The Book of Lost Things
John Connolly
During the first world war, young David's life is turned upside down. In far too short a time, his mother dies, his father remarries, they move to the country to his Step-Mother's house and he gets a new baby brother. Angry and resentful, he finds himself drawn into a world filled with pieces of all of the fairy tales he knows and loves, but darker and scarier than he had ever imagined. Befriended by a woodsman and pursued by dreadful halfwolves and a Crooken man, David begins a quest to find the failing king of the land in hopes of getting home.
I'm not normally one for serious books [dunno if you've noticed that yet]. I'm also not normally one for grown up books [because they're usually serious or are of a rating I'd rather avoid]. What I do love, however, is a good fairy tale, even if it is dark. The best part? David does too.
As a young boy, his mother instills in him a love for reading, books and stories. When she grows ill, he puts this to use and reads aloud to her in her sickbed. When she dies, he takes this with him and hides from grief and reality in the books he so loves. He'll read most anything, but has a special heart for the fairy tales. The books speak to him [literally at some points]. Consequently, when he loses himself in another world chasing a voice that sounds like his departed mother, it is a world founded on so many of the stories that he learned as a boy.
But for readers expecting Shrek [or bleck, as I mentally call it on bad days], with punchy alterations to jazz up ancient tales for modern times, you will be sorely put out. The tales we find in the book are different from what we've come to learn--Snow White was poisoned by the dwarfs [who are quite possibly the only truly humorous thing to be found] and Red Riding Hood was a bit of a, if you'll pardon the perjorative term, creepy slut, to mention two. Within the novel's context, the changes for stories are explained by the presence of people from our world and their own lifestories. Being that our main character is a boy with severe emotional traumas living during something titled "The Great War," you can be sure that none of these changes are happy-go-lucky. If anything, the new versions David wanders into are more disturbing.
But [there are no cats in America], if you have trouble bearing with the disturbing imagries or haunting pieces of reality that come into focus through these youthful eyes, the writing might carry you onward of its own accord. Connolly does not drape the characters, scenes or settings in frippery suited for a girly tale with a handsome prince, shiny white unicorn and tall towers. His style is straightforward and honest, not pulling punches on physicality or gore while not allowing the same to overpower other aspects of the moment. The plain words are well-suited for David, who is a simple boy dealing with things too large for him to handle on his own.
And David himself? I love the boy. It breaks my heart, the things he goes through, but I am healed [teeny spoiler there] by the conclusion. [Please note, this book does not contain any sort of epilogue made of sugary sweet maple candy where everyone grows up, gets married and has perfect little children with silly names like Albus Severus which are bound to get them pummeled in school.] The ending isn't shiny, things aren't perfect, and things don't get fixed the way he wanted them to originally. It is just a good, solid conclusion.
In short, I loved this book despite it's grown-up serious behavior. It's a dark fairy story for grown-ups who understand that you need a little fantasy but it doesn't need to be fluff. [Subliminal message: READ IT]
--
Because I'm silly, I didn't start reading this book when I got it. It's a sad and childish issue, but when things are recommended to me, I develop a severe sort of resistance to reading or watching the item at hand. Truly, I have been quite disappointed before, but very rarely to the point of irritation or unhappiness. This book is, fortunately, precisely the opposite. The friend who gave it to me to read [saying he thought it sounded like something I might like and that it is one of his all-time favorites] is a bit off the beaten path in the brainpan--not to be offensive. He's just...I don't know, honestly. I want to use the word "alternative," but I'm not entirely sure what that connotes anymore. He's different from society in a way that does not always coincide with my own societal divergences. Inasmuch, I expected to read something interesting and politely say that "it was okay and I'm glad you gave me the chance to read something new." Instead, about two-thirds of the way through the book [at the time I assumed it was only half, but I discovered, upon finishing it, that the last chunk of the book is some extra reading and fairytales for the reader who isn't ready to put the thing down yet. Woo!] I texted Fritz and informed him that I was already planning on buying my own copy after I returned his.
Then I finished the book this afternoon.
It's a hard feeling, you know, to finish a book you've been reading with any sort of enthusiasm. The sensation is a mental feeling akin to the stomach drop you get while driving at speed over small hills in the road, for a while you're bouyed up and then suddenly everything changes direction. Some might be happy to have completed a novel--that seems to be what I find more common when at least reading about people finishing stories [in stories]. I, however, am a bit of an odd duck in that aspect, it would seem [should these stereotypes have any basis]. When I finish a novel in which I have been...involved, I am pensive. In some cases, there are moments of euphoria or joy when the couple comes together, the puppy is found, the world is saved, the bad guy is defeated [or converted], etc etc etc; more often than not, however, I find myself feeling let down. Like the ride I've been on has suddenly ended and I've got to get in line for another one, or worse, go home. It is not that I hide from reality in books, but I think my brain hides from my perspective of reality in books. In my world, I only see from my eyes, my mind, my experience. In a book, you get, even in a limited third person narration that only touches on the omniscient, more. The narrator tells you what is around David, as well as what he sees. He tells you what David is feeling, as well as how he is feeling, and in words written in black and white on a page, spelling things out for you.
