some children’s books

Therapist: and what do we do when we feel a tiny bit heartbroken but also dumb because we revealed our vulnerability to someone who rejected it, and additionally feel waves of acute terror that a no-deal Brexit will threaten our actual life because we need insulin and medicine shortages will be more than a minor inconvenience?

Me: walk to the nearest bookshop and purchase £50+ worth of children’s and YA novels

Therapist: NO

And so:

wrinkle in time

A Wrinkle In Time, by Madeleine L’Engle: Not gonna lie, this one has aged weirdly. Not badly, exactly, but weirdly. There’s a level of sheer serene acceptance of Christian theology that would actually make me think twice before sending it to a child now—not because L’Engle ever advocates anything more controversial than the power of love, but because direct Biblical quotation in a book for eight-to-twelve-year-olds feels a bit…full on? Maybe that’s my problem, though; maybe a child would skate over whatever they didn’t need. They tend to. Also, I can’t quite shake my uncertainty about the characterisation of Meg, her genius-mystic little brother Charles Wallace, and her beautiful-genius mother Mrs. Murry, in particular, ever since reading this Paris Review article. Are they just prototypes of the Perfectly Flawed Protagonist trope in YA? I don’t know. There’s enough left in the book, even with my discomfort, to make it resonate with me very deeply: the way Meg is told that her weaknesses can also be her strengths, that what she has in her heart for her little brother is enough to save him from the cruelty that wants him for its own. And the description of the terrifying dark planet of Camazotz, with its authoritarian sameness and awful punishments for those who step out of line, retains all of its power to disturb.

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The Phantom Tollbooth, by Norton Juster: The complex delights of characterisation are not really an issue in The Phantom Tollbooth. Our protagonist, Milo, is a chronically bored little boy (one rather extraordinary feature of the book is that he appears not to have any parents; it’s not that he’s orphaned but that they simply aren’t mentioned. I guess he’s what that era might have called a latchkey kid, except that he literally never thinks about them, not once. It’s a fascinating omission. Is it that they don’t love him, or that they’re simply not necessary to the story? Or a bit of both?) Anyway, one day he finds a parcel in his room which turns out to be a flatpack toy tollbooth. He rouses himself from lassitude enough to put it together and drive through it in his little toy car, and suddenly finds himself in an entirely different world, where two brothers rule over words and numbers (respectively), the conductor Chroma directs the orchestra of the world to play every day into colour from sunrise to sunset, and Dr. Kakofonous A. Dischord collects loud noises along with his lab assistant, the Terrible Dynne. Milo acquires two faithful companions, Tock the Watchdog (watch + dog, you see?) and the Humbug (stripy, pompous, likes spats), and soon finds himself on a quest to bring back the princesses Rhyme and Reason from their exile in the Castle in the Air. The delights of The Phantom Tollbooth are in the rigorous logic of its nonsense world, in which it much resembles Lewis Carroll; if you eat subtraction stew, you get hungrier and hungrier, of course—why wouldn’t you?

*a personal disclaimer: I read The Phantom Tollbooth out loud to my kid brother when he was six or seven and I was eleven or twelve. It made the most enormous impression on him; until he discovered Roald Dahl, he called it his favourite book, and he used to talk about it loads. We never found another book that did quite the same sort of thing.

