Forever in Blue: The Fourth Summer of the Sisterhood. By Ann Brashares. Delacorte Press. $18.99.
It seemed like such a high-school thing: four friends sharing a pair of old jeans that miraculously fit all of them, despite their different (and changing) shapes. That was The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, Ann Brashares’ first book about Bridget, Carmen, Lena and Tibby. Yes, the girls were in high school then, and also in the followup book, The Second Summer of the Sisterhood. And yes, many of the travails they faced were typical in novels aimed at high-school girls – boy trouble, family trouble, interpersonal trouble. But somehow those thrift-store pants held the stories together as effectively as they held together this highly mixed group of friends.
And then came Girls in Pants: The Third Summer of the Sisterhood, which stayed with the four friends (and the pants) into college – and made it clear that this multi-volume story was still not finished. Now it is, and it has turned into a deeper and more adult tale than anyone reading only the first book would likely have expected. Forever in Blue is the final summer for the pants – their disappearance near the end becomes a multi-person emotional crisis that leads to a deeper and more lasting friendship among the girls, who are now becoming young women. But it is not by any means the finale for Bridget, Carmen, Lena and Tibby, all of whom readers have gotten to know, and love, and perhaps sometimes find frustrating, in the earlier novels. Brashares sends the girls off every which way during this “fourth summer of the sisterhood,” showing them struggling with adult desires, impulses and needs even though they are still in college and not quite able (or willing) to be fully independent.
Much that happens here involves the girls’ relationships with men, such as Bridget’s with her highly attractive and highly married archeology professor and Lena’s with a summer fling that seems to have the potential to be so much more. Carmen and Tibby have relationship issues, too. But what Brashares does so well is to show that the four young women are not defined by the loves in their lives but by the far more lasting friendship among themselves. This is a powerful message to give to high-school and college readers, and Brashares delivers it with warmth, love and humor (one of her chapter-opening quotes comes from a Dr. Seuss book: “Poor empty pants/ With nobody inside them”). There are some decidedly adult happenings here – a pregnancy scare, for example, and some big problems with co-workers – but there is also plenty of strength in the four protagonists; and it is that strength that helps pull them through some trying times and will assuredly, in their continuing fictional-but-almost-real lives, help them as they move further into adulthood and true independence. But perhaps “true independence” is not quite it. Brashares’ point is that interdependence, the kind that comes from good and true friendship, is the glue that holds life together. It’s quite an uplifting message, and quite a fine sendoff for a truly remarkable pair of fraying blue jeans.
February 01, 2007
(++++) PUZZLE ME THIS....
The Brainiest Insaniest Ultimate Puzzle Book! By Robert Leighton, Mike Shenk, and Amy Goldstein. Workman. $10.95.
It’s midwinter. It’s dull and grey outside, too cold to do anything, and TV is boring, and video games are the same thing over and over again. Or: this car trip is going to last forever, maybe longer, and everything looks the same outside the windows and in the car and on the DVD screen. Or: it’s hot out, too steamy to go anywhere or do anything. Or: will this rain ever stop?
These are but a few of the scenarios during which parents should run, not walk, to The Brainiest Insaniest Ultimate Puzzle Book! It contains 192 oversized pages of puzzles – six types in all – plus a Scavenger Hunt that kids can try after they finish solving everything (and by that time, maybe parents will get lucky and there will be a sequel to the book). The puzzles come in six sections, each with its own mascot: Sir Glance-A-Lot presents picture puzzles, Alice in Wanderland offers mazes, Sherlogic Holmes is in charge of logic puzzles, FrankEinstein presents “monster puzzles,” and so on. Some of the puzzles are straightforward, but many are not, and some of the cleverest are actually puzzles-within-puzzles. For example, one of the riddle puzzles (introduced by Riddle Green Men, naturally) is called “Gross-Outs” and consists of 16 pictures on tombstones. There are six clues, such as, “Cross out anything whose name can become the word SCARE by changing one letter.” After finishing the six steps, there are two puzzles left, which together answer the question, “What does Dracula keep in his medicine chest?”
Not all the puzzles are as many-layered as this one, but all are fun to do and amusingly created. One simple “find the wrong things in this picture,” for instance, is called “Ticket or Leave It,” is set in a theater lobby, and requires kids to know that Babe Ruth played baseball (a “Babe Ruth Story” poster erroneously shows a football player) and that “Attack of the Leotard” would not be a horror flick (well, maybe to some people who have to wear them…). Then there’s the word puzzle section (host: “The Wordman of Alcatraz,” itself a pun that many kids won’t get – on “The Birdman of Alcatraz”). One sample here involves changing the word “solo” to the word “duet” in 10 steps, altering one letter each time – at the start, for instance, “solo” changes to “tall, round structure next to a barn,” or “silo.” The Sherlogic Holmes section is quite varied: a single two-page spread features a puzzle in which you determine whole words by seeing parts of them; a rearrange-the-panels comic; and two logic puzzles in which you have to use five or six statements to (in one case) match people with their dogs and (in the other) help someone choose which practical-joke trick to buy.
Lest parents worry, be assured that there are answers to all the puzzles at the back of the book. They’re a bit confusingly presented: on the answer pages, there is no cross-reference to the pages where the puzzles appear, and it can be hard to find a specific answer, since there are many on each answer page. But each puzzle does tell you which page has the answer, so kids can find them with a little effort. The effort of solving the puzzles on their own, though, is much more worthwhile – and a lot more fun, in any weather and at any time of year.
It’s midwinter. It’s dull and grey outside, too cold to do anything, and TV is boring, and video games are the same thing over and over again. Or: this car trip is going to last forever, maybe longer, and everything looks the same outside the windows and in the car and on the DVD screen. Or: it’s hot out, too steamy to go anywhere or do anything. Or: will this rain ever stop?
These are but a few of the scenarios during which parents should run, not walk, to The Brainiest Insaniest Ultimate Puzzle Book! It contains 192 oversized pages of puzzles – six types in all – plus a Scavenger Hunt that kids can try after they finish solving everything (and by that time, maybe parents will get lucky and there will be a sequel to the book). The puzzles come in six sections, each with its own mascot: Sir Glance-A-Lot presents picture puzzles, Alice in Wanderland offers mazes, Sherlogic Holmes is in charge of logic puzzles, FrankEinstein presents “monster puzzles,” and so on. Some of the puzzles are straightforward, but many are not, and some of the cleverest are actually puzzles-within-puzzles. For example, one of the riddle puzzles (introduced by Riddle Green Men, naturally) is called “Gross-Outs” and consists of 16 pictures on tombstones. There are six clues, such as, “Cross out anything whose name can become the word SCARE by changing one letter.” After finishing the six steps, there are two puzzles left, which together answer the question, “What does Dracula keep in his medicine chest?”
Not all the puzzles are as many-layered as this one, but all are fun to do and amusingly created. One simple “find the wrong things in this picture,” for instance, is called “Ticket or Leave It,” is set in a theater lobby, and requires kids to know that Babe Ruth played baseball (a “Babe Ruth Story” poster erroneously shows a football player) and that “Attack of the Leotard” would not be a horror flick (well, maybe to some people who have to wear them…). Then there’s the word puzzle section (host: “The Wordman of Alcatraz,” itself a pun that many kids won’t get – on “The Birdman of Alcatraz”). One sample here involves changing the word “solo” to the word “duet” in 10 steps, altering one letter each time – at the start, for instance, “solo” changes to “tall, round structure next to a barn,” or “silo.” The Sherlogic Holmes section is quite varied: a single two-page spread features a puzzle in which you determine whole words by seeing parts of them; a rearrange-the-panels comic; and two logic puzzles in which you have to use five or six statements to (in one case) match people with their dogs and (in the other) help someone choose which practical-joke trick to buy.
Lest parents worry, be assured that there are answers to all the puzzles at the back of the book. They’re a bit confusingly presented: on the answer pages, there is no cross-reference to the pages where the puzzles appear, and it can be hard to find a specific answer, since there are many on each answer page. But each puzzle does tell you which page has the answer, so kids can find them with a little effort. The effort of solving the puzzles on their own, though, is much more worthwhile – and a lot more fun, in any weather and at any time of year.
(++++) THE ADVENTURES CONTINUE
Children of the Lamp, Book Three: The Cobra King of Kathmandu. By P.B. Kerr. Orchard Books/Scholastic. $16.99.
The Magician Trilogy, Book Two: Emlyn’s Moon. By Jenny Nimmo. Orchard Books/Scholastic. $9.99.
These are two unusually compelling installments in two especially attractive fantasy series for young readers. Children of the Lamp is by Philip Kerr, a well-known British writer of thrillers for adults, and it bears many of the hallmarks of a well-crafted thrill ride: narrow escapes, nefarious enemies, and highly complex plots. In fact, as the third book in the series begins, the plot has gotten so involved that Kerr offers a three-page summary of the first two books – an overview that barely scratches the surface of the occurrences in The Akhenaten Adventure and The Blue Djinn of Babylon, and that will probably serve to confuse rather than inform readers who are new to the series. In fact, the worst thing about The Cobra King of Kathmandu is the difficulty of enjoying it fully without having read the first two books. There is simply too much back story for Kerr’s many references to make sense to anyone coming to this series for the first time. The solution is obvious: read (and thoroughly enjoy) the first two books, so you will be well acquainted with djinn twins John and Philippa Gaunt (and yes, her first name is the feminine form of the author’s name; make of that what you will). Only after you know of them, their still-developing powers, their djinn mother Layla, their uncle Nimrod, their nemesis Iblis, and the Homeostatis that Iblis seeks to disrupt, will the opening of this third book have its full effect: “The beginning of the horror occurred, as horror often does, in the dead of night, when most people were asleep.” From that start – which is actually a flashback – Kerr proceeds with a world-spanning story in which the twins try to help a fellow djinn whose best friend has been murdered by use of cobra venom. The trail leads to a cobra cult, and to a guru who once dealt with djinn possession of the British prime minister (who thought himself a 12-year-old girl). Kerr manages a delicate balancing act by maintaining a sense of humor even when his protagonists are in peril, as they often are. At one point, for instance, the guru utters a focusing word that “sounded like FENNIMOREWAXPLUMPERTON. (Perhaps there is a real word that sounds like FENNIMOREWAXPLUMPERTON, but if so then it does not appear in the Oxford English Dictionary, nor, for that matter, the Oxford Hindustani Dictionary.)” It is the fine blend of comedy and adventure that continues to keep Children of the Lamp at such a high level of enjoyability.
The Magician Trilogy is enjoyable, too, but in a different and more serious way. Jenny Nimmo, author of the popular Charlie Bone books, keeps each installment in The Magician’s Trilogy short: Emlyn’s Moon runs a mere 152 pages (compared with 373 for The Cobra King of Kathmandu). But Nimmo packs a lot into a small package. The first book of this trilogy, The Snow Spider, introduced the fascinating eponymous character of Arianwen. Now the spider’s web-weaving helps young magician Gwyn and his friend Nia solve a strange mystery, which revolves around a boy named Emlyn who claims that his mother lives on the moon. Gwyn and Nia find themselves drawn to Emlyn, even though they are warned to stay away from him and his wild tales. How wild are they, though? When Emlyn decides he trusts Nia enough to tell her the story, he does so in so much detail that, almost against her will, Nia believes him. And then come the haunting whispers of children from somewhere far away…and the ice-cold flower…and an exciting rescue mission filed with enough mysteries and wonders to make readers eager to read the trilogy’s upcoming conclusion, Chestnut Soldier – the first chapter of which is included at the end of this volume.
The Magician Trilogy, Book Two: Emlyn’s Moon. By Jenny Nimmo. Orchard Books/Scholastic. $9.99.
These are two unusually compelling installments in two especially attractive fantasy series for young readers. Children of the Lamp is by Philip Kerr, a well-known British writer of thrillers for adults, and it bears many of the hallmarks of a well-crafted thrill ride: narrow escapes, nefarious enemies, and highly complex plots. In fact, as the third book in the series begins, the plot has gotten so involved that Kerr offers a three-page summary of the first two books – an overview that barely scratches the surface of the occurrences in The Akhenaten Adventure and The Blue Djinn of Babylon, and that will probably serve to confuse rather than inform readers who are new to the series. In fact, the worst thing about The Cobra King of Kathmandu is the difficulty of enjoying it fully without having read the first two books. There is simply too much back story for Kerr’s many references to make sense to anyone coming to this series for the first time. The solution is obvious: read (and thoroughly enjoy) the first two books, so you will be well acquainted with djinn twins John and Philippa Gaunt (and yes, her first name is the feminine form of the author’s name; make of that what you will). Only after you know of them, their still-developing powers, their djinn mother Layla, their uncle Nimrod, their nemesis Iblis, and the Homeostatis that Iblis seeks to disrupt, will the opening of this third book have its full effect: “The beginning of the horror occurred, as horror often does, in the dead of night, when most people were asleep.” From that start – which is actually a flashback – Kerr proceeds with a world-spanning story in which the twins try to help a fellow djinn whose best friend has been murdered by use of cobra venom. The trail leads to a cobra cult, and to a guru who once dealt with djinn possession of the British prime minister (who thought himself a 12-year-old girl). Kerr manages a delicate balancing act by maintaining a sense of humor even when his protagonists are in peril, as they often are. At one point, for instance, the guru utters a focusing word that “sounded like FENNIMOREWAXPLUMPERTON. (Perhaps there is a real word that sounds like FENNIMOREWAXPLUMPERTON, but if so then it does not appear in the Oxford English Dictionary, nor, for that matter, the Oxford Hindustani Dictionary.)” It is the fine blend of comedy and adventure that continues to keep Children of the Lamp at such a high level of enjoyability.
