The Laws of Magic novels, of which Blaze of Glory is part one, are about Aubrey Fitzwilliam – a very rich, very clever, very absurdly named English toff who attends a posh boarding school and is the son of a prominent politician. By rights I should hate him. But I don’t, and I think it’s because Michael Pryor is playing with the conventions of a genre I once loathed.

And doing an awfully good job of it. For example: Aubrey’s best chum George constantly calls him “old man”. And at one stage he dresses himself up as a street urchin called Tommy Sparks. Tommy Sparks! Brilliant.

Superficially, Laws of Magic is a lot like Harry Potter: both are about slight, dark-haired, magically gifted teenagers with a knack for landing themselves in the thick of mysterious events. But Blaze of Glory is rife with a political intrigue that’s absent from the Potter novels (from the early ones, at least): it’s set in an alternate universe in the early 20th century, as “Albion” is on the verge of war with “Holmland” (stand-ins for England and Germany, respectively).

Aubrey and George are invited to a shooting weekend at the Crown Prince’s palatial country estate, joined by politicians, aristocrats and foreign diplomats. Aubrey foils an attempt on the Prince’s life when he discovers a golem sent on an assassination mission – but who sent the golem, and why?

The subsequent investigation cracks along, bringing Aubrey and George into encounters with many sharply written, memorable characters. Foremost among these is Aubrey’s romantic interest Caroline Hepworth (though she’s not nearly as interested in him), who’s rather Hermione-esque – if Hermione were not merely intelligent  but also aloof, elegant and skilled at hand-to-hand combat.

The magic in Laws is a complicated business. In Harry Potter it bothered me a little that casting spells seemed to involve little more than waving a wand; here, spells must be cast with an almost mathematical precision, and the complexity of all those variables and parameters is satisfying. Aubrey is a magical prodigy, of course, but his skill is not limitless. A botched magical experiment has separated his body and his soul, and the danger he’s put himself in and his attempts to fix himself are constant threads in the story.

Quibbles: some of the plot twists are contrived even by the standards of the genre, particularly a scene where Aubrey and co. just so happen to visit a fitness club that’s the scene of a violent confrontation between Holmland spies, secret agents and magical operatives. And the book’s editor should’ve given the manuscript another once-over before it went to print, because it’s strewn with typos and repeated words – not many, but enough to be distracting.

Blaze’s climax lacks a real oomph, but this didn’t really bother me because Pryor has crafted  such a rich fantasy world – it’s so compelling that I bought part two, Heart of Gold, before I’d even finished part one. It’s inventive, witty, and a fine read.

(PS, I have no idea why there’s a phoenix on the cover. I waited the whole book for it to appear, and it never did. Weird.)

Do I really need to explain why the lifeguards are my favourite part of the parade? Image: pinched from News.com.au

While I was watching the Mardi Gras last night (on TV – watching it in person inevitably means battling sweaty crowds comprised of either loud bogans or screaming gays or loud screaming gay bogans), it occured to me that those homophobes are right when they insist that being gay is a choice.

They’re right, but not for the reason they think they’re right.

Being gay is not in itself a choice. No one chooses to be gay (or lesbian or bi or queer, or whatever; for simplicity’s sake I’m bundling them all up under “gay”); that’s decided by the genetic lottery. But every gay person chooses to live a gay lifestyle.

After all, no gay person has to live as an out gay person. You could acknowledge you’re gay but spend your entire life living in the closet. Or you could suppress your homosexuality altogether – get married, have kids, settle down into a life of permanently suppressing your true identity.

But both of these choices are deplorable, and it’s really sad that thousands of people believe it’s the best path for them, or worse, that they’re forced down that path by the people around them.

Sometimes I hear people questioning gay pride. “Why would you be proud of being gay?” they ask (and I’ve heard this from both gay and straight people). “It’s like being proud of having brown eyes.”

But gay pride isn’t merely about taking pride in being gay. It’s taking pride in choosing to live a gay lifestyle – choosing to live as yourself in defiance of all those hateful fuckwits who believe homosexuality is evil and wrong, or in defiance of the many people out there who “merely” have a dull, low-level scorn for men who kiss men.

The Mardi Gras, for all its ridiculous flamboyance, is a pretty great way of expressing that pride. What’s not to be proud of?

Harry Potter, Twilight and other novels are deemed books for “children”, and adults (so the reasoning goes) need to grow up and presumably start reading “adult books” lest they develop a creepy Peter Pan vibe akin to Michael Jackson’s. Why, if adults continue reading “kids’” books, one day Spot Goes to School might be taught in universities – because after all, there’s no difference whatsoever between a book for preschoolers and a book for older teens!

Adults reading children’s books, we’re informed, is like owning golliwogs: “a bit wrong, but mostly just embarrassing”.