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Arsenic For Tea, by Robin Stevens: The second in Stevens’s Murder Most Unladylike series, and quite possibly even better than the eponymous first book. Daisy Wells (president of the Detective Society at Deepdean School) and Hazel Wong (Secretary) are at Daisy’s parents’ country house, Fallingford, for the summer holidays, but there is something rotten in the estate. Daisy’s mother (much younger than Daisy’s father) has invited a rather flashy and insincere antiques dealer named Mr Curtis to stay, and they seem entirely too chummy; Great-Aunt Saskia’s habit of pinching the silver spoons is becoming too obvious to ignore; and why does Uncle Felix (who does something top secret for the government) seem to know the girls’ holiday governess, when she’s only just been employed? When Daisy’s birthday tea ends with the unexpected demise of Mr Curtis, and flash flooding cuts off Fallingford from the surrounding countryside, it’s up to the girls to find out which of the houseguests is a killer… The reason Stevens’s books work so brilliantly is that, within this familiar framework of Christie-esque plot devices, she is absolutely committed to psychological realism. Daisy and Hazel have investigated one murder already, and they are only fourteen; where a lesser author would skip over any lingering effects of trauma, Stevens understands that the resilience of youth has limits, that Hazel is upset not just by this murder occurring but by the way murder seems to be happening all around her and her friends, that Daisy’s apparently lesser concern is not (as Hazel believes) a sign of her superiority but an indicator that something is not quite right with her. Daisy’s and Hazel’s characterisations have both developed between books one and two, and I’m very interested to see where Stevens takes them next. (She also has the extraordinary knack of dealing with topics like infidelity, lesbian relationships and pathological kleptomania in a way that feels entirely accurate to the 1930s’ schoolgirl point of view, but also entirely appropriate to her 21st-century audience, neither patronizing nor unsubtle. It is one of the hardest tricks in the world and she deserves to sell very well for it.)

howl's moving castle

Howl’s Moving Castle, by Diana Wynne Jones: Wynne Jones mostly bypassed me, somehow; I had friends who loved Charmed Life and Dark Lord of Derkholm, and I think I read one or two, but they didn’t really sink in. And I’ve never seen the Miyazaki film of Howl’s Moving Castle, which is presumably how most people now come to the book. But the Folio Society—of all people—made Howl’s Moving Castle the subject of their most recent illustration competition, and artists produced such stunning and intriguing work for it that I found myself picking it up and thinking I’d give it a go. Well, it’s great. Wynne Jones, like Stevens, takes familiar and even goofy genre tropes (three daughters, a supposedly evil wizard, seven-league boots, curses cast by jealous witches), throws them all together with a huge dose of irony, sarcasm and bloodymindedness, and makes something entirely sui generis. Sophie Hatter is an eldest daughter, which means her life will be comfortable and boring; everyone knows only the youngest children in a family get to have adventures. But when she inadvertently offends the Witch of the Waste, a spell is cast on her that makes her appear to be an old woman. Making her way to the castle of the feared wizard Howl in hopes that he can remove the curse, she finds that being an old woman liberates her from caring for other peoples’ opinions, and she installs herself as Howl’s cleaner. But the Witch is after Howl, too, and Sophie needs to find a way to free Howl’s indentured fire demon, Calcifer, if she’s to rescue not only herself but her employer… Extremely funny, quite unpredictable, and with some action taking place in our world in a way that Wynne Jones simply declines to explain, which (instead of being annoying) makes it all the more magical. Also, and rather unexpectedly, features one of my favourite John Donne poems.

rules for vanishing

Rules For Vanishing, by Kate Alice Marshall: Actually not part of the book haul, but a proof copy sent to the bookshop which I plucked off the shelf in anticipation of its October publication by Walker Books. It is an excellent instance of Internet-creepypasta-type horror, including an urban legend about a girl who disappeared, mysterious documents about “the road”, “the game” and “rules” that must be followed, and a fragmented, documentary-style structure. (I was forcefully reminded in the early pages of this exceptional Reddit thread.) There’s also a very impressive subtlety to the representation of deafness, bisexuality, and stammering; I often struggle with YA where the characters are DIVERSE!!1!1!!!1!, but Marshall does it brilliantly, making each character an individual with a given trait, as opposed to a walking trait. (The deaf character’s deafness, in particular, actually functions in the story: because of it, most of his friends know ASL, so they can communicate silently when they need to.) I’ll definitely be recommending this to thirteen-year-olds and up, for Halloween and beyond.

Currently reading: Mortal Engines by Philip Reeve, which I’m loving (more on that in another post, perhaps), and have two more from the book haul stack left: Frances Hardinge’s A Face Like Glass, which is new to me but which Abigail Nussbaum convinced me about, and Richard Adams’s Watership Down, a childhood favourite and also one of those books that, when read as an adult, make one wonder why on earth our parents thought this was appropriate for us at the tender age of nine.