The Magician Trilogy is enjoyable, too, but in a different and more serious way. Jenny Nimmo, author of the popular Charlie Bone books, keeps each installment in The Magician’s Trilogy short: Emlyn’s Moon runs a mere 152 pages (compared with 373 for The Cobra King of Kathmandu). But Nimmo packs a lot into a small package. The first book of this trilogy, The Snow Spider, introduced the fascinating eponymous character of Arianwen. Now the spider’s web-weaving helps young magician Gwyn and his friend Nia solve a strange mystery, which revolves around a boy named Emlyn who claims that his mother lives on the moon. Gwyn and Nia find themselves drawn to Emlyn, even though they are warned to stay away from him and his wild tales. How wild are they, though? When Emlyn decides he trusts Nia enough to tell her the story, he does so in so much detail that, almost against her will, Nia believes him. And then come the haunting whispers of children from somewhere far away…and the ice-cold flower…and an exciting rescue mission filed with enough mysteries and wonders to make readers eager to read the trilogy’s upcoming conclusion, Chestnut Soldier – the first chapter of which is included at the end of this volume.
(+++) CENTS-IBLE ADVICE FOR COUPLES
Financial Bliss: A Couple’s Guide to Merging Money Styles and Building a Rich Life Together. By Bambi Holzer. AMACOM. $21.95.
Whether married or living together, with kids or without, early in life or farther along on its path, couples can always find a way to fight about money. Emotional and physical compatibility are all well and good – and necessary for a solid long-term relationship – but the everyday use of money is a basic element of relationships on which many couples founder. Premarital (or pre-living-together) financial counseling may be a good idea in theory, but there’s precious little of it in practice.
Enter Bambi Holzer, a specialist in planned giving and estate planning, and president of her own financial consulting firm. Holzer sets out to help couples at any stage of life (and any stage of relationship) figure out how to manage their finances better on an ongoing basis. Hers is not a book about getting out of high-rate debt or boosting your credit score (although those are laudable goals in themselves). Financial Bliss is about “knowing your own financial personality type, how risk averse you are, how you view the utility of money, and the decision-making style you generally employ,” and using that information to create a money-management approach that will work for both you and your partner.
The writing style here is on the cloying side, but the recommendations are generally sensible and nondogmatic. In trying to keep her discussions nonthreatening, Holzer comes up with overly cutesy phrases such as “financial first date” and “financial state of the union.” These juxtapose uneasily with such elements as her two-page “net worth worksheet” and her self-quizzes that require such things as a ranking in order of the relative importance of exotic vacations, children’s college, a nicer home, cars, investments and retirement savings. Holzer’s narrative seems directed at people who have minimal familiarity with financial terms, but her self-evaluation material assumes a fair degree of knowledge. Thumb through the book before buying it to make sure you do not feel Holzer is talking down to you – or asking you to make calculations that you feel are above your comfort level.
Style aside, Financial Bliss offers valuable insights into ways in which money can help bring people closer or pull them apart. For example, she urges readers to look at previous significant relationships from a financial standpoint – how was money handled and what were the fights about? She emphasizes the importance of talking with your partner, and explains how to decide whether you should combine your financial accounts or keep them separate. She leavens advice that could easily become dry by giving examples of the problems facing couples she has counseled (and the solutions they found), and by sometimes discussing her own marital accommodations to money: “Now he has his accounts and I have mine, and we have ours.” Her suggestions for unmarried couples, whose legal status can be tricky to pin down on financial documents, are particularly helpful. And her analyses of ways to prepare for major life events, such as children and retirement, are helpful if far short of comprehensive. “Having your finances in order and having sufficient money buys you security,” writes Holzer in discussing retirement – but the statement is actually true of all life stages, and thus can be a useful focal point for couples trying to use Holzer’s book as a basic guide to getting along better on the level of dollars and cents.
Whether married or living together, with kids or without, early in life or farther along on its path, couples can always find a way to fight about money. Emotional and physical compatibility are all well and good – and necessary for a solid long-term relationship – but the everyday use of money is a basic element of relationships on which many couples founder. Premarital (or pre-living-together) financial counseling may be a good idea in theory, but there’s precious little of it in practice.
Enter Bambi Holzer, a specialist in planned giving and estate planning, and president of her own financial consulting firm. Holzer sets out to help couples at any stage of life (and any stage of relationship) figure out how to manage their finances better on an ongoing basis. Hers is not a book about getting out of high-rate debt or boosting your credit score (although those are laudable goals in themselves). Financial Bliss is about “knowing your own financial personality type, how risk averse you are, how you view the utility of money, and the decision-making style you generally employ,” and using that information to create a money-management approach that will work for both you and your partner.
The writing style here is on the cloying side, but the recommendations are generally sensible and nondogmatic. In trying to keep her discussions nonthreatening, Holzer comes up with overly cutesy phrases such as “financial first date” and “financial state of the union.” These juxtapose uneasily with such elements as her two-page “net worth worksheet” and her self-quizzes that require such things as a ranking in order of the relative importance of exotic vacations, children’s college, a nicer home, cars, investments and retirement savings. Holzer’s narrative seems directed at people who have minimal familiarity with financial terms, but her self-evaluation material assumes a fair degree of knowledge. Thumb through the book before buying it to make sure you do not feel Holzer is talking down to you – or asking you to make calculations that you feel are above your comfort level.
Style aside, Financial Bliss offers valuable insights into ways in which money can help bring people closer or pull them apart. For example, she urges readers to look at previous significant relationships from a financial standpoint – how was money handled and what were the fights about? She emphasizes the importance of talking with your partner, and explains how to decide whether you should combine your financial accounts or keep them separate. She leavens advice that could easily become dry by giving examples of the problems facing couples she has counseled (and the solutions they found), and by sometimes discussing her own marital accommodations to money: “Now he has his accounts and I have mine, and we have ours.” Her suggestions for unmarried couples, whose legal status can be tricky to pin down on financial documents, are particularly helpful. And her analyses of ways to prepare for major life events, such as children and retirement, are helpful if far short of comprehensive. “Having your finances in order and having sufficient money buys you security,” writes Holzer in discussing retirement – but the statement is actually true of all life stages, and thus can be a useful focal point for couples trying to use Holzer’s book as a basic guide to getting along better on the level of dollars and cents.
(+++) MENOPAUSE MEETS ITS MATCH
Muscle Your Way Through Menopause…and Beyond. By Judith Sherman-Wolin. Da Capo. $17.95.
This book has only one idea. But it happens to be the idea for women facing or going through menopause – or having passed through it. The idea is to exercise regularly to keep your muscles toned and your strength up, so that the negative aspects of menopausal and post-menopausal life will be minimized.
Fitness instructor Judith Sherman-Wolin’s book is designed to show women how to implement the advice that their doctors are sure to give them: stay active to stay healthy. The hormonal changes that bring menopause about can slow a woman’s metabolism, sap her energy, reduce her strength and make her vulnerable to falls, broken bones and a significant deterioration in her quality of life.
It doesn’t have to be that way. There is no “magic bullet” to make the process smoother – hormone therapy, once thought to be the solution, was shown in recent years to be fraught with its own problems and to be useful mainly in small doses for a limited amount of time. What women need to do, as Sherman-Wolin points out, is to exercise more regularly and in a more focused way than ever before, not to stave off aging (no one can do that) but to stave off the feelings of weakness and deteriorating physical condition that make a woman look and feel older than she really is.
Doctors tend to urge regular exercise without getting into the specifics of what to do and how to do it. Those are the specifics that Sherman-Wolin provides in Section One of her book – using photo illustrations that, thankfully, include women of the age range for which this book is intended. Rating each exercise on a scale of one to three dumbbells (one is least challenging, three is most), Sherman-Wolin presents activities that focus on specific muscle areas: legs, hips, buttocks, chest, back, arms and so on. She includes both exercises using equipment and ones that require nothing but the body itself. Each description tells how to do the exercise and – this is particularly handy – explains just what muscles it works, how hard it is to do, what equipment (if any) it requires, what body position to do it in, and what to watch out for when doing it (Sherman-Wolin calls this “form watch”). The simple presentation, clear page layout and straightforward photo illustrations make the exercises easy to try.
Less effective are the introductory pages to each section, in which Sherman-Wolin explains why women should do these exercises. If you are not already convinced of the importance of working your muscles, Sherman-Wolin will not provide much motivation – she has nothing new to say here and no new way to say it. A more serious flaw in the book comes in Section Two, “The 6-Week Body & Health Reclamation Programs,” which offers three forms of an “anti-aging workout system.” This section is as intimidating as the preceding ones is user-friendly. Packed with page after page of type – no illustrations – the “Reclamation Programs” look like pages out of a fitness trainer’s handbook, with columns for sets, reps, heart-rate goal, hold time and more, including different requirements at beginner, intermediate and advanced levels. There is nothing wrong with the exercise programs themselves (although the “anti-aging” title is an overdone cliché); but coming in the wake of so many pages of easy-to-use, approachable exercise recommendations, the Section Two programs are off-putting and seem more like demands than recommendations. Sherman-Wolin is right about the importance of exercise during and after menopause (and before it, for that matter). But her book is really two works: a friendly, engaging and helpful one and a forceful, demanding one. It would be more effective as one or the other.
This book has only one idea. But it happens to be the idea for women facing or going through menopause – or having passed through it. The idea is to exercise regularly to keep your muscles toned and your strength up, so that the negative aspects of menopausal and post-menopausal life will be minimized.
Fitness instructor Judith Sherman-Wolin’s book is designed to show women how to implement the advice that their doctors are sure to give them: stay active to stay healthy. The hormonal changes that bring menopause about can slow a woman’s metabolism, sap her energy, reduce her strength and make her vulnerable to falls, broken bones and a significant deterioration in her quality of life.
It doesn’t have to be that way. There is no “magic bullet” to make the process smoother – hormone therapy, once thought to be the solution, was shown in recent years to be fraught with its own problems and to be useful mainly in small doses for a limited amount of time. What women need to do, as Sherman-Wolin points out, is to exercise more regularly and in a more focused way than ever before, not to stave off aging (no one can do that) but to stave off the feelings of weakness and deteriorating physical condition that make a woman look and feel older than she really is.
Doctors tend to urge regular exercise without getting into the specifics of what to do and how to do it. Those are the specifics that Sherman-Wolin provides in Section One of her book – using photo illustrations that, thankfully, include women of the age range for which this book is intended. Rating each exercise on a scale of one to three dumbbells (one is least challenging, three is most), Sherman-Wolin presents activities that focus on specific muscle areas: legs, hips, buttocks, chest, back, arms and so on. She includes both exercises using equipment and ones that require nothing but the body itself. Each description tells how to do the exercise and – this is particularly handy – explains just what muscles it works, how hard it is to do, what equipment (if any) it requires, what body position to do it in, and what to watch out for when doing it (Sherman-Wolin calls this “form watch”). The simple presentation, clear page layout and straightforward photo illustrations make the exercises easy to try.
Less effective are the introductory pages to each section, in which Sherman-Wolin explains why women should do these exercises. If you are not already convinced of the importance of working your muscles, Sherman-Wolin will not provide much motivation – she has nothing new to say here and no new way to say it. A more serious flaw in the book comes in Section Two, “The 6-Week Body & Health Reclamation Programs,” which offers three forms of an “anti-aging workout system.” This section is as intimidating as the preceding ones is user-friendly. Packed with page after page of type – no illustrations – the “Reclamation Programs” look like pages out of a fitness trainer’s handbook, with columns for sets, reps, heart-rate goal, hold time and more, including different requirements at beginner, intermediate and advanced levels. There is nothing wrong with the exercise programs themselves (although the “anti-aging” title is an overdone cliché); but coming in the wake of so many pages of easy-to-use, approachable exercise recommendations, the Section Two programs are off-putting and seem more like demands than recommendations. Sherman-Wolin is right about the importance of exercise during and after menopause (and before it, for that matter). But her book is really two works: a friendly, engaging and helpful one and a forceful, demanding one. It would be more effective as one or the other.
(++++) OF SYMPHONIES AND MARIN ALSOP
Brahms: Symphony No. 3; Variations on a Theme by Haydn. Marin Alsop conducting the London Philharmonic Orchestra. Naxos. $8.99.
Glass: Heroes Symphony; The Light. Marin Alsop conducting the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra. Naxos. $8.99.