STFU, Hungry Beast. First of all, do your research: children’s books are very different from the genre known an “young adult” (note the use of “adult“). And guess what? There are loads and loads of YA books that aren’t Harry Potter or Twilight! (Shock!)

Why is it weird when adults read books about teenagers, given that adults were all once (another shock!) teenagers too? Is it also “weird” for senior citizens to read books about twenty- or thirtysomething characters?

Lastly, and most importantly, why are stories about young people automatically “childish”, and/or valued below stories about adults?

Shades of Grey, the first entry in a new trilogy, is a bit of a departure from Fforde’s previous series, Thursday Next and Nursery Crimes. They were both rampantly silly (and I use the word in the best possible way), and while Shades doesn’t lack any of their inventiveness, something about the tone feels a little more mature. If you can even say that about a book with such a wild premise:

The novel is set in a future where society is divided by colour. Not race – literally colour. Citizens are sorted into classes based on what spectrum they best perceive: examples include the supercilious Yellows,  bossy Greens and unlucky Greys, who can’t perceive much colour at all and lumped at the bottom of the social order. A rigid hierarchy of Prefects and rules forms a society that’s reminiscent of a more colourful, decidedly English version of Airstrip One.

Our hero is 20-year-old Red Eddie Russett – everyone’s surnames are dictacted by their colour – an affable, dopey goody-goody who’s banished to the outer fringes to complete a chair census after he dares to suggest a more efficient method of queueing. (This kind of deadpan silliness is Fforde’s hallmark.) In his new home of East Carmine, Eddie meets Jane, a hot-tempered grey with a retrousse noise who reveals the ugly underbelly of society. She also has him eaten by a giant carnivorous plant, but you’ll have to read the book to find out why.

Shades of Grey is a blast (I’m a Fforde fanboy. Can you tell?), but be warned: the story takes an extremely long time to get started – the first half of the book is devoted mostly to worldbuilding, which is fascinating but occasionally frustrating. And avoid if you’re not a fan of books that are transparently set-up for a sequel, because the ending of Shades will just tick you off.

I haven’t met many girls like this.

That’s not to say they don’t exist. I’ve known obsessive female fans of The Simpsons, and I’m sure there’s plenty of them out there. Just not as many as there are male fans.

I wonder why this is. Is there something about The Simpsons that appeals more to male psyches than to female ones? Its irreverence, its mix of the high and lowbrow? The fact that the focus has always been more on Homer and Bart than Marge, Lisa and Maggie? The fact that it’s a cartoon?

Theories? Refutations?

1. Thus proving the maxim that there really is a Simpsons quote for every occasion

My recommendation would be to wait [to have sex]. Wait for the right moment, the right person and the right situation. Becoming sexually active is not to be entered into lightly. I have seen too many girls damaged by a decision that was not carefully considered.

Assuming you’re safe and responsible, is sex itself actually what’s damaging? I reckon it’s certain attitudes to sex that are damaging, not the act itself. For starters, virginity’s not a “gift”. Blergh. Sex isn’t something you give. It’s something you have. This is an important distinction, because “sex = gift” implies an imbalance in the sex, and/or that you’re losing something of yourself if you “give” it away. (Not to mention that “sex = gift” typically translates to “gift given by women, who must guard their sexuality and moral fortitude, to men, who have no impulse control and demand/need sex always”. Double blergh.)

My advice to teens: have sex, or don’t, but don’t reduce your identity to sex. You are more than someone who has or hasn’t done it. Believing otherwise leads to trouble – if your self-image is rooted (no pun intended) in whether you’ve lost your virginity, of course you’ll feel you’ve lost something if you’ve “given” it away.

I actually agree with the fundamental proposal of Adornetto¹ and Tony Abbott, the Catholic Australian politician whose comments kicked off this whole virginity brouhaha: Teens shouldn’t have sex willy-nilly (again, no pun intended). It’s not something to rush into.

But at the same time, sex isn’t that big a deal. You’re still the same person after you lose your virginity. So don’t stigmatise it. And you know what? At some point you’ll probably Do It with someone you’ll wish you hadn’t. But this won’t make you a bad, immoral skank. It won’t somehow spoil you.

Be responsible. Be safe. Think it through.

1. I disagree, though, that there are teens who would actually use the phrase “Did you sex him?”

Is is February 2 yet?

I started The Graveyard Book with high expectations, and wasn’t disappointed: Like all the best children’s literature, it’s wildly imaginative, seductively scary, and a sophisticated read for both kids and adults.

