An Enchantment of Ravens

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Tried to be ~conceptual~ with the “living rose” among books, Aster’s Craft.

Why I still gave this four stars: A Review.

TLDR: The A Court of series had as many problems as the moon has craters, and yet I still gave it four to five stars. So why not this?

Here belies another fork in the age-old debate: should language or content take precedence when judging a novel’s quality? Obviously, having both would be ideal. But you can’t always get what you want.

An Enchantment of Ravens may be Rogerson’s debut, but her pen evoked the easy elegance of a seasoned veteran. Her flawless prose was never purple nor plain. It was infused with sly wit, laugh-out-loud wit, dry wit, wry wit. And she detailed oh so succinctly all the pretty particulars of her own renditions of fair folk. Ladies and gentlemen, this is how you write.

“He was astonishingly vain even by fair folk standards, which was like saying a pond is unusually wet, or a bear surprisingly hairy.”

A splendid line in a splendid opening paragraph; from a single sentence, I could already discern the defining characteristic of Rogerson’s faeries.

“Once, a Whimsical poet died of despair after finding himself unequal to the task of capturing a fair one’s beauty in simile. I think it more likely he died of arsenic poisoning, but so the story goes.”

And from another splendid sentence (also in the opening chapter), I could already discern how these faeries exerted their influence on their mortal counterparts.

“Imagine all the things I could give you! I could make pearls drop from your eyes in place of tears. I could lend you a smile that enslaves men’s hearts, or a dress that once beheld is never forgotten. And yet you request eggs.”

And from yet another splendid section, I could even discern how exactly these faeries wreaked havoc on humans. No elaboration was needed; Rogerson simply appealed to our cultural consciousness: the French fairy tale, Diamonds and Toads, is internationally ingrained in our childhood canon. And through our enduring fixation on folkloric subversions, we all know very well how this one really ended (spoiler alert: not well for the diamond-spewing sister either)*. Extrapolate this to the latter two suggestions and it would be easy to imagine the woe the promised attention would only have brought.

“I quite like eggs,” I replied firmly. Besides, what on earth would I do with men’s hearts? I couldn’t make an omelette out of them.

Oh, and did I mention the wit?

This post has become less of a review and more of a discussion on what good writing is, but let me curve back around my digression. Clearly, Rogerson writes sublimely. The problem lay in the plot. Nothing in particular was wrong with it; the pacing was just too breakneck, and left little room for meaningful character development. And for what was essentially a romance, this costly mistake pushed the focal relationship dangerously close to insta-love (gosh I dislike this portmanteau so much, but I suppose bloggers must keep up with zeitgeists).

Now, I do not agree with all those reviews slamming An Enchantment of Ravens as a bare-bones copy of A Court of Thorns and Roses. We get it, here we have another faerie prince, and another mortal girl, and the prince also abducts the girl, and they fall in love. But isn’t that like, the premise of half the medieval folk tales our beloved fantasy novels continue to be inspired by? (Beauty and the Beast being just one notable example.) Broad tropes are not nearly enough to make a book a ‘copy’. Otherwise most – if not all – romances would be copies too. (Yes, A Court of Thorns and Roses included, what with its many clichés.) Broad tropes, in themselves, are not valid reasons for dismissing a plot either. Tropes are tropes for a reason, and when reimagined cleverly or stirringly or subversively, they can be powerful stuff. In short, the rest of this book was so different from S.J. Maas’ bestseller, it hardly merited a comparison anyway.

As for the romance, I do not think it qualified as insta-love either. Isobel initially seemed to tick all the wrong boxes, but it soon became apparent that she was just infatuated with the first handsome stranger who didn’t act like a douche. And she did realise this, poor lonely thing. Indeed, I was pleasantly surprised to find this timely discussion on infatuation versus real love – an almost meta move, considering the painfully many young adult releases trying to pass off the former as the latter.

I also appreciated how Rogerson subtly showed the small moments where Isobel slowly fell for Rook, so that the reader realised she really was in love before even she herself did – another brilliant move that made her feelings that much more convincing.

Still, the breakneck pacing made it difficult to discern Rook’s reasons for falling for her. So much was glossed over that their relationship could still easily be misconstrued as a fleeting fancy. And the rest of the plot wasn’t nearly intriguing enough to salvage it. For once, I think An Enchantment would have worked much better if it were expanded by 100 pages or so. I acknowledge Rogerson’s success in spinning a story that never bored or so much as tempted me to skim – a remarkable feat. And yet – balance.

All in all, I gave An Enchantment of Ravens four stars because it is so
damn
difficult
to find such a wonderfully-wrought fantasy novel. I simply could not bear to downgrade it to a three, despite all the disappointments with the plot. I mean, under Rogerson’s hand, even lines that would normally have been cringeworthy were splendent similes instead.

“No. You surpass us all.” Beside me she looked colourless and frail. “You are like a living rose among wax flowers. We may last forever, but you bloom brighter and smell sweeter, and draw blood with your thorns.”

I highly recommend reading An Enchantment of Ravens if you can get past the silly notions of ripped-off storylines and un-ironic infatuation.