Brahms’ Third Symphony would not seem a particularly congenial work for Marin Alsop to conduct. Alsop does well in episodic pieces in which she can treat every element as a miniature, but the Brahms Third is the composer’s most tightly knit symphony, requiring sweep and expansiveness throughout to emphasize the intense connectedness of the movements. So Alsop’s top-notch performance with the London Philharmonic is something of a pleasant surprise. She lets the music flow naturally, giving it only a few of her characteristic emphases (successfully at the end of the first movement, less so in speeding up in the middle of the second). The notoriously difficult rhythms of the finale are handled with aplomb by conductor and orchestra alike, and if the performance does not quite have all-encompassing grandeur, it has a great deal of style and a sense that Alsop thoroughly understands this music – and can communicate that understanding to listeners.
Brahms’ Haydn Variations (whose theme is not really by Haydn) get more of what might be called the “expected” Alsop treatment. Each becomes a small work in itself, with the lovely variations numbers four (Andante con moto) and seven (Grazioso) getting especially loving treatment – expansive, gentle and very well played. The finale of the set is not quite as triumphant as one might wish, and in general the more animated variations do not fare as well as the slower ones. But once again, it is clear that Alsop has her own vision of this piece, and it is highly successful on her own terms.
By the time Philip Glass wrote his Heroes Symphony in 1996, the concept of a symphony as a unified work based on thematic development and careful key structure was long gone. This piece is more a suite than a symphony, its six movements unconnected in any way with each other, its totality lacking any sort of unified vision. Hence, this work is a fine match for Alsop’s talents: here, she can treat each movement as a sort of tone poem, shaping and forming it without regard to any overall sweep. And Alsop does just that, with the skill she regularly brings to performances of 20th-century music. Nevertheless, the work is not an unqualified success – the problem coming more from Glass than from Alsop. This is a composer who never met an ostinato he didn’t like, and who has little idea of how to end what he begins. Heroes Symphony is based on the David Bowie/Brian Eno album Heroes, just as an earlier Glass work, Low Symphony (1993), was based on the duo’s album Low. Adeptly orchestrated and with some interesting instrumental effects, including dramatic use of tuned percussion, Heroes Symphony still comes across as emotionally empty. Alsop’s flashy performance does nothing to counter the notion that this work functions entirely at a surface level, and that there is certainly nothing heroic about it.
Yet Heroes Symphony is more effective than The Light (1987), a work of grand intentions in which the Glass preoccupation with ostinato becomes full-fledged fanaticism. This single-movement work is half the length of the entire six-movement Heroes Symphony, so it requires a degree of shaping and forward motion that Alsop’s performance does not provide. Yet it may be that no conductor could do better. The work pays homage to the Michelson-Morley experiment that confirmed the uniform speed of light and opened the way for Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. This would-be grandiose tribute has a six-minute slow section followed by a fast one that might have worked at the same length but instead goes on three times as long. And it does go on – and on and on and on, to the point at which the hammering, repetitive thematic material is actually painful to hear. It’s a good thing that scientific progress isn’t nearly as boring as Glass’s interpretation of it. Alsop runs through this work matter-of-factly – which, as a matter of fact, makes it almost unlistenable. But the Bournemouth Symphony plays gamely and with great skill, and Alsop certainly deserves credit for continuing to bring close attention to modern and unfamiliar music – even, in this case, a piece that does not hold up under close scrutiny.
Glass: Heroes Symphony; The Light. Marin Alsop conducting the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra. Naxos. $8.99.
Brahms’ Third Symphony would not seem a particularly congenial work for Marin Alsop to conduct. Alsop does well in episodic pieces in which she can treat every element as a miniature, but the Brahms Third is the composer’s most tightly knit symphony, requiring sweep and expansiveness throughout to emphasize the intense connectedness of the movements. So Alsop’s top-notch performance with the London Philharmonic is something of a pleasant surprise. She lets the music flow naturally, giving it only a few of her characteristic emphases (successfully at the end of the first movement, less so in speeding up in the middle of the second). The notoriously difficult rhythms of the finale are handled with aplomb by conductor and orchestra alike, and if the performance does not quite have all-encompassing grandeur, it has a great deal of style and a sense that Alsop thoroughly understands this music – and can communicate that understanding to listeners.
Brahms’ Haydn Variations (whose theme is not really by Haydn) get more of what might be called the “expected” Alsop treatment. Each becomes a small work in itself, with the lovely variations numbers four (Andante con moto) and seven (Grazioso) getting especially loving treatment – expansive, gentle and very well played. The finale of the set is not quite as triumphant as one might wish, and in general the more animated variations do not fare as well as the slower ones. But once again, it is clear that Alsop has her own vision of this piece, and it is highly successful on her own terms.
By the time Philip Glass wrote his Heroes Symphony in 1996, the concept of a symphony as a unified work based on thematic development and careful key structure was long gone. This piece is more a suite than a symphony, its six movements unconnected in any way with each other, its totality lacking any sort of unified vision. Hence, this work is a fine match for Alsop’s talents: here, she can treat each movement as a sort of tone poem, shaping and forming it without regard to any overall sweep. And Alsop does just that, with the skill she regularly brings to performances of 20th-century music. Nevertheless, the work is not an unqualified success – the problem coming more from Glass than from Alsop. This is a composer who never met an ostinato he didn’t like, and who has little idea of how to end what he begins. Heroes Symphony is based on the David Bowie/Brian Eno album Heroes, just as an earlier Glass work, Low Symphony (1993), was based on the duo’s album Low. Adeptly orchestrated and with some interesting instrumental effects, including dramatic use of tuned percussion, Heroes Symphony still comes across as emotionally empty. Alsop’s flashy performance does nothing to counter the notion that this work functions entirely at a surface level, and that there is certainly nothing heroic about it.
Yet Heroes Symphony is more effective than The Light (1987), a work of grand intentions in which the Glass preoccupation with ostinato becomes full-fledged fanaticism. This single-movement work is half the length of the entire six-movement Heroes Symphony, so it requires a degree of shaping and forward motion that Alsop’s performance does not provide. Yet it may be that no conductor could do better. The work pays homage to the Michelson-Morley experiment that confirmed the uniform speed of light and opened the way for Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. This would-be grandiose tribute has a six-minute slow section followed by a fast one that might have worked at the same length but instead goes on three times as long. And it does go on – and on and on and on, to the point at which the hammering, repetitive thematic material is actually painful to hear. It’s a good thing that scientific progress isn’t nearly as boring as Glass’s interpretation of it. Alsop runs through this work matter-of-factly – which, as a matter of fact, makes it almost unlistenable. But the Bournemouth Symphony plays gamely and with great skill, and Alsop certainly deserves credit for continuing to bring close attention to modern and unfamiliar music – even, in this case, a piece that does not hold up under close scrutiny.
January 25, 2007
(++++) WANDA MAKE SOMETHING OF IT?
The WandMaker’s Guidebook. By Ed Masessa. Illustrated by Daniel Jankowski. Designed by Bill Henderson and Daniel Jankowski. Tangerine Press/Scholastic. $19.99.
There is a kind of subspecies of the book evolving: it looks like a book, in some ways it acts like a book, but it is only in part a book. It is really a kit – but not simply a kit from which you make something. You create the whatever-it-is in conjunction with the book part of this hybrid. The WandMaker’s Guidebook is a clear and unusually attractive example of the form.
This is a large-size volume – more than 10 inches wide, a foot high and one-and-a-half inches thick – but it contains only 24 pages of text. And much of the text is not written in standard format. There are pasted-in envelopes containing notes to be removed, unfolded and read, or playing cards to warn the reader about various dangers. There are drawings and photos with captions. There are lists – for example, of woods to avoid and of the “personal favorites” of Coralis, Master WandMaker and the putative author of this tome. There is a small envelope marked “Before Getting Fancy You Might Want to Read This,” inside which is a story of a wand gone awry. There are small books-within-a-book in which Coralis tells of adventures he has had. There is a map of Tibet. There is a picture of a dodo. There are plastic-coated charts of the northern and southern constellations. There are foldouts. There are brief stories of successful wandmakers and “infamous failures.” And there is, after all these items – and taking up most of the thickness of The WandMaker’s Guidebook – an actual “special apprentice wand” with a handle that unscrews.
The point of this production is to help would-be wizards learn about wands, in the context of the particular fantasy world represented by Coralis, so they can try to make one of their own. Blue, yellow and red feathers are packaged in their own compartment near the wand’s resting place, and there are four small vials of items that can go in the wand’s handle: glass beads, crystals, black sand and yellow-brown sand. The importance and power of every item are described and discussed, and in fact the entire text – no matter in what way it is presented – is designed to pull readers into the world of magic wands, helping them understand whence wands draw their power, how to harness that power, what traps to avoid in wandmaking, and what has happened to people who have followed or failed to follow the wandmaker’s art correctly.
Of course this is all arrant nonsense – in real-world terms. But The WandMaker’s Guidebook is a triumph of design, a fascinating alternative reality that fantasy-inclined readers can spend many hours exploring. It has flashes of humor – a supposed news story about wood-borer damage, a picture of a “wand” that is really a violin bow – but for the most part it takes itself (or at least takes its potential readers) seriously, as for instance in explaining the different purposes and uses of the “pendulus,” “tappet” and “forever” types of wands. Cleverly conceptualized and handsomely produced, The WandMaker’s Guidebook will be addictive for fantasy fans in general, and perhaps for would-be Harry Potters and Hermione Grangers in particular.
There is a kind of subspecies of the book evolving: it looks like a book, in some ways it acts like a book, but it is only in part a book. It is really a kit – but not simply a kit from which you make something. You create the whatever-it-is in conjunction with the book part of this hybrid. The WandMaker’s Guidebook is a clear and unusually attractive example of the form.
This is a large-size volume – more than 10 inches wide, a foot high and one-and-a-half inches thick – but it contains only 24 pages of text. And much of the text is not written in standard format. There are pasted-in envelopes containing notes to be removed, unfolded and read, or playing cards to warn the reader about various dangers. There are drawings and photos with captions. There are lists – for example, of woods to avoid and of the “personal favorites” of Coralis, Master WandMaker and the putative author of this tome. There is a small envelope marked “Before Getting Fancy You Might Want to Read This,” inside which is a story of a wand gone awry. There are small books-within-a-book in which Coralis tells of adventures he has had. There is a map of Tibet. There is a picture of a dodo. There are plastic-coated charts of the northern and southern constellations. There are foldouts. There are brief stories of successful wandmakers and “infamous failures.” And there is, after all these items – and taking up most of the thickness of The WandMaker’s Guidebook – an actual “special apprentice wand” with a handle that unscrews.
The point of this production is to help would-be wizards learn about wands, in the context of the particular fantasy world represented by Coralis, so they can try to make one of their own. Blue, yellow and red feathers are packaged in their own compartment near the wand’s resting place, and there are four small vials of items that can go in the wand’s handle: glass beads, crystals, black sand and yellow-brown sand. The importance and power of every item are described and discussed, and in fact the entire text – no matter in what way it is presented – is designed to pull readers into the world of magic wands, helping them understand whence wands draw their power, how to harness that power, what traps to avoid in wandmaking, and what has happened to people who have followed or failed to follow the wandmaker’s art correctly.
Of course this is all arrant nonsense – in real-world terms. But The WandMaker’s Guidebook is a triumph of design, a fascinating alternative reality that fantasy-inclined readers can spend many hours exploring. It has flashes of humor – a supposed news story about wood-borer damage, a picture of a “wand” that is really a violin bow – but for the most part it takes itself (or at least takes its potential readers) seriously, as for instance in explaining the different purposes and uses of the “pendulus,” “tappet” and “forever” types of wands. Cleverly conceptualized and handsomely produced, The WandMaker’s Guidebook will be addictive for fantasy fans in general, and perhaps for would-be Harry Potters and Hermione Grangers in particular.
(++++) MUCH THAT GLITTERS
Robert Kushner: Wild Gardens. Essays by Michael Duncan and Robert Kushner. Pomegranate. $35.
The notion of palimpsest is an old one in art and manuscripts: materials are scarce and expensive, so you take old, unwanted documents or works of art, wash or scrape off the writing or paint on them, and reuse the underlying parchment or canvas. There have been some wonderful finds because of this technique, as modern technology has made it possible to see the imperfectly erased works beneath the new ones. Now artist Robert Kushner has taken palimpsests to a new level, by using discarded Japanese screens and doors as his medium and making oil and acrylic floral paintings, often with gold leaf and glitter, on top of these “found objects.” What is new here is, first of all, the fact that Kushner does not attempt to supplant the pictures and grain of the discards, but incorporates them into his own creations; and second of all, that Kushner utilizes chance in some of his work with the discards, much as composers of aleatoric music or followers of John Cage used chance in their aural creations.
It is possible to overanalyze what Kushner does – indeed, his own essay on working methods and technical restoration issues may take away some of the magic of his creations, at least for some readers. Happily, though, the vast majority of this book is not discussion but pictures, some showing Kushner at work but most displaying the work itself. Kushner, who has “taken on the mantle of Matisse,” as Michael Duncan says in his introductory essay, has created a marvelous world of nature and beauty on the discards he uses as his medium, with pictures that partake of the Japanese sensibility inherent in the screens and doors themselves while still bringing Kushner’s own unique artistic sense to bear.