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The Turn of the Key, by Ruth Ware: I finished this in a day; it is SO readable. A modern take on James’s Turn of the Screw, featuring all our faves (creepy kids, mysterious footsteps, an initially rational narrator with secrets of her own who is progressively broken down by fear), but with some modern twists (the house is old, with a terrible history, but has been renovated to make it a “smart house” which can be run – and also run remotely – via app. YES, horrifying.) I’m not so sure about the ending, which makes some leaps with regards to motive and capacity, but goodness me is it gripping.

 

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Seduction and Betrayal: Women and Literature, by Elizabeth Hardwick: I took this to Paris, because look at that title, how could I take anything else? Much of the criticism seemed outdated, at least in terms of its gender politics, but then, it was written in the ’70s, so it’d be sort of surprising if it wasn’t. The other thing I found tricky about it is that Hardwick’s particular brand of criticism doesn’t involve a lot of textual reference: she writes about the characterisation of Ibsen’s heroines – the terrifyingly empty and amoral Hedda Gabler, for instance, or the somehow untouchably free Nora in A Doll’s House – while rarely making reference to anything they say. The same is true, to a large extent, of the Bronte sisters, who are the subject of the first essay, and of the women both real and fictional whom she discusses in the title essay (including Anna Karenina and Richardson’s Clarissa). Still worth reading for the declarative power of her sentences, and for the essay on Sylvia Plath alone.

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Girl. Boy. Sea., by Chris Vick: A brave ten-year-old could handle this, but I’d suggest it for twelve and up, on the whole. Bill, a young English boy, is on a sailing summer course off Gran Canaria when a storm separates him from his shipmates. Drifting in the Atlantic, he comes across another shipwrecked adolescent: Aya, a Berber girl, who is keeping secrets of her own. Bill and Aya’s growing ability to communicate and trust one another is beautifully rendered, as are the stories Aya tells to keep them going (as not-so-subtle but still very moving symbols of the power of narrative to provide hope). Sort of like a junior Life of Pi without all of the clever-clever religiosity. Also a genuinely scary and thrilling survival/adventure story.

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The Truants, by Kate Weinberg: Whether you enjoy The Truants or not probably depends on how well you react to familiarity. When I read the proof blurb by Scarlett Thomas that claimed this was like a mashup of Donna Tartt, Agatha Christie, and Liane Moriarty, I wasn’t prepared for how entirely accurate that was: it’s The Secret History set in Norwich with Agatha Christie texts occupying the place that classical Greek culture takes in the former. If you’re keen on genre riffs, and sexily unpredictable men, and the erotics of pedagogy, pick it up. I rather enjoyed it, but I doubt I’ll remember much in a month.

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Death Comes for the Archbishop, by Willa Cather: Willa, my queen. Not much happens in Death Comes for the Archbishop, except for a whole life: that of the titular Archbishop, who’s mostly just a Bishop while we know him. He’s Jean Latour, the first Catholic bishop of New Mexico, and with him is Father Joseph Vaillant, his right-hand man. The friendship between the two men – Latour intellectual and kindly but aloof, Vaillant awkward and ungainly but easy to love – is the most beautiful part of Cather’s novel, although she’s also good on the shifting nineteenth-century politics of the West and Southwest, and describes Native American and Mexican customs with interest and respect. Her prose is like desert air: lucid, invigorating, vivid. *chef’s kiss*

Reading Diary: May 14-May 20

41940609This is Shakespeare, by Emma Smith: Smith is probably best known as the academic whose recorded lectures form the podcast series Approaching Shakespeare, which you can get from iTunes. (I went to them live, as an undergrad, which is saying something because no English students went to lectures after about third week.) Her book’s thesis is that we should read Shakespeare, not because he’s an immortal genius or whatever the propagandistic nonsense du jour is, but because his plays are weird: they’re gappy, ambivalent, they ask more questions than they answer. Each chapter deals with a single question arising from one of the plays (they’re not all covered here, but there’ s a good spread). Lucid, accessible, and fresh, this would be just as perfect for someone who’s slightly anxious about Shakespeare, as for someone who already loves his work.

