I would say I didn’t enjoy. Let’s be honest though, if you get into it, I can’t imagine many places in which you wouldn’t enjoy these vicarious experiences. However, even while reading the books, I have to admit that I did notice some facets of the relationship (and even the characters themselves) that came with a hint of anti-feminism.
Firstly, did anyone else notice that practically every single woman in the novel is described as absolutely gorgeous? Everyone from Ana and Katie to the mothers are just stunning! Granted, Ana doesn’t think she’s very gorgeous, but Christian makes it very clear that he does and, ultimately, his opinion is the one that really matters. Even this inherent self-doubt (along with the whole Ana is a virgin who must be educated by her more experiences and “superior” boyfriend spiel) seems to be an anti-feminist trope — only through the man’s most affectionate attentions can the girl realize her true worth. I mean really? But this mindset doesn’t just end with the relationship between Ana and Christian, even Katie gets wrapped up into it! Even though she starts out as a strong female character (she’s gorgeous, she knows it, she knows how to use it, she knows to be proud of it, and she knows that there’s more to her that her appearances), once Katie meets Christian’s brother Elliot she turns into mush! Honestly, there is nothing in the plot that necessitates Katie to relinquish her strength as a feminine character in order to get the man of her dreams.
And secondly, Ana as a professional sends the reader mixed signals. After landing her job at Seattle Independent Publishing (SIP), Ana fights to keep her work life separate from her admittedly all-consuming…hrm…personal life. In this, Ana actually upholds feminist ideals – she wants to be able to maintain her own financial independence and to achieve her professional goals through her own effort and merit, not through Christian’s obese piggy bank. However, despite Ana’s frequent and usually emphatic complaints and refusals, Christian still goes behind her back and buys SIP! In fact, he not only does it, but gets away with it with not much more than a sulk from Ana — now what is that saying about Ana’s effectual power in the relations? Well…it basically demonstrates that her power is ineffectual at best. Time and time again, Christian wants to do something (i.e. buy a publishing company, give Ana a car, etc.) and Ana refuses, but Christian inevitably wins. Every. Single. Time. Sure, Ana may get some little “triumphs,” but let’s be honest here, they are really consolation prizes in comparison with Christian’s wins. For example, despite all of her initial protestations, by the end of the novels it is implied that Ana accepts Christian’s purchase of SIP and the power that gives her as an “employee.” So here, the Fifty Shades trilogy ultimately demonstrates that Ana’s professional success is contingent upon her relationship with Christian and his money!
Alright, now to take a step back — despite these two setbacks, I don’t agree with some critics who say that the BDSM sex aspect of the novel is anti-feminist. Such critics assert that the BDSM only strengthens the stereotype that women should be submissive, pliant, subordinate, and obedient. I think that these critics might be missing the point — what’s so anti-feminist about a woman exploring her sexuality? In fact, it might be even more oppressive to not allow women the option to explore BDSM! Limiting women’s sexual options is akin to limiting their professional and even health options. Ultimately, isn’t feminism about allowing women to have the ability to choose, whether it pertains to their work, their families, or their sex lives?
I can clearly see some of the drawbacks of the novels, which definitely do need to be discussed. However, just because there are some contradictory and maybe even backward messages inherent within the novels’ relationships, I don’t think that we should write off the trilogy. There are some very empowering aspects to the novels as well, from Ana’s professional aspirations to her ability to protect herself and her friends with a gun to her growth into a self-confident female force. And even being able to see the novels’ limitations can be beneficial — increasing recognition of assumed anti-feminist tropes can be used to decrease the prevalence of these assumptions. As a whole, I think that the trilogy sends a strong and important message of female sexual freedom and fulfillment.

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