Thus, “Camellias, 2003” appears on a two-page spread as a study in browns, its flowers outlined in white or pink, their prominent stamens a delicate yellow, but the overall impression of “brownness” communicated not only by the wooden Japanese screen on which Kushner has worked but also through his use of brown for some petals and no color for others, allowing the brown of the screen itself to form the petals.
Gold is a dominant color in many of these works. “Summer Scatter, 2003,” another two-page spread on another Japanese screen, uses oil, acrylic, glitter and gold leaf to construct the delicate branches and beautifully shaped flowers characteristic of much Japanese art – but the primary impression is of the gold of the screen itself. “Mirror in Gold, 2002,” leaves the gold panel on which Kushner paints plain at the center, just as if it is a mirror, surrounding that central area with black, white, yellow and delicate pink flowers and floral outlines.
Kushner’s sensitive use of color is what makes so much of this art so striking. For example, Japanese doors become the dark green, mottled background for “Moonlight, 2003,” with the moon itself a huge golden ball above reeds; and doors are also the background for “Tulip Accumulation, 2004,” where the tulips look like photographic negatives, their petals black but outlined in the oranges, yellows, reds and pinks that, in everyday life, would be the petals’ own colors. Kushner’s work is lovely to look at and, although clearly influenced by the Japanese objects on which it is created, partakes as well of Western sensibilities and of Kushner’s own vision. The fine production quality of Robert Kushner: Wild Gardens makes it a special pleasure to explore Kushner’s flora with him.
The notion of palimpsest is an old one in art and manuscripts: materials are scarce and expensive, so you take old, unwanted documents or works of art, wash or scrape off the writing or paint on them, and reuse the underlying parchment or canvas. There have been some wonderful finds because of this technique, as modern technology has made it possible to see the imperfectly erased works beneath the new ones. Now artist Robert Kushner has taken palimpsests to a new level, by using discarded Japanese screens and doors as his medium and making oil and acrylic floral paintings, often with gold leaf and glitter, on top of these “found objects.” What is new here is, first of all, the fact that Kushner does not attempt to supplant the pictures and grain of the discards, but incorporates them into his own creations; and second of all, that Kushner utilizes chance in some of his work with the discards, much as composers of aleatoric music or followers of John Cage used chance in their aural creations.
It is possible to overanalyze what Kushner does – indeed, his own essay on working methods and technical restoration issues may take away some of the magic of his creations, at least for some readers. Happily, though, the vast majority of this book is not discussion but pictures, some showing Kushner at work but most displaying the work itself. Kushner, who has “taken on the mantle of Matisse,” as Michael Duncan says in his introductory essay, has created a marvelous world of nature and beauty on the discards he uses as his medium, with pictures that partake of the Japanese sensibility inherent in the screens and doors themselves while still bringing Kushner’s own unique artistic sense to bear.
Thus, “Camellias, 2003” appears on a two-page spread as a study in browns, its flowers outlined in white or pink, their prominent stamens a delicate yellow, but the overall impression of “brownness” communicated not only by the wooden Japanese screen on which Kushner has worked but also through his use of brown for some petals and no color for others, allowing the brown of the screen itself to form the petals.
Gold is a dominant color in many of these works. “Summer Scatter, 2003,” another two-page spread on another Japanese screen, uses oil, acrylic, glitter and gold leaf to construct the delicate branches and beautifully shaped flowers characteristic of much Japanese art – but the primary impression is of the gold of the screen itself. “Mirror in Gold, 2002,” leaves the gold panel on which Kushner paints plain at the center, just as if it is a mirror, surrounding that central area with black, white, yellow and delicate pink flowers and floral outlines.
Kushner’s sensitive use of color is what makes so much of this art so striking. For example, Japanese doors become the dark green, mottled background for “Moonlight, 2003,” with the moon itself a huge golden ball above reeds; and doors are also the background for “Tulip Accumulation, 2004,” where the tulips look like photographic negatives, their petals black but outlined in the oranges, yellows, reds and pinks that, in everyday life, would be the petals’ own colors. Kushner’s work is lovely to look at and, although clearly influenced by the Japanese objects on which it is created, partakes as well of Western sensibilities and of Kushner’s own vision. The fine production quality of Robert Kushner: Wild Gardens makes it a special pleasure to explore Kushner’s flora with him.
(++++) RUNNING FROM AND RUNNING TO
Runaway. By Wendelin Van Draanen. Knopf. $15.95.
Wendelin Van Draanen’s Sammy Keyes series is a well-above-average example of the young-girl-detective genre (and if that’s not really a genre, it should be). Sammy’s tales are darker than the Nancy Drew stories to which they ultimately trace back, with threats that seem real and some genuinely bad people committing (or trying to commit) some genuinely evil deeds. But nothing in the series is as gritty as Runaway, which is a spinoff of the Sammy Keyes tales.
When it was published in 1999, Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy included a scene in which Sammy rescued a homeless 12-year-old girl who was living in a refrigerator box. Runaway is the story of that girl, Holly – of how she became homeless, how she survived without a place to live, and how she eventually, after much travail, found a family into which to fit.
To show how dark this story is: that refrigerator carton from which Sammy rescues the girl becomes, in Runaway, the first real home and apparent safe haven that Holly has known in a long time. There is no Sammy to help Holly here, but she does eventually (and very reluctantly, after a lot of understandable suspicion) find a friend; and it is through that friend that Holly is finally able to live somewhere better than a refrigerator box.
Although intended for readers ages 10 and up, Runaway will be too intense for many preteens and even some teenagers. Van Draanen avoids the easy brutality that is all too common in novels about troubled young people – there is no history of sexual abuse or physical violence in Holly’s tale – and for that very reason the story comes alive with a sense of “this could happen to me.” That’s scary.
Van Draanen’s readers, of course, are unlikely ever to experience the set of circumstances that bring Holly to homelessness: absent father; loving and well-meaning mother who develops a drug addiction that eventually costs her her home, her daughter and then her life; and a series of disastrous encounters with social-services providers, girls Holly’s own age, and older people who seem to care but really just want Holly out of their lives as quickly as possible. Still, Holly’s experiences have the ring of plausibility – Van Draanen is a meticulous researcher – and this story may well shock readers into realizing just how close they are to a situation like Holly’s, even if they will never experience the real thing.
It should be pointed out that Van Draanen’s main plot device – Holly determinedly keeps a journal of everything, no matter what happens to her, and her entries make up the book’s narrative – is a little too facile, straining the book’s hard-won credibility. Still, the journal approach, even if unrealistic, is highly involving, and young readers who are drawn into Holly’s world will find that her writings make her a flesh-and-blood character with every bit as much solidity as Sammy Keyes has ever possessed.
Wendelin Van Draanen’s Sammy Keyes series is a well-above-average example of the young-girl-detective genre (and if that’s not really a genre, it should be). Sammy’s tales are darker than the Nancy Drew stories to which they ultimately trace back, with threats that seem real and some genuinely bad people committing (or trying to commit) some genuinely evil deeds. But nothing in the series is as gritty as Runaway, which is a spinoff of the Sammy Keyes tales.
When it was published in 1999, Sammy Keyes and the Sisters of Mercy included a scene in which Sammy rescued a homeless 12-year-old girl who was living in a refrigerator box. Runaway is the story of that girl, Holly – of how she became homeless, how she survived without a place to live, and how she eventually, after much travail, found a family into which to fit.
To show how dark this story is: that refrigerator carton from which Sammy rescues the girl becomes, in Runaway, the first real home and apparent safe haven that Holly has known in a long time. There is no Sammy to help Holly here, but she does eventually (and very reluctantly, after a lot of understandable suspicion) find a friend; and it is through that friend that Holly is finally able to live somewhere better than a refrigerator box.
Although intended for readers ages 10 and up, Runaway will be too intense for many preteens and even some teenagers. Van Draanen avoids the easy brutality that is all too common in novels about troubled young people – there is no history of sexual abuse or physical violence in Holly’s tale – and for that very reason the story comes alive with a sense of “this could happen to me.” That’s scary.
Van Draanen’s readers, of course, are unlikely ever to experience the set of circumstances that bring Holly to homelessness: absent father; loving and well-meaning mother who develops a drug addiction that eventually costs her her home, her daughter and then her life; and a series of disastrous encounters with social-services providers, girls Holly’s own age, and older people who seem to care but really just want Holly out of their lives as quickly as possible. Still, Holly’s experiences have the ring of plausibility – Van Draanen is a meticulous researcher – and this story may well shock readers into realizing just how close they are to a situation like Holly’s, even if they will never experience the real thing.
It should be pointed out that Van Draanen’s main plot device – Holly determinedly keeps a journal of everything, no matter what happens to her, and her entries make up the book’s narrative – is a little too facile, straining the book’s hard-won credibility. Still, the journal approach, even if unrealistic, is highly involving, and young readers who are drawn into Holly’s world will find that her writings make her a flesh-and-blood character with every bit as much solidity as Sammy Keyes has ever possessed.
(+++) SHORT AND SWEET
The Dog: Why Are Dogs’ Noses Wet? And Other True Facts. By Howie Dewin. Scholastic. $3.99.
The Dog: Is a Paw a Foot? By Kris Hirschmann. Scholastic. $3.99.
Ghosthunters No. 3: Ghosthunters and the Totally Moldy Baroness! By Cornelia Funke. Chicken House/Scholastic. $4.99.
Rainbow Magic: The Weather Fairies. No. 6: Storm the Lightning Fairy. By Daisy Meadows. Little Apple/Scholastic. $4.99.
Books need not be weighty to be fun. Sometimes it helps if they are not weighty, if they are trying to get kids interested in facts rather than escapism. Take the case of the instructive canines in The Dog: Why Are Dogs’ Noses Wet? and The Dog: Is a Paw a Foot? These brief paperbacks from Scholastic’s “Artlist Collection,” one about dogs’ physiology and the other about measurement, use a wide variety of adorable puppies and dogs to explain (in Noses) why dogs drool and why they howl at the moon (or seem to); and (in Paw) to discuss smaller vs. bigger, longer vs. shorter, and other elements of measuring things. Although neither book runs more than 32 pages, there is room for humor: “You might not think a dog whistle makes noise, but we think they sound like the inside of a tuba!” And: “Is it better to be long or short? It depends. A long leash is always better than a short one. But short toenails are definitely the way to go.” Most of the subject matter in the books is serious, but it is kept interesting by having it presented from a dog’s viewpoint. Thus, from Noses, “Ears…do a lot more than just listen. We dogs use our ears to talk, too.” And from Paw: “We dogs think that standard measurement units make lots of sense.” Even in Paw, there are dog facts in addition to measurement information, with the two cleverly interrelated, as in an explanation of what the Iditarod race is and how far dogs pull a sled during it. In both books, the basic information is simple and factual, but the dogs make it special – and interesting.
Sometimes, of course, short books are brief simply because they are light reading, and do not need many pages to tell a story. Cornelia Funke’s Ghosthunters series is a cut above many silly sequences because Funke writes so well, but even as the books start to become somewhat standardized – which is what happens in the third entry, on the Totally Moldy Baroness – Ghosthunters remains paced cleverly enough to make a fast read fun. By now, these books have settled into a pattern, as ghosthunters Hetty Hunter and Tom, aided by a helpful ghost called Hugo, answer someone’s call for assistance and find themselves battling a ghost that is described by various acronyms. In this book, the bad Baroness is a GHADAP (GHost with A DArk Past), a subspecies of HIGA (HIstorical Ghostly Apparition), and of course is difficult to defeat, and of course is defeated. It’s all done quickly and amusingly, with a touch of scariness here and there.
Even quicker are the seven books of The Weather Fairies series, the newest being the sixth, Storm the Lightning Fairy. The thin plot has friends Rachel and Kirsty helping fairies recover their lost magical objects – feathers from a weathervane – which have been stolen by Jack Frost in the usual bid for power and mischief. Actually, it’s Jack’s goblins that do the thieving, and they’re much better at getting the fairies’ power sources than at using them (they always mess things up) or holding onto them (Kirsty and Rachel always outthink them). After the girls help Storm, they are warned that Jack Frost himself will come if they keep outwitting his goblins – so there’s the plot of the upcoming final book in this easy-to-read series.
The Dog: Is a Paw a Foot? By Kris Hirschmann. Scholastic. $3.99.
Ghosthunters No. 3: Ghosthunters and the Totally Moldy Baroness! By Cornelia Funke. Chicken House/Scholastic. $4.99.
Rainbow Magic: The Weather Fairies. No. 6: Storm the Lightning Fairy. By Daisy Meadows. Little Apple/Scholastic. $4.99.
Books need not be weighty to be fun. Sometimes it helps if they are not weighty, if they are trying to get kids interested in facts rather than escapism. Take the case of the instructive canines in The Dog: Why Are Dogs’ Noses Wet? and The Dog: Is a Paw a Foot? These brief paperbacks from Scholastic’s “Artlist Collection,” one about dogs’ physiology and the other about measurement, use a wide variety of adorable puppies and dogs to explain (in Noses) why dogs drool and why they howl at the moon (or seem to); and (in Paw) to discuss smaller vs. bigger, longer vs. shorter, and other elements of measuring things. Although neither book runs more than 32 pages, there is room for humor: “You might not think a dog whistle makes noise, but we think they sound like the inside of a tuba!” And: “Is it better to be long or short? It depends. A long leash is always better than a short one. But short toenails are definitely the way to go.” Most of the subject matter in the books is serious, but it is kept interesting by having it presented from a dog’s viewpoint. Thus, from Noses, “Ears…do a lot more than just listen. We dogs use our ears to talk, too.” And from Paw: “We dogs think that standard measurement units make lots of sense.” Even in Paw, there are dog facts in addition to measurement information, with the two cleverly interrelated, as in an explanation of what the Iditarod race is and how far dogs pull a sled during it. In both books, the basic information is simple and factual, but the dogs make it special – and interesting.