41081373Girl, Woman, Other, by Bernardine Evaristo: Almost, but not quite, an interlinked collection of short stories: each of the twelve chapters here follows a different woman (mostly black and British), and one of the book’s pleasures is discovering how they’re all connected to and through one another. Evaristo has always had great skill with potentially controversial topics: the generosity she extends to her characters nullifies any charges of bandwagoning when it comes to stories about gender, race, and class. This book in particular demonstrates that black women were fighting and winning these battles many decades before “This Is What A Feminist Looks Like” t-shirts and social media accounts became a thing. In her application of the tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner principle, Evaristo reminds me of no one so much as George Eliot.

91at5ojnm-lThe Porpoise, by Mark Haddon: This is the sort of book that the Hogarth Shakespeare project should be trying to produce (interestingly, he was apparently asked to write it for them, and ended up pulling out of the project due to creative differences). Haddon moves from present-day privilege (globally connected aristocratic businessmen certainly have power equivalent to autocratic monarchs) to the ancient Mediterranean to a Tudor London where George Wilkins–Shakespeare’s co-writer on Pericles, the obscure play that this novel engages with–is punished after death for his sins against women. I need much, much more space to write about this (it’ll probably be the focus of my next Monthly Book feature); here, I’ll say only that it’s excellent, the prose crisp, the pace thrilling, the connections between different parts of the novel resonant and moving.

42596091The Dog Runner, by Bren MacDibble: For kids ten and up. Ella and her brother Emery are living through a global emergency: a fungus has destroyed most of the planet’s crops and caused widespread food shortages. When their dad doesn’t come back from an expedition into the city, the two kids set off for Emery’s mother’s house upcountry, along with their three huge dogs. Emery and Ella have different mothers, and Emery’s is of Aboriginal descent. MacDibble deals with blended families and racial difference subtly and well; it’s mentioned when it’s relevant to the story (for instance, Emery’s grandfather, Ba, has used indigenous land management techniques to keep ancient grains alive). Adventurous and thoughtful, with a protagonist both boys and girls can relate to.

Currently reading: About to start either Adrian Tchaikovsky’s Children of Ruin (but not sure I can cope with another chunkster after reading his first book so recently), or Lucasta Miller’s L.E.L., a biography of Letitia Elizabeth Landon, “the female Byron”.

Reading Diary: May 7-May 13

91zymqnikmlThe Parisian, by Isabella Hammad: Tricky call, this one. It’s a beautifully written (for the most part) historical epic about the life of Midhat Kamal (who happens to be Hammad’s great-grandfather). In 1915, he is sent by his father from Nablus, in Palestine, to study medicine in France; a private humiliation changes his life and has reverberations twenty years later, as Palestine begins its struggle for independence. It’s ambitious and Hammad’s gift for imagery is often truly arresting, but it’s also far too long—as Charles Finch notes, each chapter could be half the length—and, given the multiple points of view, there’s no clear indication of the necessity of each perspective.

25938081On Forgiveness, by Richard Holloway: Short, but brilliant. Holloway is a theologian whose radically laid-back approach to Christianity I quite like (he describes organized religion, at one point in this book, as the rocket shuttle, and the values of love, forgiveness, justice, etc., as the payload, which is bold in that it suggests the utility of organized religion is limited and possibly has come to an end). This book is written “not in the imperative, but the indicative”: he’s not telling us to forgive, but examining the concept and the mechanism of forgiveness, that radical, insane, illogical form of unconditional love. I underlined loads and will be coming back for more.

