Strange the Dreamer

sathaz (SAH·thahz) noun

The desire to possess that which can never be yours.
Archaic; from the Tale of Sathaz, who fell in love with the moon.

I can see why some readers gave this book one or two stars; I can also see why others lamented the far-flung heavens, whose infinite stars they can never pluck and give. Laini Taylor spins luminous descriptions, but she can, at times, be in want of some direction.

Strange the Dreamer has faint echoes of her best-known trilogy, with beautiful monsters and razor-sharp vengeance. But the thakrar (to use her conjured word) she inspires – her breath-catching capacity to dream up myths and worlds – surpasses even Eretz1 and its two moons. And not only dream up, but interweave the two into glittering motifs, resurfacing only at the most heartwarming and heart-wrenching moments. Like Sathaz, and his moon that broke into a thousand pieces. And Sarai, and her mind that breaks into a thousand pieces.

thakrar (THAH·krahr) noun

The precise point on the spectrum of awe at which wonder turns to dread, or dread to wonder.

Weep is truly alive under her pen; the characters’ hearts (plural) beat softly against the pages, against your fingertips. But Taylor’s talent for the whimsical is a double-edged sword. Strange the Dreamer is a slow burn, with verbal illustrations that slip too often into purple prose. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes at several passages, and skimming many more. A shame, because the first two Daughter of Smoke and Bone novels had shown much more balance, and my inability to trudge through the final one had almost stopped me from reading this.

The characters, at least, were expertly crafted from tangles of raw emotions. My heart broke multiple times even for Minya, the most stubborn and sadistic of them all. And for Eril-Fane, who had slain a part of his soul on the day he had slain the gods. I certainly felt like Sarai, whose days were drowned in lull potions; I had gone to bed at 5 a.m. to finish the book first, and when I’d finally woken up, I’d looked like living death.

So you can imagine the sense of utter betrayal when [highlight to reveal spoiler] it all ended with a cliffhanger. Thank goodness this will only be a duology (unless Taylor pulls a Jenny Han), because I’m not sure I’d be able to cope with more tantalisation like that.

Pick up Strange the Dreamer if you want vibrant and tragic and fairy-tale and yes, bewitchingly strange. Only a truly gifted storyteller can reveal the end in her prologue and still manage to ensnare her readers so completely until they are released by her very last word, excessive descriptions and all. A gorgeous new series to rival her first.

Favourite quote: “A man should have squint lines from looking at the horizon,” the old librarian had said, “not just from reading in dim light.”

1A universe in Daughter of Smoke and Bone.

Wives and Daughters

Wives and Daughters is a leisurely, meandering forest path, with dappled sunlight pooling in the occasional fairy-tale glades – an expansive bildungsroman canvassing the untheatrical lives of Molly Gibson and her county neighbours, from the aristocracy to the servants.

To begin with the old rigmarole of childhood. In a country there was a shire, and in that shire there was a town, and in that town there was a house, and in that house there was a room, and in that room there was a bed, and in that bed there lay a little girl.

Mrs Gaskell’s final novel may lack the grit of my beloved North and South, focusing instead on the “old worn grooves of… the South”. It takes a certain mood for the lengthy examination of those grooves, and Mrs Gaskell’s voice has a beautiful, lulling, motherly tone. But potential readers are sorely mistaken if they think this novel is dull or blandly expository. No, Mrs Gaskell paints with her characteristic sensitive strokes, colouring her characters so convincingly that the stepmother and villain are sympathetic, if they cannot be likeable. As vain and manipulative as Mrs Gibson may be, she vows to be an impartial stepmother, and to love Molly as much as she does her own daughter. (That is to say, less than she loves herself, but we cannot expect too much from such a silly, self-involved creature.) The secondary characters are as charming; I especially love Lady Harriet, who used her rank to champion poor Molly when her conduct was unfairly subjected to the scandalous gossip of Hollingford. The squire too, although prone to tempestuous tantrums and exasperating pride, is as tender-hearted a friend to Molly as a higher ranked middle-aged man can be.

Osborne ransacked the hothouses for flowers for her; Roger had chosen her out books of every kind. The squire himself kept shaking her hand, without being able to speak his gratitude, till at last he had taken her in his arms, and kissed her as he would have done a daughter.

The plot may seem mundane, but before the reader’s senses are so much as piqued, the narrative slips into a wry comedy of manners. It dissects Truth, family tensions, female adolescence, nationalism, religion and women’s position in Georgian society. Like North and South, profound power shifts are woven into the deceptively humdrum fabric of everyday life: the aggressive expansion of the middle class, the reinstatement of the South as the economic capital, “the emergence of a scientifically led intelligentsia”.