Sometimes, of course, short books are brief simply because they are light reading, and do not need many pages to tell a story. Cornelia Funke’s Ghosthunters series is a cut above many silly sequences because Funke writes so well, but even as the books start to become somewhat standardized – which is what happens in the third entry, on the Totally Moldy Baroness – Ghosthunters remains paced cleverly enough to make a fast read fun. By now, these books have settled into a pattern, as ghosthunters Hetty Hunter and Tom, aided by a helpful ghost called Hugo, answer someone’s call for assistance and find themselves battling a ghost that is described by various acronyms. In this book, the bad Baroness is a GHADAP (GHost with A DArk Past), a subspecies of HIGA (HIstorical Ghostly Apparition), and of course is difficult to defeat, and of course is defeated. It’s all done quickly and amusingly, with a touch of scariness here and there.
Even quicker are the seven books of The Weather Fairies series, the newest being the sixth, Storm the Lightning Fairy. The thin plot has friends Rachel and Kirsty helping fairies recover their lost magical objects – feathers from a weathervane – which have been stolen by Jack Frost in the usual bid for power and mischief. Actually, it’s Jack’s goblins that do the thieving, and they’re much better at getting the fairies’ power sources than at using them (they always mess things up) or holding onto them (Kirsty and Rachel always outthink them). After the girls help Storm, they are warned that Jack Frost himself will come if they keep outwitting his goblins – so there’s the plot of the upcoming final book in this easy-to-read series.
(++++) SMOOTH AND SWEET MAHLER
Mahler: Symphony No. 5. James DePreist conducting the London Symphony Orchestra. Naxos. $8.99.
Gustav Mahler made his famous comment, “My time will yet come,” some 50 years before it did. When Mahler’s time finally arrived, thanks to Bruno Walter’s persistent advocacy through the decades and Leonard Bernstein’s flair and showmanship in the 1960s, it came with such strength that Mahler’s music – especially the symphonies – rapidly became part of the standard orchestral repertoire. The results are frequent performances and lots of recordings – so many that it is reasonable to ask why another one is necessary. The answer, in the case of James DePreist’s version of Mahler’s Fifth with the London Symphony, is that conductors not usually thought of as “Mahler specialists” (that is, ones other than Walter, Bernstein, Haitink, Tennstedt and a few others) frequently reveal things in this music that listeners may not have heard before. There may be lots of Mahler out there, but there is still more to be discovered in his complex, variegated music.
DePreist, now 70 years old, made his debut with the London Symphony only in April 2005, and recorded this Mahler Fifth at the end of that month. So one would not expect perfect rapport between conductor and orchestra; and indeed, there is a greater feeling of mutual respect here than of easy familiarity. This is particularly clear in Part One of the symphony – the first two of its five movements. DePreist insists on some rubato in the first movement, just when the music gets speediest, and the orchestra seems to go along reluctantly, although the playing is never less than smooth. The second movement, the most intense of them all, is simply too well-mannered here – DePreist never asks the orchestra to cut loose, and it does not. And the slowdown at the very end is an unnecessary bit of attempted drama.
But this performance really hits its stride in Part Two (the symphony’s third movement) and Part Three (movements four and five). These sections are simply outstanding. Mahler feared that the third movement would be played too fast, and DePreist understands why it should not be: his pacing is leisurely, expansive, yet highly dramatic. The optimism of this movement contrasts strongly with the funereal and agonized elements of Part One, and if the difference is less clear than it could be here, that is only because Part One could have used extra intensity. Part Two is as sunny as anyone could wish. And Timothy Jones’ solo horn playing is excellent – as indeed is the solo trumpet work of Maurice Murphy in Part One. In fact, the brass and percussion are the strongest parts of the orchestra in the first three movements, playing with vigor, intensity and fine tone throughout.
The strings finally come into their own in Part Three. DePreist makes the lovely fourth movement, scored only for strings and harp, very sweet indeed; there is not a trace of bitterness here, as there sometimes is in other performances. And the finale, which can sometimes seem a disappointment after the vigor and grandeur of all that has come before, here becomes the symphony’s capstone, as Mahler intended. The more-or-less-conventional form of this rondo (the only movement with its basic tempo indications in the traditional Italian rather than in German) is coupled with structural complexity and thematic reminiscences that DePreist brings out very effectively. And when the brass choir enters at the end, the effect is both joyful and filled with high drama. Because of the somewhat weak Part One, this is not the very best Mahler Fifth available; but because of its many excellences, it is a most worthwhile addition to the still-growing Mahler catalogue.
Gustav Mahler made his famous comment, “My time will yet come,” some 50 years before it did. When Mahler’s time finally arrived, thanks to Bruno Walter’s persistent advocacy through the decades and Leonard Bernstein’s flair and showmanship in the 1960s, it came with such strength that Mahler’s music – especially the symphonies – rapidly became part of the standard orchestral repertoire. The results are frequent performances and lots of recordings – so many that it is reasonable to ask why another one is necessary. The answer, in the case of James DePreist’s version of Mahler’s Fifth with the London Symphony, is that conductors not usually thought of as “Mahler specialists” (that is, ones other than Walter, Bernstein, Haitink, Tennstedt and a few others) frequently reveal things in this music that listeners may not have heard before. There may be lots of Mahler out there, but there is still more to be discovered in his complex, variegated music.
DePreist, now 70 years old, made his debut with the London Symphony only in April 2005, and recorded this Mahler Fifth at the end of that month. So one would not expect perfect rapport between conductor and orchestra; and indeed, there is a greater feeling of mutual respect here than of easy familiarity. This is particularly clear in Part One of the symphony – the first two of its five movements. DePreist insists on some rubato in the first movement, just when the music gets speediest, and the orchestra seems to go along reluctantly, although the playing is never less than smooth. The second movement, the most intense of them all, is simply too well-mannered here – DePreist never asks the orchestra to cut loose, and it does not. And the slowdown at the very end is an unnecessary bit of attempted drama.
But this performance really hits its stride in Part Two (the symphony’s third movement) and Part Three (movements four and five). These sections are simply outstanding. Mahler feared that the third movement would be played too fast, and DePreist understands why it should not be: his pacing is leisurely, expansive, yet highly dramatic. The optimism of this movement contrasts strongly with the funereal and agonized elements of Part One, and if the difference is less clear than it could be here, that is only because Part One could have used extra intensity. Part Two is as sunny as anyone could wish. And Timothy Jones’ solo horn playing is excellent – as indeed is the solo trumpet work of Maurice Murphy in Part One. In fact, the brass and percussion are the strongest parts of the orchestra in the first three movements, playing with vigor, intensity and fine tone throughout.
The strings finally come into their own in Part Three. DePreist makes the lovely fourth movement, scored only for strings and harp, very sweet indeed; there is not a trace of bitterness here, as there sometimes is in other performances. And the finale, which can sometimes seem a disappointment after the vigor and grandeur of all that has come before, here becomes the symphony’s capstone, as Mahler intended. The more-or-less-conventional form of this rondo (the only movement with its basic tempo indications in the traditional Italian rather than in German) is coupled with structural complexity and thematic reminiscences that DePreist brings out very effectively. And when the brass choir enters at the end, the effect is both joyful and filled with high drama. Because of the somewhat weak Part One, this is not the very best Mahler Fifth available; but because of its many excellences, it is a most worthwhile addition to the still-growing Mahler catalogue.
(+++) ONE OF POSTERITY'S ALSO-RANS
Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst: Fantaisie Brillante sur la Marche et la Romance d’Otello de Rossini; Concerto in F-sharp minor (Concerto Allegro-Pathétique); Elégie sur la mort d’un objet chéri; Concertino in D major; Rondo Papageno. Ilya Grubert, violin; Russian Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Dmitry Yablonsky. Naxos. $8.99.
The neglect of composers after their death – the judgment of musical history – is not always easy to understand. Leopold Mozart gave up his composing career to manage the future of young Wolfgang, but the father did leave behind some very fine music that deserves to be heard more often, from his Toy Symphony to a well-wrought horn concerto. Ferdinand Ries, once Beethoven’s secretary, created eight interesting symphonies that are now rarely performed. Anton Rubinstein wrote six well-crafted symphonies, plus five substantial piano concerti, but all have been consigned to near-total oblivion.
Rubinstein’s case is somewhat parallel to that of Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst (1814-1865). Rubinstein was universally acknowledged as a great pianist in his own time, but his showy compositions did not do well when he was no longer around to play them. Similarly, the great violin virtuoso Joseph Joachim considered Ernst the best violinist of Joachim’s time, which is quite an endorsement. But later generations had little interest in music that Ernst had composed largely for his own use. This new CD of Ernst’s music argues that while total neglect of this composer is unfair, it is in some ways understandable.
Ernst modeled himself on Paganini, but sought greater lyricism and more depth of emotion than that ultra-virtuoso was known for. Still, Ernst’s fame rested on his playing, not his compositions – which he wrote to showcase his particular technical and expressive strengths. Now, 140-plus years after Ernst’s death, when we have only the music itself, it is fair to say that while it has moments of beauty and sections of extraordinary virtuosity, it does not wear particularly well. It draws attention to technique, not emotion or even structure. Ilya Grubert – whose 1740 Guarnieri violin once belonged to Henryk Wieniawski – plays with tremendous style and panache; he is certainly as good an advocate for Ernst’s music as it is likely to get. For the most part, though, the pieces themselves do not have much to offer. The Fantaisie Brillante is a Liszt-style exposition and expansion of two pieces from Rossini’s Otello, and is an effective showpiece. The Elégie is a pleasant, mildly melancholy meditation. Of the two concerti – the one called Concertino is actually longer – the F sharp minor alternates demanding and lyrical sections but offers little of interest thematically. The D major is more interesting, opening with an orchestral tutti that resembles those in Paganini’s concerti and continuing on a moderately grand scale – although the finale is lacking in tunefulness. The most interesting work here is Rondo Papageno, because it is a pure showpiece and it is almost possible to imagine Ernst himself romping through it. Based loosely on Papageno’s song from Mozart’s The Magic Flute, it features some attractive writing for an actual flute plus some violin imitations of the instrument (through clever use of harmonics). Ernst’s music is far from great, but it does have its moments, and Grubert – with the Russian Philharmonic Orchestra under Dmitry Yablonsky providing excellent orchestral accompaniment – certainly makes the most of what is there.
The neglect of composers after their death – the judgment of musical history – is not always easy to understand. Leopold Mozart gave up his composing career to manage the future of young Wolfgang, but the father did leave behind some very fine music that deserves to be heard more often, from his Toy Symphony to a well-wrought horn concerto. Ferdinand Ries, once Beethoven’s secretary, created eight interesting symphonies that are now rarely performed. Anton Rubinstein wrote six well-crafted symphonies, plus five substantial piano concerti, but all have been consigned to near-total oblivion.
Rubinstein’s case is somewhat parallel to that of Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst (1814-1865). Rubinstein was universally acknowledged as a great pianist in his own time, but his showy compositions did not do well when he was no longer around to play them. Similarly, the great violin virtuoso Joseph Joachim considered Ernst the best violinist of Joachim’s time, which is quite an endorsement. But later generations had little interest in music that Ernst had composed largely for his own use. This new CD of Ernst’s music argues that while total neglect of this composer is unfair, it is in some ways understandable.
Ernst modeled himself on Paganini, but sought greater lyricism and more depth of emotion than that ultra-virtuoso was known for. Still, Ernst’s fame rested on his playing, not his compositions – which he wrote to showcase his particular technical and expressive strengths. Now, 140-plus years after Ernst’s death, when we have only the music itself, it is fair to say that while it has moments of beauty and sections of extraordinary virtuosity, it does not wear particularly well. It draws attention to technique, not emotion or even structure. Ilya Grubert – whose 1740 Guarnieri violin once belonged to Henryk Wieniawski – plays with tremendous style and panache; he is certainly as good an advocate for Ernst’s music as it is likely to get. For the most part, though, the pieces themselves do not have much to offer. The Fantaisie Brillante is a Liszt-style exposition and expansion of two pieces from Rossini’s Otello, and is an effective showpiece. The Elégie is a pleasant, mildly melancholy meditation. Of the two concerti – the one called Concertino is actually longer – the F sharp minor alternates demanding and lyrical sections but offers little of interest thematically. The D major is more interesting, opening with an orchestral tutti that resembles those in Paganini’s concerti and continuing on a moderately grand scale – although the finale is lacking in tunefulness. The most interesting work here is Rondo Papageno, because it is a pure showpiece and it is almost possible to imagine Ernst himself romping through it. Based loosely on Papageno’s song from Mozart’s The Magic Flute, it features some attractive writing for an actual flute plus some violin imitations of the instrument (through clever use of harmonics). Ernst’s music is far from great, but it does have its moments, and Grubert – with the Russian Philharmonic Orchestra under Dmitry Yablonsky providing excellent orchestral accompaniment – certainly makes the most of what is there.