Rating: 4/5


*Try Gail Carson Levine’s The Fairy’s Mistake or Catherynne M. Valente’s In Cities of Coins and Spices.

The Bird and the Sword

I loved the beginning-of-the-world myth Harmon’s medieval kingdom was built from, which had an intriguing biblical base note. I loved the premise of an emotionally shuttered young woman fighting for her voice, wings and people. I also loved the final twist, even though it was not the most unpredictable development in the world. But something about Lark and Tiras’ relationship just left an uncomfortable aftertaste.

I have only seen this mentioned in one other review (many reviews were five-star), so maybe I have quite an individual interpretation. Personally, I failed to see Tiras’ ‘love’ mature much from its possessive origins. Maybe Harmon thought the whole “I think I will keep you” thing was romantic. Maybe it could have been, in the right circumstances, with the right characters, and with the right context. But Tiras himself admitted that he had kidnapped and imprisoned Lark to “kill two birds with one stone” – (1) because he thought she could ‘cure’ him and (2) to threaten her father into submission (and dissuade him from plotting too hard to steal his throne).

And he only continues to use her to keep his lords in check and to help his army slaughter the Volgar. Even his lovemaking was largely to ensure there is an heir. Yes, he teaches her to read and shows a little care and patience, but it far from negates how much he based Lark’s worth on her ability to protect his city. Love (even if we call it love) should never be the endgame, you should love for the right reasons. And I have a feeling Tiras’ were not the right reasons.

“You are of great use to me. I will put a child in your belly. A son who will be king.”

“Why do I have to be taught?”
“Because you said you know nothing about being a queen. Because I am king. And because it is your duty to please me.”

“You said I chose you because you are of use to me. And I did.”

Otherwise, I found the prose and pacing quite enjoyable; 350 pages was the perfect length. There were no frilly descriptions (the bane of fantasy literature), few sentences felt aesthetically pretentious (you know, those blunt phrases tacked onto the end of some observation or revelation that the author thinks sound ‘deep’ and ‘poetic’) and I was only tempted to skim a handful of passages. Deep-rooted hate and hysteria (likely inspired by the Salem witch trials) pervaded the atmosphere in an unusually adept demonstration of ‘showing, not telling’. While the plot was relatively straightforward and somewhat predictable (the typical a kingdom faces a mysterious threat and its king falls in love with its unlikely liberator concoction), Harmon’s particular blend of fantasy elements was fresh enough to make a quick, agreeable read.

Favourite quote: “Often-times, grass was more useful than gold. Man was more desirable than beast. Chance was more seductive than knowledge, and eternal life was completely meaningless without love.”
Rating: 3/5

A Court of Mist and Fury

A bit late to the party, but yes, A Court of Mist and Fury was an enormous improvement both pacing and character development-wise. For one, I wasn’t tempted to skim entire chapters like I was for the first book. The fights and harrowing encounters were convincingly well-matched, but never drawn-out or gratuitous. There was an irksome amount of ‘telling’, but I suppose it highlighted the thunderstorm of confusion and self-hate and hurt and hopelessness that was tearing Feyre apart – if a little inelegantly. The sex scenes, on the other hand, were definitely drawn-out and gratuitous, especially with how frequent they became towards the second half. And given Maas’ very limited, very specific vocabulary for them, they were rather repetitive too.

Regardless, I am thoroughly impressed by how well she had handled the love triangle. Its purpose was nothing so trivial as creating unnecessary drama or anguish – it demonstrated, with raw emotion, how indescribable horrors can break people apart, jagged fragment by jagged fragment, until a borderline abusive relationship can pretend to be happiness’ false twin. It also brilliantly showed what love should represent – equality, honesty, vulnerability.

Some readers were indignant that falling out of love is normal, that Tamlin didn’t need to be painted a villain. (1) I don’t think that was the point at all. Under the Mountain had wrecked him, and it was the only way he knew how to react. He was always the shelterer, even in the first book, when he had sent Feyre away knowing that she could break the curse.

“Tell me there’s some way to help you,” I breathed. “With the masks, with whatever threat has taken so much of your power. Tell me – just tell me what I can do to help you.”

“There’s nothing I want you to do… It’s my burden to bear… I want you here, where I can look after you – where I can come home and know you’re here, painting and safe.”

– A Court of Thorns and Roses

(2) Let’s suppose they miraculously escaped less emotionally scarred. The slow, blurred unravelling of Feyre’s love would have taken far far longer, and with Maas’ evident pacing problems, I’m perfectly fine with the quicker way forward, thank you very much.

Feyre was also far more like the Feyre I had imagined when I first picked up A Court of Thorns and Roses. With a little help from her new family, she learned to conquer her panic, guilt and shame. To let herself realise her own worth, despite it all. And since her trials in the last book, she became wiser, shrewder – dangerous in her own right, and not because she unleashed a High Lord’s power. I’m glad I plowed on through the first book, because this was so so much better.