I only give four stars because at times, Molly and Cynthia are more akin to two halves than individual wholes. The latter is the fatherless, ‘bad’ counter to the motherless, ‘good’ former. Molly is the “steady sun”, and Cynthia the “inconstant moon”. I also almost wish Molly’s romantic hero were someone else. Their tacit understanding and easy friendship are heartwarming, but their relationship began when the hero took her under his wing and deemed her his favourite – but frail and ignorant – pupil, whom he must shelter and protect. Molly gradually steps away from her wide-eyed role as Telemachus, but readers are much less privy to the hero’s changing perception of his pupil, then his sister, then his love and equal (I assume there was this change – I cannot have him still considering her a frail young thing). Indeed, we are not sure exactly how he came to love her either, especially after his fervent infatuation with her sister. Perhaps Mrs Gaskell intended to reveal all this, but she sadly passed away before she could write the final chapters.

Wives and Daughters is a delicate union of humour and depth – a moving magnum opus, a cautionary fable, a penetrating illustration of the individual, inner life, inescapably entangled in the fine-spun web of perplexing relationships and outward appearances.

Favourite quote: “I won’t say she was silly, but I think one of us was silly, and it was not me.”
Rating: 4/5

One of my favourite reviews, most lovingly written by B0nnie in the form of a perfect extended metaphor.


Georgette Heyer may not have the most refined Regency prose (her sentimental language is rife with mannerisms quite out of place among the landed gentry, let alone the nobility), but dear Phoebe Marlow sparkles with such caustic wit and vivacity, that this historical romance (Heyer practically invented the historical romance) quite grew on me. I especially appreciated her defiant ambitions to be a spinster novelist – ‘unusual’ would have been a grave understatement for women more invested in their careers than their marital prospects, not that gentlewomen were expected to have careers at all! Even more laugh-out-loud hilarious than Austen’s most popular work, Sylvester is a delightful mélange of comedy, incredulity and biting banter, with an affably (if only because he was rather clueless, his poor grace) arrogant hero and unaffectedly charming heroine.

On Sylvester’s arrogance, it was a refreshingly nuanced strain – that is, he treated everyone with incredible civility, even the most unsympathetic and offensive characters. He was condescending (in the Regency sense of the word), generous and genuinely caring towards his servants and many of his inferiors. Instead, his pride manifested in his unconscious expectation to be obeyed without question, to take for granted that his personal comfort would be every present person’s utmost priority. So although I thoroughly enjoyed how Tom and Phoebe gave him much-needed ‘set-downs’, I could not fault him too harshly for his sometimes viciously severe ways.

Sylvester: ‘Don’t throw my rank in my face again! Good God, am I some money-grabbing Cit… decorated with a title for political ends, and crowing like a cock on its own dunghill?’

Tom: ‘Oh, don’t fall into a miff! I see precisely how it is! You are very like my father, [Sylvester]! It’s as natural for you to be a duke as it is for him to be the Squire, and the only time when either of you remembers what you are is when some impudent fellow don’t treat you with respect!

I will admit that towards the last quarter of the book, Ianthe’s wholly ridiculous plot developed at a slovenly pace, and I skimmed several chapters. But until that unfortunate speed bump, the characters’ steady stream of hysterical antics made an endearing, engrossing Regency read.

Side note: Before I started the book, I unfortunately glimpsed a review with a picture of Spock, and I never could get it out of my head whenever Sylvester’s ‘flying black brows’ were so distinctly described. Please, someone make an adaptation so I can safely imagine a less hysterical male lead!

Favourite quote: “The charm of your society, my Sparrow, lies in not knowing what you will say next – though one rapidly learns to expect the worst!”
Rating: 3/5

North and South

‘He may care for her, though she really has been almost rude to him at times. But she! – why, Margaret would never think of him, I’m sure! Such a thing has never entered her head.’

‘Entering her heart would do.’

I struggled for a ridiculous length of time trying to articulate the fullness of my admiration for this masterpiece, and I still fear I do not do it justice. A novel significant enough to be included in the Penguin English Library, North and South has already been the subject of countless critics’ and academics’ far more eloquent and perceptive analyses. But since it is arguably my favourite book of all time, and since I have yet to speak to a single person who has heard of Elizabeth Gaskell, I will flatter myself into believing that this review is somewhat meaningful.

It is sometimes said that where Austen ends, Gaskell begins. And in Margaret Hale (whom Penguin very rightly calls “one of the most original and fully-rounded female characters in Victorian fiction”), I can certainly see the same study of restraint, propriety and unconventional elegance amidst an unsympathetic supporting cast. But North and South is so much more than an industrial Pride and Prejudice. No, it is an incredibly ambitious portrait of the class, economic and religious upheavals of Victorian England, intricately examined through multiple characters and relationships spanning all social strata. Individually, they offer refreshingly diverse perspectives, but together, they masterfully mirror and augment each other to illustrate the sheer profundity of the shifts in the turbulent (an understatement) social landscape. (To be clear, none of this is achieved with any dull, expository dialogues. Mrs Gaskell simply shows.)