January 18, 2007
(++++) FAIRY TALES WITH ZING
The Fairy’s Return and Other Princess Tales. By Gail Carson Levine. HarperCollins. $14.99.
Gail Carson Levine is best known for Ella Enchanted, but her six “Princess Tales” are every bit as enchanting and at least equally clever. This new book collects them all.
Written between 1999 and 2002, the “Princess Tales” are anything-but-typical recastings and reconsiderations of familiar and less-familiar fairy tales. The first of them, “The Fairy’s Mistake,” is a deliciously skewed version of the old story of the good and bad sisters who are respectively rewarded and punished for the way they respond to the request of an old lady – a fairy in disguise – for a share of their food. Yes, the good girl produces jewels when she speaks, and a prince falls in love with her and asks her to marry him; and yes, the bad girl speaks toads (and insects and reptiles and more, in Levine’s version). But what makes Levine so different from other retellers is that this is, for her, only the starting point. It turns out that the good girl is made miserable by her gift, while the bad one turns her punishment to her advantage – and the fairy is simply furious at how everything works out. Eventually, all does turn out well – Levine makes the sisters twins, which helps a lot – and the fairy ends up punishing herself by spending seven years flying without landing at all. We learn this in “The Fairy’s Return,” which is an update and sendup of the tale of the sticky golden goose whose master ends up with a parade of people trailing behind him, all stuck together, thus making a princess laugh and winning her hand. Except that in Levine’s version, he has won her heart already, and even after the goose trick, the king won’t let him marry his daughter until the lad accomplishes several seemingly impossible tasks – with which the fairy helps him, thus regaining her self-confidence.
This is wonderful stuff. Intended for ages 7-12 – and unfortunately bearing a cover whose photo of a very young girl may turn away older readers who would otherwise enjoy these stories quite a bit – The Fairy’s Return and Other Princess Tales succeeds in part by applying just the tiniest bit of logic to some of the old stories. For example, in “For Biddle’s Sake,” which partakes of “Rapunzel” and other tales, we have a girl accidentally transformed into a toad by a misguided spell cast by the fairy with whom she lives. Now, this girl – named not Rapunzel (a green known as rampion) but Parsley, for the equally green food she most loves to eat – thinks through her predicament and realizes something important. Obviously, as a human, she cannot do magic, since (as the fairy has told her) only magical creatures can do that. But now that she has been transformed into a toad, isn’t she a magical creature? This provides the key to the eventual happy ending of the story.
Yes, all six tales end happily, including “The Princess Test” (which is “The Princess and the Pea” taken to ridiculous lengths); “Cinderellis and the Glass Hill” (in which Cinderella is a boy and something of a crackpot inventor, except that his inventions save the day); and “Princess Sonora and the Long Sleep” (in which Levine applies logic to what Sleeping Beauty and the residents of the castle would look like and smell like after a hundred-year slumber). Filled with wit and silliness, often in equal measure, Levine’s “Princess Tales” are all stuff and nonsense – but as in the original stories they expand and lovingly parody, there are bits of wisdom lurking amid the amusements, too. This collection is, to put it plainly and simply, enchanting.
Gail Carson Levine is best known for Ella Enchanted, but her six “Princess Tales” are every bit as enchanting and at least equally clever. This new book collects them all.
Written between 1999 and 2002, the “Princess Tales” are anything-but-typical recastings and reconsiderations of familiar and less-familiar fairy tales. The first of them, “The Fairy’s Mistake,” is a deliciously skewed version of the old story of the good and bad sisters who are respectively rewarded and punished for the way they respond to the request of an old lady – a fairy in disguise – for a share of their food. Yes, the good girl produces jewels when she speaks, and a prince falls in love with her and asks her to marry him; and yes, the bad girl speaks toads (and insects and reptiles and more, in Levine’s version). But what makes Levine so different from other retellers is that this is, for her, only the starting point. It turns out that the good girl is made miserable by her gift, while the bad one turns her punishment to her advantage – and the fairy is simply furious at how everything works out. Eventually, all does turn out well – Levine makes the sisters twins, which helps a lot – and the fairy ends up punishing herself by spending seven years flying without landing at all. We learn this in “The Fairy’s Return,” which is an update and sendup of the tale of the sticky golden goose whose master ends up with a parade of people trailing behind him, all stuck together, thus making a princess laugh and winning her hand. Except that in Levine’s version, he has won her heart already, and even after the goose trick, the king won’t let him marry his daughter until the lad accomplishes several seemingly impossible tasks – with which the fairy helps him, thus regaining her self-confidence.
This is wonderful stuff. Intended for ages 7-12 – and unfortunately bearing a cover whose photo of a very young girl may turn away older readers who would otherwise enjoy these stories quite a bit – The Fairy’s Return and Other Princess Tales succeeds in part by applying just the tiniest bit of logic to some of the old stories. For example, in “For Biddle’s Sake,” which partakes of “Rapunzel” and other tales, we have a girl accidentally transformed into a toad by a misguided spell cast by the fairy with whom she lives. Now, this girl – named not Rapunzel (a green known as rampion) but Parsley, for the equally green food she most loves to eat – thinks through her predicament and realizes something important. Obviously, as a human, she cannot do magic, since (as the fairy has told her) only magical creatures can do that. But now that she has been transformed into a toad, isn’t she a magical creature? This provides the key to the eventual happy ending of the story.
Yes, all six tales end happily, including “The Princess Test” (which is “The Princess and the Pea” taken to ridiculous lengths); “Cinderellis and the Glass Hill” (in which Cinderella is a boy and something of a crackpot inventor, except that his inventions save the day); and “Princess Sonora and the Long Sleep” (in which Levine applies logic to what Sleeping Beauty and the residents of the castle would look like and smell like after a hundred-year slumber). Filled with wit and silliness, often in equal measure, Levine’s “Princess Tales” are all stuff and nonsense – but as in the original stories they expand and lovingly parody, there are bits of wisdom lurking amid the amusements, too. This collection is, to put it plainly and simply, enchanting.
(++++) ANIMAL WISDOM
Old Turtle. By Douglas Wood. Watercolors by Cheng-Khee Chee. Scholastic. $17.95.
Owen & Mzee: The Language of Friendship. By Isabella Hatkoff, Craig Hatkoff, and Dr. Paula Kahumbu. Photographs by Peter Greste. Scholastic. $16.99.
From the greatest of subjects to the smallest, it sometimes seems that we humans learn best and learn most when animals teach us.
Old Turtle was an outstanding and deservedly award-winning book when first published 15 years ago. The new Scholastic edition, which reproduces Cheng-Khee Chee’s watercolors with exceptional sensitivity, is an excellent reissue. This is one of the very few books about God that is genuinely nondenominational and may be moving even to nonbelievers. It works so well because Douglas Wood tells his story through animals – and through inanimate objects, such as rocks and breezes. It is a simple story, being a parable and a tale of Aesop rolled into one. All the beings of the world debate the nature of God, each arguing that God is like the being himself, herself or itself. The mountain envisions God as a high, snowy peak; the star as a twinkling and shining in the far distance; the antelope as “a runner, swift and free”; and so on. And they fall to arguing, and the argument gets louder and louder, until a seldom-heard voice commandingly tells them to STOP! Surprised, they do – for this is the voice of Old Turtle, who rarely says anything. And Old Turtle tells them they are all correct, and that a new race will appear on Earth that will reflect all the aspects of God. And so humans come into the picture – except that they too fall to arguing, fighting and eventually devastating their planet and all its inhabitants. So the voice of Old Turtle is heard again – and the book comes to a tremendously hopeful, heartwarming and upbeat conclusion that readers will wish could be true. And perhaps it can be – if religion, so frequently turned to such evil and exclusionary purposes, can be harnessed to the notion of something greater than all people and greater than all forms of worship put together…the way Old Turtle harnesses it.
The seriousness and intensity of Old Turtle is remarkable, but its charm is not diminished by the importance of its message – thanks to Wood’s matter-of-fact narrative and the great beauty and warmth of Chee’s watercolors. But Owen & Mzee: The Language of Friendship is in many ways more remarkable still – and not just because of the wonderful photos by Peter Greste. This is a real-life, real-world story: the second Scholastic book about the apparently unprecedented friendship between an orphaned baby hippopotamus named Owen and a 130-year-old giant tortoise named Mzee. Owen was the sole survivor when the tsunami of December 26, 2004, wiped out the group of 20 or so hippos in which he was living. Captured and moved to a wildlife sanctuary in Kenya, he formed an immediate and surprising attachment to Mzee – a real-life Old Turtle who, after some initial bad temper, accepted the young hippo and became Owen’s protector and tutor. The photos in this new book detail the astonishing growth of this unlikely friendship – a sequence showing how each animal tries to get the other moving is really amazing. In the simple, straightforward text, we learn something even more astonishing: tortoise and hippo communicate with sounds that neither species normally makes – they seem to have developed their very own “language of friendship.” This book is gently instructive in its display of exceptional accommodation between two extremely different species (and why cannot humans, who are all the same species, do likewise?). But it is also instructive in another, less happy way: as he grows, Owen is not behaving like a hippo, and seems to think of himself as some sort of giant tortoise. For example, he eats what Mzee eats (which is not what hippos would usually eat), and when Mzee was under veterinary treatment, Owen formed a new friendship with yet another giant tortoise, Toto. So now humans face the difficult decision of whether the amazing Owen-Mzee friendship can and should continue – and, if so, how to let it continue even as Owen grows so large that he could easily hurt Mzee unintentionally. This story is far from over, and if its remarkable upbeat aspects now have a cloud hanging over them – well, that too is something from which we humans can learn.
Owen & Mzee: The Language of Friendship. By Isabella Hatkoff, Craig Hatkoff, and Dr. Paula Kahumbu. Photographs by Peter Greste. Scholastic. $16.99.
From the greatest of subjects to the smallest, it sometimes seems that we humans learn best and learn most when animals teach us.
Old Turtle was an outstanding and deservedly award-winning book when first published 15 years ago. The new Scholastic edition, which reproduces Cheng-Khee Chee’s watercolors with exceptional sensitivity, is an excellent reissue. This is one of the very few books about God that is genuinely nondenominational and may be moving even to nonbelievers. It works so well because Douglas Wood tells his story through animals – and through inanimate objects, such as rocks and breezes. It is a simple story, being a parable and a tale of Aesop rolled into one. All the beings of the world debate the nature of God, each arguing that God is like the being himself, herself or itself. The mountain envisions God as a high, snowy peak; the star as a twinkling and shining in the far distance; the antelope as “a runner, swift and free”; and so on. And they fall to arguing, and the argument gets louder and louder, until a seldom-heard voice commandingly tells them to STOP! Surprised, they do – for this is the voice of Old Turtle, who rarely says anything. And Old Turtle tells them they are all correct, and that a new race will appear on Earth that will reflect all the aspects of God. And so humans come into the picture – except that they too fall to arguing, fighting and eventually devastating their planet and all its inhabitants. So the voice of Old Turtle is heard again – and the book comes to a tremendously hopeful, heartwarming and upbeat conclusion that readers will wish could be true. And perhaps it can be – if religion, so frequently turned to such evil and exclusionary purposes, can be harnessed to the notion of something greater than all people and greater than all forms of worship put together…the way Old Turtle harnesses it.
The seriousness and intensity of Old Turtle is remarkable, but its charm is not diminished by the importance of its message – thanks to Wood’s matter-of-fact narrative and the great beauty and warmth of Chee’s watercolors. But Owen & Mzee: The Language of Friendship is in many ways more remarkable still – and not just because of the wonderful photos by Peter Greste. This is a real-life, real-world story: the second Scholastic book about the apparently unprecedented friendship between an orphaned baby hippopotamus named Owen and a 130-year-old giant tortoise named Mzee. Owen was the sole survivor when the tsunami of December 26, 2004, wiped out the group of 20 or so hippos in which he was living. Captured and moved to a wildlife sanctuary in Kenya, he formed an immediate and surprising attachment to Mzee – a real-life Old Turtle who, after some initial bad temper, accepted the young hippo and became Owen’s protector and tutor. The photos in this new book detail the astonishing growth of this unlikely friendship – a sequence showing how each animal tries to get the other moving is really amazing. In the simple, straightforward text, we learn something even more astonishing: tortoise and hippo communicate with sounds that neither species normally makes – they seem to have developed their very own “language of friendship.” This book is gently instructive in its display of exceptional accommodation between two extremely different species (and why cannot humans, who are all the same species, do likewise?). But it is also instructive in another, less happy way: as he grows, Owen is not behaving like a hippo, and seems to think of himself as some sort of giant tortoise. For example, he eats what Mzee eats (which is not what hippos would usually eat), and when Mzee was under veterinary treatment, Owen formed a new friendship with yet another giant tortoise, Toto. So now humans face the difficult decision of whether the amazing Owen-Mzee friendship can and should continue – and, if so, how to let it continue even as Owen grows so large that he could easily hurt Mzee unintentionally. This story is far from over, and if its remarkable upbeat aspects now have a cloud hanging over them – well, that too is something from which we humans can learn.