Favourite quotes: “I fell in love with you, smartass, because you were one of us – because you weren’t afraid of me, and you decided to end your spectacular victory by throwing that piece of bone at Amarantha like a javelin. I felt Cassian’s spirit beside me in that moment, and could have sworn I heard him say, If you don’t marry her, you stupid prick, I will.”

“To the people who look at the stars and wish, Rhys.” “To the stars who listen – and the dreams that are answered.”

Rating: 5/5 (originally 4/5)

For my review on A Court of Thorns and Roses, the first book, click here.

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.”
Rating:
4/5


1A universe in Daughter of Smoke and Bone.

Caraval

I reserve five-star ratings for works so close to flawlessly crafted as The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland and Harry Potter. So when I decided on five stars for Caraval after only several moments’ hesitation, I knew I have to write a sound review, if only to assure myself that my discernment had not rusted away after such a long spell of mediocre fiction. To be clear, my ratings are strictly personal; if I were to rate an acclaimed classic such as, say, Lord of the Flies, I would unabashedly give it one or two stars. So while the cultural significance is still a factor (as I am sure it is for many readers), my own enjoyment of the plot, prose, characters and unique (or not so unique) universes is what ultimately decides my ratings.

Out of the novels that I have rated, the determinant that separated almost all ‘very good’ books from five-star status was the pacing. I gave The Night Circus only four stars because despite the sublime (an understatement) descriptions of the titular circus, somewhere along the journey, I grew as tired of the competition as the protagonists did. The intricate details became bothersome distractions, the build-up to the inevitable central romance too slow. A more recent candidate, A Darker Shade of Magic, suffered from a similar problem. The frequent shifts to less riveting perspectives created unnecessary delays, kindling frustration more than they did constructive suspense. Admittedly, some of the books that I did give five stars to do not have perfect pacing either (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix was an especially slow read in the series), but it was not to an extent where the exceptional creativity or meticulous world-building and plot planning could not more than make up for it.

In the early hours of yesterday, I finished Caraval in one sitting. In itself, that may not prove good pacing. But this story flew – I was not even remotely tempted to skim over a single passage or flip to a more action-packed page (a terrible habit that occurs with the overwhelming majority of books I read; patience is not one of my virtues). The lists of wondrous items typical when setting fantasy scenes or the protagonist’s indecisive monologues were never too drawn out. Nor were the chases and fights, of which the difficulty to write succinct (yet sufficiently well-matched and theatrical) ones is far too often under appreciated. There was enough to show the author’s thoughtfulness, but not so much that it became pretentious or amateur.

The idea of a game or performance blending magic and reality is not novel, but the premise of Caraval was original enough to make this interpretation feel completely unlike anything I have read before. And the distinction between what was real and what was not became so increasingly blurred that I began to second-guess almost every explanation and event. For every reveal, another twist lay in wait. This ‘meta’ element of mystery was a major contributor to the book’s appeal, which, on top of all the mysteries embedded in the actual plot, sealed Caraval’s place as an exceptionally compelling story. And like Victoria Schwab, Stephanie Garber has a knack for knowing exactly when to reward her readers with answers. Questions ranged from being answered just a few paragraphs later to taking the entire book for the puzzle pieces to fall into place.

In a book where the impossible is possible, there is always the unfortunate threat of a deus ex machina happy ending. Thankfully, that did not happen in Caraval. I was sceptical in the final chapters, but the justifications were convincing and consistent with the capabilities and limitations that the rest of the novel had hinted at. Where there were slightly dubious explanations, or where the characters’ actions were contrived [highlight to reveal spoiler] (such as the reasons Julian gave in the tunnels and when Tella was driven to commit suicide), it ended up legitimate because it was all an ingenious ruse in the first place. In fact, retrospectively, the vague sense of something being ‘off’ was what made the book so incredibly brilliant. It was the perfect tightrope walk between where small but significant cracks could leave room for actual deception and where the reader could still easily brush it off as paranoia from the preceding plot twists.

As for the romance, the author was wise to keep it a supplement rather than the all-consuming focal point. Although the characters’ determined denial of their obvious chemistry would have been infuriatingly petty and cliché in many other books, the twisted lies the sisters were told for most of their lives, the manipulative nature of the game and the oft repeated warning to ‘not get too carried away’ were very sound reasons for caution. Not to mention [highlight to reveal spoiler] Julian’s express instructions to not encourage any romantic interest. The reasons for their mutual attraction were also much more meaningfully fleshed out than the all-too-common ‘two attractive people happened to be thrown together for a dangerous adventure’. The romance was responsible for the weakest passages (some were amateurish and abrupt), but all things considered, it added to the book more than it took away.

My other minor complaint was that Aiko was little more than a stock ‘enigmatic Far East Asian’. But she was at least less cringeworthy than the flat stereotype that Tsukiko was in The Night Circus. Hopefully this review adequately justifies my five-star rating relatively concisely. If you are in the mood for an immersive melange of mysteries bottled in a spectacular adventure, disguised alternately as a murderous race and a magnificent performance, I wholeheartedly recommend Caraval.

Rating: 5/5 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