51d2bl86m0vl._sx309_bo1204203200_The Dollmaker, by Nina Allan: This came on and off my TBR three times before the number of good reviews persuaded me to give it a go, and I’m so glad I did. It is a love story between Andrew Garvie, a man with dwarfism who collects dolls, and Bramber Winters, whose personal advertisement asking for friendship and/or information on Ewa Chaplin, a post-war dollmaker and writer, catches Andrew’s eye. Some of Chaplin’s stories are scattered through the book; they’re brilliant creations, reminiscent of A.S. Byatt’s pastiche Victorian poems in Possession, and create an air of the sinister (as, frankly, do dolls in general) that keeps the reader uncertain about the novel’s ending. My only quibble is the vagueness of the explanation for Bramber’s living situation; other than that, this is a beautiful, quietly confident novel and I am an Allan convert.

9781474943437Where the World Ends, by Geraldine McCaughrean: For children twelve and up (though I think younger ones with high reading levels could handle this; the darker bits would likely go over their heads). Based on the true story of a group of boys from St Kilda who go for the traditional month of bird-catching on one of the sea stacs near the island, and find themselves stranded when the boat meant to bring them back at summer’s end never appears. Quilliam, our storytelling protagonist, is believably charismatic but conflicted, and McCaughrean is funny and accurate on the group dynamics of pre-teen boys. Genuinely high-stakes peril and real psychological nuance make this the real deal.

512tbfmt7al._sx323_bo1204203200_Children of Time, by Adrian Tchaikovsky: Space spiders. I am afraid you must accept them before you read this book. Once you’ve done that: an incredibly ambitious, and often beautiful, exploration of theology, evolutionary theory, and legacy. The sections that follow the development of an intelligent, scientific civilization of Portia labiata spiders–infected with a nanovirus that boosts their intellectual development–are significantly more interesting than the rather familiar beats of the human-based plotline (generation ship, cold storage, humanity’s last hope, &c.), but for those spider sections alone, Tchaikovsky deserves the Clarke Award he won in 2016: he not only creates a sense of true alienness, but directs a reader’s sympathy towards it.

original_400_600From the Wreck, by Jane Rawson: More science fiction, but a rather different tone and aesthetic. The plot of From the Wreck is based on the true story of a wreck off the coast of Australia in 1859. George Hills survives for eight days without food or water, protected by what looks like one of the female passengers–but he is convinced that she is something else, not a woman at all, and he is right. His obsession with whatever saved him eventually threatens his family and his own sanity. Chapters from the creature’s perspective–it is essentially an interdimensional refugee–are sufficiently rich and strange, but the middle section drags, and the secondary characters need more room.

Currently reading: This Is Shakespeare by Emma Smith, whose lectures I loved as an undergrad and whose book is no less lucid, accessible, and fresh.

Reading Diary: Apr. 9-Apr. 15

40985726The Old Drift, by Namwali Serpell: Phwoaarr. Comparisons to Gabriel Garcia Marquez and David Mitchell are just. Follows three generations of Zambian families, exploring how chance, genetics, and politics draw them together and fling them apart. Family trees are provided at the beginning of the book, but the structure is less a straight line and more a series of looping ellipses, as characters appear and reappear. Encompassing interracial marriage, Zambian independence, Marxism, Afronauts, hair, microtechnology, HIV/AIDS, and social media activism, The Old Drift is an ambitious and emotionally compelling masterpiece. Serpell writes like someone who’s been doing this for decades.

original_400_600Some Kids I Taught And What They Taught Me, by Kate Clanchy: A memoir of teaching at Oxford Spires Academy, where Clanchy runs a phenomenally successful Poetry Group (they’ve won numerous Foyle’s Young Poet awards). She also writes about her time at schools in post-industrial Essex and Scotland, and multicultural London. Clanchy demonstrates how infuriating and patronizing are government decisions re. teaching, a profession of which most of our legislators know nothing, and she’s magnificent on how creative response to literature can ignite a student’s mind–but is tragically ignored now in most schools because it cannot be quantified in a WALT (We Are Learning To…)

51agaxplvnl._sx324_bo1204203200_My Family and Other Animals, by Gerald Durrell: My fourth-grade teacher read this aloud to us, and I was instantly enchanted, not just by Durrell’s idyllic childhood on the Greek island of Corfu (all that time to explore, all those hours in which to lie still and just observe), but by his charmingly absurd family: aspiring novelist Larry (aka Lawrence Durrell), gun-mad Leslie, dippy Margo, and long-suffering Mother. Rereading it as an adult, the most immediately striking thing about it is the sheer richness of Durrell’s prose: he’s interested in colour, texture and sound, the “squeak and clop” of oars digging into a silver-blue sea, the noise of cicadas in the cypress trees.