The tone is also more serious – Margaret’s trials are far more devastating than Elizabeth Bennet’s silly sisters or obnoxious acquaintances. The characters are less excessively frivolous, so even though Gaskell injects just as much cutting irony, readers are more inclined to shoulder Margaret’s hurt and disappointment than to dismiss her acquaintances with a laugh.

And of course, there is the central relationship: Mr Thornton and Margaret Hale. Their differences are so much more entrenched, so heavily written into their very cores, and so sympathetically elaborated on either side, that their “antagonistic friendship” (as Margaret calls it) is also much more intriguing than the superficial misunderstandings between Elizabeth and Mr Darcy. Not only were they raised in polar environments (physical and social), Thornton’s paternalistic, almost callous commercial attitude disgusts Margaret’s compassionate nature. She astutely points out that the masters are just as dependent on the workers as the workers are on them, but Thornton refuses to show them more than the minimal respect they secure by contributing to his profits.

But what Margaret cannot glimpse is the heart beneath his frigid veneer. So when we finally witness the profound changes in our hero and heroine – the slow unravelling of their pride, their tentative steps into the other’s perspective – the effect is incredibly moving. Where Austen is laugh-out-loud hilarious, Gaskell grounds her wit in poignant shades of grey (allusion to Milton wholly intended). But Miss Austen’s fans will also find witty repartee and literary references – all very apt for the Southern daughter and her father’s favourite student.

The main criticisms confuse me, but I believe both can easily be refuted. Some are exasperated by Miss Hale’s ‘selfishness’. Others want her to stop acting so ‘self-righteously’ and to grow a spine. For the former, I presume the ‘selfishness’ was observed in her disapprobation of Thornton (since in all other aspects of the novel, the latter complaint is perhaps the more accurate interpretation of Margaret’s temperament). I argue that this was entirely the point – although ‘selfishness’ is not quite the right word. Neither Thornton nor Margaret understood where the other was coming from (figuratively and literally), and yet they made dismissive comments about each other’s ways. Their dispositional clashes are precisely what makes their relationship one of Mrs Gaskell’s many nuanced explorations of “what divides people, and what brings them together”.

‘It is no boast of mine,’ replied Mr Thornton; ‘it is plain matter-of-fact. I won’t deny that I am proud of belonging to a town… I would rather be a man toiling, suffering – nay, failing and successless – here, than lead a dull prosperous life in the old worn grooves of what you call more aristocratic society down in the South, with their slow days of careless ease. One may be clogged with honey and unable to rise and fly.’

‘You are mistaken,’ said Margaret, roused by the aspersion on her beloved South to a fond vehemence of defence, that brought the colour into her cheeks and the angry tears into her eyes. ‘You do not know anything about the South.’

And for the latter, righteousness and having a spine simply are not mutually exclusive. In fact, Margaret’s outspoken disapprobation of Thornton is already proof of her independent spirit. But more importantly, I think Margaret always had an iron spine from the very first page. She agreed to leave Helstone not out of weak-willed compliance, but because she could not bear to think her father a hypocritical church leader much more than she could not bear to leave her picturesque, romanticised country home. Likewise, her other decisions to obey her father were carefully weighed, practical choices to limit the pain to herself (as she wisely knows she can bear it far better than her mother), rather than let her father butcher the job and exacerbate the collateral damage, even if it meant shielding him from his cowardice. Sacrifices can be symbols of strength as much as signs of weakness.

The 2004 BBC miniseries (four episodes) is also my favourite adaptation of a British classic, which stays remarkably true to the original novel (thank goodness!). Sinéad Cusack is the most formidable, domineering, incredible Mrs Thornton (not to mention her perfect Yorkshire accent). Richard Armitage’s brooding Mr Thornton is already a classic (forget Colin Firth – not that I ever considered him remotely attractive enough to play Mr Darcy). And Daniela Denby-Ashe makes a perfect Margaret. The changes that were made actually added to the plot’s richness, at least in the context of the small screen. But do only watch it after you have read the book! Although I think North and South is one of those rare novels that are just as engrossing even after watching an adaptation first (because so much of the delight is in the execution, not merely the concept), it becomes much easier to appreciate the details and subtleties of the miniseries.

Favourite quotes: Her mouth was wide; no rosebud that could only open just enough to let out a ‘yes’ and ‘no’, and ‘an’t please you, sir’.

‘I don’t know that you would ever like him, or think him agreeable, Margaret. He is not a lady’s man.’ Margaret wreathed her throat in a scornful curve.

He was in the Charybdis of passion, and must perforce circle and circle ever nearer round the fatal centre.

Rating: 5/5 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

Side note: It breaks my heart that there is no Clothbound Classics edition of North and South. If anyone knows where I can find a beautifully bound hardcover edition, please tell me!

For more quotes, notes and my running commentary, please check out my Goodreads reading activity (only on desktop computers).