Loosely inspired by The Jungle Book, Graveyard is the story of a baby who escapes from the ruthless killer who’s murdered his parents, and escapes to a very old graveyard. Rechristened Nobody “Bod” Owens, he’s raised by the graveyard’s ghostly  inhabitants and encounters vampires, werewolves, witches and other beasties as he grows up. (The Guardian has a more detailed, though mildly spoilery, synopsis; I recommend going into it without knowing about the plot’s direction.)

It kind of reminded me of Harry Potter, if Harry Potter’s sprawling story was condensed into a single book: Graveyard has the same magical, captivating and adventurous tone. I felt really sad when I turned the last page, both because of the way the plot wrapped up, and because I’d finished a really great book.

Each chapter advances Bod’s age by around two years and stands alone as a story (more or less), making this a breezy read. If you never read anything of Gaiman’s before, this is a fine entry point.¹

Gaiman has proposed writing more books exploring the backstory of the Graveyard universe, but with a darker, more adult tone – a sort of “The Lord Of The Rings, to which The Graveyard Book would have been The Hobbit“, in his words. I want to read that book so bad. Right now. (Especially since the propects of a Graveyard Book movie aren’t looking so hot right now.)

1. After you finish Graveyard, try his short story collection Fragile Things. Then move along to American Gods and Anansi Boys, or maybe Coraline (which I haven’t read, yet, though the movie adaptation is stellar), if you’re looking for more “kiddie” stuff. I haven’t sampled Sandman yet, but I plan on getting to it one day.

See: #48.

I have a folder of bookmarks titled “Interesting wikis”. Here’s a selection of those entries, presented in no particular order:

1. Nihilartikel
2. Mornington Crescent
3. Acoustic Kitty
4. Superceded scientific theories
5. Trap street
6. Kardashev scale
7. Cryptid
8. List of fictional companies
9. Mint mark
10. Bloop
11. Russell’s teapot
12. List of superhuman features and abilities in fiction
13. Unsolved problems in physics
14. War of Currents
15. London Monster
16. Monkey-man of Delhi
17. Spring Heeled Jack
18. Steganography
19. Rat king
20. Roc
21. Scopes Trial
22. Aether
23. List of colors
24. List of fictional elements, materials, isotopes and atomic particles
25. 4′33″
26. Tonton Macoute
27. Philosophical zombie
28. Mary’s room
29. Lich
30. Pale Blue Dot
31. Names of large numbers
32. Sleipnir
33. Triple Goddess
34. Molon labe
35. Pascal’s Wager
36. Bifröst
37. Missing dollar riddle
38. Bertrand’s box paradox
39. The Hardest Logic Puzzle Ever
40. Defamiliarisation
41. Celeritas
42. Apopudobalia
43. Caltrop
44. Types of gestures
45. Phallus impudicus
46. Joseph Grimaldi
47. Sun dog
48. An Experiment on a Bird in the Air Pump
49. Caladrius
50. Salamander (legendary creature)

(This post was inspired by this post.)

There’s a reason every YA blog on the internet raves about The Hunger Games and its sequel, Catching Fire: they’re cracking reads with an unstoppable narrative thrust. I gobbled both up inside a week.

It’s heart-pounding stuff. Allow me to steal a synopsis from Stephen King:

The yearly highlight in this nightmare world is the Hunger Games, a bloodthirsty reality TV show in which 24 teenagers chosen by lottery fight each other in a desolate environment called the ”arena.” The winner gets a life of ease; the losers get death. Our heroine is Katniss Everdeen (lame name, cool kid), [who] lives in a desperately poor mining community called the Seam, and when her little sister’s name is chosen as one of the contestants in the upcoming Hunger Games, Katniss volunteers to take her place.

While teenagers battling each other to death has been done to death, Hunger Games proves that a not-so-original premise can nevertheless turn out an original book. I had no idea how the first book would turn out, while the second book has an unexpected twist (spoiler: Katniss and Peeta are forced back in the arena – eek!) that made my insides twist.

Quibbles: Katniss sometimes comes dangerously close to becoming one of those annoyingly perfect heroines who doesn’t realise how perfect she is – she’s great at everything she does, admired by all, has suitors literally willing to die for her, et cetera. The books are saved, I think, by her first-person narration. We’re right inside her head, experiencing the Games with her, and she’s such a trustworthy, capable companion that you can’t help liking her.

And while author Suzanne Collinns’ sparse pose is often employed to brutal effect, she has a tendency to write great action scenes then rush through the links between them. The very worst example of this comes right at the end of Catching Fire (spoiler: when the crux of the rebels’ plan to sabotage the Quell is revealed in a single paragraph of passive speech), and it’s so on-the-nose it might’ve spoiled the whole book if it weren’t for that epic cliffhanger.

If you haven’t read Hunger Games, do so – but wait till August, when the third and final instalment in the trilogy is released. Then you won’t have to wait months and months waiting to find out what happens. Like I will. Aargh.