(++++) GIRLS OF PLUCK AND POWER
Flora Segunda. By Ysabeau S. Wilce. Harcourt. $17.
Beka Cooper, Book I: Terrier. By Tamora Pierce. Random House. $18.95.
Heroines who grow and grow up during their books, who survive and prosper through brains rather than beauty (even when they have the latter), who make mistakes and pay for them and emerge stronger as a result, and who above all remain true to their own inner cores – these are the central characters in Flora Segunda and Beka Cooper: Terrier.
First-time novelist Ysabeau S. Wilce (what an enchanting name!) and longtime Tortall chronicler Tamora Pierce are equally adept in these novels at creating central characters who rise above formula, and plots with sufficient intricacy to keep readers turning pages – in Pierce’s case, a lot of pages (nearly 600). Wilce has a very strange imagination indeed: her protagonist, whose actual name is Flora Fyrdraaca (think “firedragon”), lives in a house of 11,000 rooms, which shift at random. Those confusingly mobile staircases in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books are nothing compared with Crackpot Hall, which is presided over by Flora’s commanding mother (commanding indeed: she is Commanding General of the Army of Califa). Flora’s father, Poppy, is quite ineffectual, and Crackpot Hall is a mess because the Butler who used to take care of it, Valefor, has been banished. Why? Well, Flora Segunda is an immensely and delightfully complicated novel, with secrets within secrets and machinations within machinations. The title itself is a plot point: it seems there was once another Flora, who was captured in war along with Poppy, but who was not ransomed when Poppy was. It takes some time to figure out what is going on here, and it is time well spent. Wilce blithely tosses out amusing and portentous echoes of other supernaturally inclined works, such as a book called the Eschatanomicon, which the Butler – whom Flora finds while being somewhere she should not be – gives to the girl (“he reached up and plucked Something from Nothing”), and whose wonderful title echoes that of the dread Necronomicon invented by H.P. Lovecraft. The Butler, Valefor, wants Flora to restore his power so he can make everything tidy again at Crackpot Hall (yeah, right), and he has some insights into the Fyrdraacas that are just a little too knowledgeable. Oh, and then there is the red dog…well, there is actually a lot in Flora Segunda, and just about all of it is wonderful, including the chapter titles, such as “Nausea. Discussion. Tea. Sigils.” and “Ambushed. Gramatica Exclamations. A Coyote.”
What Flora eventually learns is this: “Nothing is stronger than your Will. …No one can take you from yourself, Flora, unless you allow them to.” And this is what Rebakah Cooper, called Beka, learns as well in the first book of her adventures – which is Tamora Pierce’s 15th tale of the medieval realm of Tortall. This novel takes place early in the human era of Tortall, specifically in 246 H.E., when Beka is a rookie member of the Provost’s Dogs – the nickname the people of the city of Corus give to the Provost’s Guard. The Dogs are law enforcers in a world of magic, and their rookies are deemed Puppies. Once accepted by the Dogs, Beka asks for duty in the Lower City, where she was born – a rough area whose veteran Dogs, Mattes and Clary, are none too happy about their new assistant. This could be simply a police procedural in medieval guise, but of course Pierce makes it much more. She gives Beka a magical power that does not in itself seem like much but that quickly brings Beka into contact with more magic than she can handle. Beka is a listener: she hears the information that flows like air through the Lower City, whether whispered by people, by pigeons or by ghosts. And it is through this listening that Beka learns of a terrifying threat to the order the Dogs are sworn to uphold: a brutal someone, or something, that is orchestrating a crime wave while frightening the entire population into submission and silence. Beka comes across as quite human – she says of a boy, “He makes my skin, my peaches, and my other parts tingle in an agreeable way,” and comments elsewhere, “I hate it when people talk about me whilst I’m in the room.” But she is first and foremost a Provost’s Dog, or is becoming one – and it is the way she handles herself in her first case that earns her the admiration of the residents of Corus, who give her the compliment of calling her Terrier. There will be further Beka Cooper adventures, further challenges, further nefarious doings, and further chances for this Terrier to grab evildoers and refuse to let go. Good thing, too: this first Beka book, for all its length, will leave readers wanting more.
Beka Cooper, Book I: Terrier. By Tamora Pierce. Random House. $18.95.
Heroines who grow and grow up during their books, who survive and prosper through brains rather than beauty (even when they have the latter), who make mistakes and pay for them and emerge stronger as a result, and who above all remain true to their own inner cores – these are the central characters in Flora Segunda and Beka Cooper: Terrier.
First-time novelist Ysabeau S. Wilce (what an enchanting name!) and longtime Tortall chronicler Tamora Pierce are equally adept in these novels at creating central characters who rise above formula, and plots with sufficient intricacy to keep readers turning pages – in Pierce’s case, a lot of pages (nearly 600). Wilce has a very strange imagination indeed: her protagonist, whose actual name is Flora Fyrdraaca (think “firedragon”), lives in a house of 11,000 rooms, which shift at random. Those confusingly mobile staircases in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books are nothing compared with Crackpot Hall, which is presided over by Flora’s commanding mother (commanding indeed: she is Commanding General of the Army of Califa). Flora’s father, Poppy, is quite ineffectual, and Crackpot Hall is a mess because the Butler who used to take care of it, Valefor, has been banished. Why? Well, Flora Segunda is an immensely and delightfully complicated novel, with secrets within secrets and machinations within machinations. The title itself is a plot point: it seems there was once another Flora, who was captured in war along with Poppy, but who was not ransomed when Poppy was. It takes some time to figure out what is going on here, and it is time well spent. Wilce blithely tosses out amusing and portentous echoes of other supernaturally inclined works, such as a book called the Eschatanomicon, which the Butler – whom Flora finds while being somewhere she should not be – gives to the girl (“he reached up and plucked Something from Nothing”), and whose wonderful title echoes that of the dread Necronomicon invented by H.P. Lovecraft. The Butler, Valefor, wants Flora to restore his power so he can make everything tidy again at Crackpot Hall (yeah, right), and he has some insights into the Fyrdraacas that are just a little too knowledgeable. Oh, and then there is the red dog…well, there is actually a lot in Flora Segunda, and just about all of it is wonderful, including the chapter titles, such as “Nausea. Discussion. Tea. Sigils.” and “Ambushed. Gramatica Exclamations. A Coyote.”
What Flora eventually learns is this: “Nothing is stronger than your Will. …No one can take you from yourself, Flora, unless you allow them to.” And this is what Rebakah Cooper, called Beka, learns as well in the first book of her adventures – which is Tamora Pierce’s 15th tale of the medieval realm of Tortall. This novel takes place early in the human era of Tortall, specifically in 246 H.E., when Beka is a rookie member of the Provost’s Dogs – the nickname the people of the city of Corus give to the Provost’s Guard. The Dogs are law enforcers in a world of magic, and their rookies are deemed Puppies. Once accepted by the Dogs, Beka asks for duty in the Lower City, where she was born – a rough area whose veteran Dogs, Mattes and Clary, are none too happy about their new assistant. This could be simply a police procedural in medieval guise, but of course Pierce makes it much more. She gives Beka a magical power that does not in itself seem like much but that quickly brings Beka into contact with more magic than she can handle. Beka is a listener: she hears the information that flows like air through the Lower City, whether whispered by people, by pigeons or by ghosts. And it is through this listening that Beka learns of a terrifying threat to the order the Dogs are sworn to uphold: a brutal someone, or something, that is orchestrating a crime wave while frightening the entire population into submission and silence. Beka comes across as quite human – she says of a boy, “He makes my skin, my peaches, and my other parts tingle in an agreeable way,” and comments elsewhere, “I hate it when people talk about me whilst I’m in the room.” But she is first and foremost a Provost’s Dog, or is becoming one – and it is the way she handles herself in her first case that earns her the admiration of the residents of Corus, who give her the compliment of calling her Terrier. There will be further Beka Cooper adventures, further challenges, further nefarious doings, and further chances for this Terrier to grab evildoers and refuse to let go. Good thing, too: this first Beka book, for all its length, will leave readers wanting more.
(+++) WORK WRECKERS
A Survival Guide to Managing Employees from Hell: Handling Idiots, Whiners, Slackers, and Other Workplace Demons. By Gini Graham Scott, Ph.D. AMACOM. $15.
Bosses have feelings, too. So it seems only fair that Gini Graham Scott, author of A Survival Guide for Working with Bad Bosses (not to mention A Survival Guide for Working with Humans), has now turned the tables (or the desks) and produced a book designed to help bosses handle those people who are usually referred to politely as “problem employees.”
Scott’s books can be counted on to be plainspoken, packed with anecdotes designed to illustrate her points, filled with “take-aways” that summarize each chapter, and written to be as easy to read as possible. They can also be counted on to be a bit blithe and facile in their recommendations, as if workplace problems are really pretty obvious from Scott’s lofty height and are also, when you come right down to it, pretty easy to solve. It therefore helps to read, absorb and even enjoy Scott’s examples of horrible workplace behavior without necessarily accepting the apparent ease of making things better. Her recommendations are usually solid enough, but she tends to toss them out as if they are no big deal – even though, in our litigious society filled with protected classes and aggrieved people of all sorts, making any personnel change can be a monumental struggle.
Give Scott credit: she does not tell bosses that problem employees are invariably idiots who just happen to have gotten hired. In fact, toward the end of A Survival Guide to Managing Employees from Hell, Scott warns bosses that a pattern of employee troubles (real or perceived) may indicate difficulties with the boss himself or herself. Still, the bulk of this book is devoted to workplace jerks of many kinds, and Scott does her usual clear job of showing who they are and how toxic they can be.
There are five sections of the book – bad attitude, incompetence, personal issues, trust and honesty, and communication – plus a sixth, summary section. Within her five main parts, Scott deals specifically with such well-known types as the prima donna, the “arrogant a**hole,” employees protected by the big boss, sensitive souls, people with drug and alcohol problems, flat-out liars, and more. Scott gives an example of the behavior of each type, then asks the reader what ought to be done. The suggested solutions fall into a pattern: fire the offending person, talk to him or her, meet with others in the company affected by his or her behavior, and so on.
Sometimes Scott’s ideas make really good sense. For instance, one case deals with a male Hispanic employee (one of a close-knit employee group that may take offense if anything bad happens to any of them) who grabs a provocatively dressed non-Hispanic woman worker inappropriately. Scott shows how this could work out: the boss immediately and completely supports the woman and then asks her advice on what to do about the man who grabbed her. It turns out she wants him reprimanded but not fired, so the boss does as she suggests and everything turns out well; neither the man nor anyone in his group is offended or quits. This is a good solution if you can arrange it. In other cases, though, Scott describes a situation resolved only by factors that a boss cannot influence. For instance, the company’s top salesman is so nasty and demanding that he reduces clerical staff to tears, causes some people to quit and leads others to try to sabotage him – a dangerous situation for the company if there ever was one. But he is the top salesman. Scott has no specific recommendation here, but acts as if she does, explaining that eventually the salesman lost some deals and learned humility. Fine, but no boss taught him humility – or respect for others.
Even if Scott’s solutions are not always satisfactory, her detailing of the office chaos caused by all sorts of “employees from Hell” is useful for helping managers see that they are not alone, that others face similar difficulties with some workers, and that there are things that a boss can do to handle the occasional super-troublesome person. The key word there is “occasional.” If these people show up on the payroll more than occasionally, it’s more likely the boss than the employees themselves who are at fault.
Bosses have feelings, too. So it seems only fair that Gini Graham Scott, author of A Survival Guide for Working with Bad Bosses (not to mention A Survival Guide for Working with Humans), has now turned the tables (or the desks) and produced a book designed to help bosses handle those people who are usually referred to politely as “problem employees.”
Scott’s books can be counted on to be plainspoken, packed with anecdotes designed to illustrate her points, filled with “take-aways” that summarize each chapter, and written to be as easy to read as possible. They can also be counted on to be a bit blithe and facile in their recommendations, as if workplace problems are really pretty obvious from Scott’s lofty height and are also, when you come right down to it, pretty easy to solve. It therefore helps to read, absorb and even enjoy Scott’s examples of horrible workplace behavior without necessarily accepting the apparent ease of making things better. Her recommendations are usually solid enough, but she tends to toss them out as if they are no big deal – even though, in our litigious society filled with protected classes and aggrieved people of all sorts, making any personnel change can be a monumental struggle.
Give Scott credit: she does not tell bosses that problem employees are invariably idiots who just happen to have gotten hired. In fact, toward the end of A Survival Guide to Managing Employees from Hell, Scott warns bosses that a pattern of employee troubles (real or perceived) may indicate difficulties with the boss himself or herself. Still, the bulk of this book is devoted to workplace jerks of many kinds, and Scott does her usual clear job of showing who they are and how toxic they can be.