41mnd2bzqu5l._sx320_bo1204203200_The Perfect Wife, by JP Delaney: Lots to say about this psychological thriller with a technological twist, which–like Delaney’s two other psychological novels–has been marketed according to genre rules while sneaking in a high level of literary sophistication, allusion, and experimentation under the radar. Told alternately from the points of view of “Abbie”, a robot powered by artificial intelligence whose builder has designed her to look exactly like his missing-presumed-dead wife, and a third-person plural voice that represents her husband’s employees, a group of Silicon Valley nerds. It’s not perfect: there are several major reveals at the end, one of which is left hanging; Delaney makes stabs at illustrating the machinic nature of Abbie’s mind, but her thought is articulated in a way less linear and logical than any AI would ever be. Still, he admits in his acknowledgments that he didn’t set out to write a techno-thriller, and there’s plenty to unpack here, probably in a longer post soon.

98665Marie Antoinette: Princess of Versaillesby Kathryn Lasky: Another in the Royal Diaries series. Particularly notable is the recreation both of young Archduchess Antonia’s personality–fun-loving and kind, but not especially intellectual–and of Empress Maria Theresa’s relationships with her thirteen children, whom she clearly loved in her own way but each of whom was merely a pawn in the Holy Roman Empire’s consolidation and expansion. Lasky renders the young Antonia relatable and even sympathetic, though also motivated by principles that we no longer really recognize: the honour of an Empire, the pride of nobility.

Currently reading: The Confessions of Frannie Langton, a debut about a Jamaican servant woman accused of killing her mistress in 1820s London.

Reading Diary: Mar. 26-Apr. 1

rumblestar-9781471173660_lgRumblestar, by Abi Elphinstone: A novella prequel, Everdark, was written for World Book Day, and perhaps I’d have gotten on a bit better with Rumblestar if I’d read that first. My problems, though, weren’t with confusing plot or unfamiliar characters. Rather the opposite: it sort of felt as though I’d read this story before. Or parts of it in different places. There’s a weedy, wimpy boy; a tough, wisecracking girl; a magical kingdom; an untrustworthy authority figure; an adventure through the very conveniently discrete segments of said kingdom; and some emotional development. It’s all fine as far as it goes, but the emotional development, in particular, is very signposted. And it can’t be good that my favourite part (the drizzle hags, if you’re wondering) felt like they’d have been better if Terry Pratchett had written them…

9780300180282Arabs, by Tim Mackintosh-Smith: An excellent, and enormous (536 pages plus end matter), history of the Arab people (whatever that means; as Mackintosh-Smith shows, the definition is far from clear), from pre-Islamic times right up to the present day. He makes an important distinction between “Arab” and “Muslim”; not all of the former are the latter, and vice versa, although the global spread of Arabs and Arab-ness is due in large part to Islam and the empire won and enjoyed by early caliphs. Mostly, Mackintosh-Smith says, Arabs are defined by their use of the Arabic language. He’s a wonderful guide to it: wry, witty, widely read, and keenly alive to subtleties of dialect and register. One has to make an initial effort with this book, but it turns out delightfully readable, and obviously seminal.

Currently reading: Freshwater, by Akwaeke Emezi, as part of my Women’s Prize longlist reading. It is so far extremely good.

Three Things: March 2019

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With thanks to Paula of Book Jotter for hosting—new participants always welcome!