I suppose what I am implying is that books give you a moment of clarity in this fuzzy chaos we call life. In books everything is mapped out, and, should you be a horrible person for whom there is no hope, you can even skip to the ending and try to learn without the journey [shame!]. Alas. If I ramble more on that here, I'll stop talking books and start bemoaning my own lot in life.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch. [Garrison Kellior]
John Connolly
During the first world war, young David's life is turned upside down. In far too short a time, his mother dies, his father remarries, they move to the country to his Step-Mother's house and he gets a new baby brother. Angry and resentful, he finds himself drawn into a world filled with pieces of all of the fairy tales he knows and loves, but darker and scarier than he had ever imagined. Befriended by a woodsman and pursued by dreadful halfwolves and a Crooken man, David begins a quest to find the failing king of the land in hopes of getting home.
I'm not normally one for serious books [dunno if you've noticed that yet]. I'm also not normally one for grown up books [because they're usually serious or are of a rating I'd rather avoid]. What I do love, however, is a good fairy tale, even if it is dark. The best part? David does too.
As a young boy, his mother instills in him a love for reading, books and stories. When she grows ill, he puts this to use and reads aloud to her in her sickbed. When she dies, he takes this with him and hides from grief and reality in the books he so loves. He'll read most anything, but has a special heart for the fairy tales. The books speak to him [literally at some points]. Consequently, when he loses himself in another world chasing a voice that sounds like his departed mother, it is a world founded on so many of the stories that he learned as a boy.
But for readers expecting Shrek [or bleck, as I mentally call it on bad days], with punchy alterations to jazz up ancient tales for modern times, you will be sorely put out. The tales we find in the book are different from what we've come to learn--Snow White was poisoned by the dwarfs [who are quite possibly the only truly humorous thing to be found] and Red Riding Hood was a bit of a, if you'll pardon the perjorative term, creepy slut, to mention two. Within the novel's context, the changes for stories are explained by the presence of people from our world and their own lifestories. Being that our main character is a boy with severe emotional traumas living during something titled "The Great War," you can be sure that none of these changes are happy-go-lucky. If anything, the new versions David wanders into are more disturbing.
But [there are no cats in America], if you have trouble bearing with the disturbing imagries or haunting pieces of reality that come into focus through these youthful eyes, the writing might carry you onward of its own accord. Connolly does not drape the characters, scenes or settings in frippery suited for a girly tale with a handsome prince, shiny white unicorn and tall towers. His style is straightforward and honest, not pulling punches on physicality or gore while not allowing the same to overpower other aspects of the moment. The plain words are well-suited for David, who is a simple boy dealing with things too large for him to handle on his own.
And David himself? I love the boy. It breaks my heart, the things he goes through, but I am healed [teeny spoiler there] by the conclusion. [Please note, this book does not contain any sort of epilogue made of sugary sweet maple candy where everyone grows up, gets married and has perfect little children with silly names like Albus Severus which are bound to get them pummeled in school.] The ending isn't shiny, things aren't perfect, and things don't get fixed the way he wanted them to originally. It is just a good, solid conclusion.
In short, I loved this book despite it's grown-up serious behavior. It's a dark fairy story for grown-ups who understand that you need a little fantasy but it doesn't need to be fluff. [Subliminal message: READ IT]
--
Because I'm silly, I didn't start reading this book when I got it. It's a sad and childish issue, but when things are recommended to me, I develop a severe sort of resistance to reading or watching the item at hand. Truly, I have been quite disappointed before, but very rarely to the point of irritation or unhappiness. This book is, fortunately, precisely the opposite. The friend who gave it to me to read [saying he thought it sounded like something I might like and that it is one of his all-time favorites] is a bit off the beaten path in the brainpan--not to be offensive. He's just...I don't know, honestly. I want to use the word "alternative," but I'm not entirely sure what that connotes anymore. He's different from society in a way that does not always coincide with my own societal divergences. Inasmuch, I expected to read something interesting and politely say that "it was okay and I'm glad you gave me the chance to read something new." Instead, about two-thirds of the way through the book [at the time I assumed it was only half, but I discovered, upon finishing it, that the last chunk of the book is some extra reading and fairytales for the reader who isn't ready to put the thing down yet. Woo!] I texted Fritz and informed him that I was already planning on buying my own copy after I returned his.
Then I finished the book this afternoon.
It's a hard feeling, you know, to finish a book you've been reading with any sort of enthusiasm. The sensation is a mental feeling akin to the stomach drop you get while driving at speed over small hills in the road, for a while you're bouyed up and then suddenly everything changes direction. Some might be happy to have completed a novel--that seems to be what I find more common when at least reading about people finishing stories [in stories]. I, however, am a bit of an odd duck in that aspect, it would seem [should these stereotypes have any basis]. When I finish a novel in which I have been...involved, I am pensive. In some cases, there are moments of euphoria or joy when the couple comes together, the puppy is found, the world is saved, the bad guy is defeated [or converted], etc etc etc; more often than not, however, I find myself feeling let down. Like the ride I've been on has suddenly ended and I've got to get in line for another one, or worse, go home. It is not that I hide from reality in books, but I think my brain hides from my perspective of reality in books. In my world, I only see from my eyes, my mind, my experience. In a book, you get, even in a limited third person narration that only touches on the omniscient, more. The narrator tells you what is around David, as well as what he sees. He tells you what David is feeling, as well as how he is feeling, and in words written in black and white on a page, spelling things out for you.
I suppose what I am implying is that books give you a moment of clarity in this fuzzy chaos we call life. In books everything is mapped out, and, should you be a horrible person for whom there is no hope, you can even skip to the ending and try to learn without the journey [shame!]. Alas. If I ramble more on that here, I'll stop talking books and start bemoaning my own lot in life.
Be well, do good work, and keep in touch. [Garrison Kellior]
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