Reading: At work, I’ve acquired responsibility for some of our Children’s Year In Books services–it’s the same idea as the adult subscription, a monthly book hand-picked to fit the customer’s individual reading tastes and delivered to their door. As a twenty-six-year-old, I haven’t read what you might call “children’s literature” for at least a decade, if not more; I spent my adolescent years wishing that I was already an undergraduate, and reading accordingly. But this is giving me a really good reason to revisit that world. I recently read my first proof copy of a children’s book (Abi Elphinstone’s forthcoming Rumblestar; thoughts will be in Monday’s Reading Diary). I’ve also started brainstorming all the things that I loved to read as a kid, and have enlisted the help of my brother, cousin, and various friends to add to the list: it’s now pinned to my desk corkboard and includes titles such as Eva Ibbotson’s Journey To the River Sea, Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals, Anthony Horowitz’s Alex Rider novels, and an excellent picture book entitled The Queen’s Knickers which made me absolutely hysterical with amusement when I was about four. There is something considerably more joyful about children’s publishing than about its adult equivalent: of course vast sums of money and outrageous publicity machines are still involved (hello, David Walliams), but there’s such a high premium on good humour, inventiveness, and kindness that I’m actually quite excited by the prospect of reading more children’s books.

Looking: The ENO has revived their 2013 production of The Magic Flute, which I went to see last week. I’d never seen a live show of it, although I’d heard recordings. Turns out that The Magic Flute is significantly more palatable to listen to than it is to watch; the tunes are delightful and globally famous for a good reason, but the plot makes absolutely no sense, not even internally. And coherence is the least of its problems. It is possible to understand the opera as an allegory regarding intellectual enlightenment and the Masons, and still to find it pretty distasteful: most obviously in the misogyny shown towards the Queen of the Night (who, it turns out, is mad at Sarastro because her late husband gifted him all of his power, on the grounds that she–as a woman–would be unable to use it wisely), but also in the constant rape threat presented by Monostatos (who was originally written as a Moor, elevating his character to a whole other level of offensive randy-black-man stereotype), the depressing ageism of Papageno (who spends the whole opera pining for a wife, only to nearly bottle it at the last minute because he thinks the woman offered to him might be his own age, shockhorror, instead of a nubile teenager), and the arbitrary emotional cruelty inflicted upon Pamina in the service of Tamino’s heroic development (he’s instructed not to speak to or look at her; she believes that he no longer loves her and prepares to commit suicide).

But. With all of that said.

The music is lovely; there is no getting around that. This production features British soprano Lucy Crowe as Pamina, who delivers the best vocal performance of the entire cast. Thomas Oliemans’s Papageno is (mostly) charming instead of obnoxious, and he got most of the big laughs; his performance reminded me that The Magic Flute was commissioned originally as a pantomime. Julia Bauer as the Queen of the Night lacked power, but she hit that top F, by God. And there are some really nice production touches, including hand-drawn chalk images that are projected onto a screen at the back of the stage, creating instant (and erasable) scenery. It’s very well executed.

Thinking: Honestly? About death, I’m afraid. Not my own, mind you – but other people’s. It’s sort of following me around at the moment. My English grandpa is dying (he’s 88, he’s not in acute discomfort, it’s fairly okay). Both my American grandparents died in September, which I wasn’t there for, but I am here for this – the long-drawn-out process of it – and I can’t tell if it’s happening quickly or slowly, in the grand scheme of these things. He was frail but quite lucid at Christmas; he was frailer still, and quieter, but still sitting in his armchair and capable of a chat, three weeks ago. Now, he’s functionally bed bound, frequently confused, and – to be totally honest – a tiny bit scary. Not because he’s violent or aggressive; he has never been those things in his life and he is not about to start now. It’s mostly scary because even when he’s not confused, he’s hard to understand, and easily tired, and physically helpless, and quite vague. I find myself dreading being left alone with him. I would rather help my grandmother by running her household than by doing any of the hands-on stuff. My fear embarrasses me, but I think, were it me, I would rather have died three weeks ago than live as he is living.

Cheerful, eh?!