There are five sections of the book – bad attitude, incompetence, personal issues, trust and honesty, and communication – plus a sixth, summary section. Within her five main parts, Scott deals specifically with such well-known types as the prima donna, the “arrogant a**hole,” employees protected by the big boss, sensitive souls, people with drug and alcohol problems, flat-out liars, and more. Scott gives an example of the behavior of each type, then asks the reader what ought to be done. The suggested solutions fall into a pattern: fire the offending person, talk to him or her, meet with others in the company affected by his or her behavior, and so on.
Sometimes Scott’s ideas make really good sense. For instance, one case deals with a male Hispanic employee (one of a close-knit employee group that may take offense if anything bad happens to any of them) who grabs a provocatively dressed non-Hispanic woman worker inappropriately. Scott shows how this could work out: the boss immediately and completely supports the woman and then asks her advice on what to do about the man who grabbed her. It turns out she wants him reprimanded but not fired, so the boss does as she suggests and everything turns out well; neither the man nor anyone in his group is offended or quits. This is a good solution if you can arrange it. In other cases, though, Scott describes a situation resolved only by factors that a boss cannot influence. For instance, the company’s top salesman is so nasty and demanding that he reduces clerical staff to tears, causes some people to quit and leads others to try to sabotage him – a dangerous situation for the company if there ever was one. But he is the top salesman. Scott has no specific recommendation here, but acts as if she does, explaining that eventually the salesman lost some deals and learned humility. Fine, but no boss taught him humility – or respect for others.
Even if Scott’s solutions are not always satisfactory, her detailing of the office chaos caused by all sorts of “employees from Hell” is useful for helping managers see that they are not alone, that others face similar difficulties with some workers, and that there are things that a boss can do to handle the occasional super-troublesome person. The key word there is “occasional.” If these people show up on the payroll more than occasionally, it’s more likely the boss than the employees themselves who are at fault.
(++++) FOUNTAINS OF YOUTHFULNESS
Schumann: String Quartets Nos. 1-3. Fine Arts Quartet. Naxos. $8.99.
Bax: Sonata for Viola and Piano; Concert Piece for Viola and Piano; Legend for Viola and Piano; Trio in One Movement for Piano, Violin and Viola. Martin Outram, viola; Laurence Jackson, violin; Julian Rolton, piano. Naxos. $8.99.
The works on these CDs – all but one – were written when the composers were in their 30s or younger. Many are “learning” works, at least to some extent, and yet all show considerable mastery of form and instrumentation. And all are somewhat outside the main set of works for which the composers are best known today.
Schumann wrote all three of his string quartets in June and July of 1842, when he was 32. They were part of his attempt to move beyond the piano works to which he had previously devoted himself – he wrote a piano quartet and piano quintet in the same year – and they represented Schumann’s assiduous study of older models, notably those of Haydn, Mozart and especially Beethoven. The models show through here and there: the monothematic first movement of the second quartet, for example, echoes Haydn, while the scherzo of the first quartet is reminiscent of the music of Schumann’s friend, Mendelssohn. But the expressiveness of the themes is clearly Schumann’s, as is the balance among the four instruments. Careful tone blending is important in these works, which frequently show Schumann’s attentiveness to counterpoint – for instance, at the very start of the first quartet, where instruments enter one after the other in imitation. The Fine Arts Quartet – Ralph Evans and Efim Boico, violins; Yuri Gandelsman, viola; Wolfgang Laufer, cello – plays the works with sensitivity, apparent ease and a fine sense of give and take (perhaps not surprisingly: all the players except Gandelsman have been with the group for more than 20 years). The variations making up the second movement of the second quartet are a highlight, as the players expertly rebalance themselves for each new treatment of the theme. Schumann’s quartets are not exactly neglected but are not heard especially often. The Fine Arts Quartet makes a strong case for all of them.
There is less of consequence in the works on Naxos’ new CD devoted to Arnold Bax. But the focus on the viola makes this release especially interesting. Bax, born in 1883, wrote his Concert Piece in 1904 and his Trio in 1906 (thus, both are works of his 20s). His Sonata dates to 1922 (his 30s). Only the lovely Legend, which ends with great serenity and is Bax’s last completed work for viola, was written later in life (in 1929, when Bax was 46). All these pieces owe their genesis to famed violist Lionel Tertis, who in the early 20th century urged young British composers to write music for his often-neglected instrument. Tertis gave the first performance of Bax’s Concert Piece; and Bax, as pianist, actually recorded his Sonata with Tertis in 1929. The Concert Piece, Sonata and Legend all lie very well on the viola, and all give violists a chance to express far more moods than the serenity or gentle melancholy to which other composers frequently confine them. The first movement of the Sonata has a very unusual beginning, and its scherzo is especially difficult, full of pyrotechnics usually associated with the viola’s smaller cousin, the violin. The Sonata is the most substantial piece here, but none of these works has quite the scale and sweep of Bax’s Viola Phantasy, which he originally designed as a concerto. Still, within the chamber-music realm, they are all effective combinations of virtuosity and reflective moods. Martin Outram plays his 1628 Hieronymous Amati instrument with finesse, and Julian Rolton accompanies him with sensitivity and fine style. They are joined by violinist Laurence Jackson in Bax’s early Trio, which fits the viola less well than the other works here (Bax said the part, which lies high on the instrument, could alternatively be played by a clarinet). The virtuosity of the piano part and the prevalence of Irish folk tunes make the Trio a light and interesting conclusion to a showcase of less-often-heard works by a composer best known for his tone poems and symphonies.
Bax: Sonata for Viola and Piano; Concert Piece for Viola and Piano; Legend for Viola and Piano; Trio in One Movement for Piano, Violin and Viola. Martin Outram, viola; Laurence Jackson, violin; Julian Rolton, piano. Naxos. $8.99.
The works on these CDs – all but one – were written when the composers were in their 30s or younger. Many are “learning” works, at least to some extent, and yet all show considerable mastery of form and instrumentation. And all are somewhat outside the main set of works for which the composers are best known today.
Schumann wrote all three of his string quartets in June and July of 1842, when he was 32. They were part of his attempt to move beyond the piano works to which he had previously devoted himself – he wrote a piano quartet and piano quintet in the same year – and they represented Schumann’s assiduous study of older models, notably those of Haydn, Mozart and especially Beethoven. The models show through here and there: the monothematic first movement of the second quartet, for example, echoes Haydn, while the scherzo of the first quartet is reminiscent of the music of Schumann’s friend, Mendelssohn. But the expressiveness of the themes is clearly Schumann’s, as is the balance among the four instruments. Careful tone blending is important in these works, which frequently show Schumann’s attentiveness to counterpoint – for instance, at the very start of the first quartet, where instruments enter one after the other in imitation. The Fine Arts Quartet – Ralph Evans and Efim Boico, violins; Yuri Gandelsman, viola; Wolfgang Laufer, cello – plays the works with sensitivity, apparent ease and a fine sense of give and take (perhaps not surprisingly: all the players except Gandelsman have been with the group for more than 20 years). The variations making up the second movement of the second quartet are a highlight, as the players expertly rebalance themselves for each new treatment of the theme. Schumann’s quartets are not exactly neglected but are not heard especially often. The Fine Arts Quartet makes a strong case for all of them.
There is less of consequence in the works on Naxos’ new CD devoted to Arnold Bax. But the focus on the viola makes this release especially interesting. Bax, born in 1883, wrote his Concert Piece in 1904 and his Trio in 1906 (thus, both are works of his 20s). His Sonata dates to 1922 (his 30s). Only the lovely Legend, which ends with great serenity and is Bax’s last completed work for viola, was written later in life (in 1929, when Bax was 46). All these pieces owe their genesis to famed violist Lionel Tertis, who in the early 20th century urged young British composers to write music for his often-neglected instrument. Tertis gave the first performance of Bax’s Concert Piece; and Bax, as pianist, actually recorded his Sonata with Tertis in 1929. The Concert Piece, Sonata and Legend all lie very well on the viola, and all give violists a chance to express far more moods than the serenity or gentle melancholy to which other composers frequently confine them. The first movement of the Sonata has a very unusual beginning, and its scherzo is especially difficult, full of pyrotechnics usually associated with the viola’s smaller cousin, the violin. The Sonata is the most substantial piece here, but none of these works has quite the scale and sweep of Bax’s Viola Phantasy, which he originally designed as a concerto. Still, within the chamber-music realm, they are all effective combinations of virtuosity and reflective moods. Martin Outram plays his 1628 Hieronymous Amati instrument with finesse, and Julian Rolton accompanies him with sensitivity and fine style. They are joined by violinist Laurence Jackson in Bax’s early Trio, which fits the viola less well than the other works here (Bax said the part, which lies high on the instrument, could alternatively be played by a clarinet). The virtuosity of the piano part and the prevalence of Irish folk tunes make the Trio a light and interesting conclusion to a showcase of less-often-heard works by a composer best known for his tone poems and symphonies.
January 11, 2007
(++++) DICKINSON, WELL SEEN
The World in a Frame. Poems by Emily Dickinson. Drawings by Will Barnet. Pomegranate. $30.
This is a book of style, beauty and grace that will bring great joy to any lover of Emily Dickinson’s poetry. Will Barnet’s illustrations of
The World in a Frame contains 46
In a similar vein, Poem 535 opens, “Two Butterflies went out at Noon—” and Barnet shows, quite appropriately, two butterflies, wings spread, flying above
Barnet’s illustrations have a great deal of power, and will help readers see the poems in new ways – or intensify their previous views of them. For Poem 783, which opens, “The birds begun at Four o’clock—“ Barnet creates a bare landscape over which a large flock of black birds is flying, as Dickinson stands in the right foreground, facing the birds (so her features are unseen), her stylized black shape complementing the stylization of the birds she is observing. Just how well Barnet empathizes with Dickinson is clear throughout this book, and indeed from its front cover, which shows the poet in profile, sitting, eyes closed, with shelves of books behind her and two on the table before her – her left hand resting gently on one of them. It is a lovely, evocative picture, and turns out to illustrate, not at all surprisingly, Poem 604, which opens, “Unto my Books—so good to turn—” The World in a Frame is a book to which it is good to turn again, again, and yet again.
(++++) FLAT-OUT FUN
The Flat
Stanley Lambchop’s adventures started 42 years ago, but he’s still the adaptable and adorable preteen he always was. The Flat Stanley Collection includes paperback editions of four of the six Flat Stanley books: the original Flat Stanley (1964), Stanley in Space (1990), Invisible Stanley (1996) and Stanley, Flat Again! (2003). It’s flatness for which
It is the utter silliness of the Stanley Lambchop stories that makes them so endearing, as Stanley and his parents – along with Stanley’s brother, Arthur – take all the weird stuff that happens to Stanley in stride.
The Stanley Lambchop books are intended for ages 7-10, but they may be even more fun for a younger age range, perhaps 5-8. The reason is that everything is so good-humored that kids in the 9-10 age range will probably find Stanley and his family silly in the “I don’t want to read this” mode instead of silly in the “this is funny” mode. The books partake of the sensibility of the 1960s, even though three of the four in The Flat Stanley Collection are of far more recent vintage.
Kids who do read the books will find that as much of the fun comes from the byways of the stories as from the main plots. Take that book that Dr. Dan consults. In Invisible Stanley, it tells him that in “
(+++) FOLLOWUP MYSTERIES
The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie. By Jaclyn Moriarty. Arthur A. Levine/Scholastic. $16.99.
Vanishing Act: Mystery at the
It’s arguable whether there are second acts in life, but there are certainly second acts, and third ones, and more, in writing. Come up with something that works, and an author will be tempted – nay, urged by his or her publisher – to produce more of the same. As in moviemaking, a return to the tried-and-true formula tends to become, well, formulaic, although fans of original books (or movies) can often be induced to return for follow-ups that are, at best, not quite as good.
Both these books are all right, and existing fans of the authors will enjoy them, but neither book is likely to create a stampede of new readers. The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie is the cleverer of the two, being written entirely in diary entries, letters, E-mails and similar forms. Designated a “companion” book to Jaclyn Moriarty’s The Year of Secret Assignments, which used the same kind of format and was highly original in doing so, The Murder of Bindy Mackenzie is a case of more of the same. Much more, in fact – it runs nearly 500 pages. Bindy is that super-wonderful high-school girl that everyone loves to hate, and everyone does. It’s easy to see why: she has such a perfect, and perfectly nasty, way of encapsulating everyone in her orbit. One example: “A group of people were [sic] standing by the window at the far end of the room. Six people. Toby, Emily, Briony,
Vanishing Act is mercifully shorter, at fewer than 300 pages, and is a fast read for preteens and teens interested in sports – specifically, tennis. It is a sequel to John Feinstein’s first murder mystery for young readers, Last Shot: A Final Four Mystery, which was a fast read for preteens and teens interested in sports – specifically, basketball. Feinstein’s niche is certainly clear enough. The first book was about an attempt to fix the championship game at the NCAA Final Four. The two crusading teen journalists and aspiring sportswriters who uncovered that plot, Stevie Thomas and Susan Carol Anderson, find themselves investigating a kidnapping in Vanishing Act. A young Russian tennis star, and potential superstar, suddenly disappears in a way that seems impossible. The teens aren’t the only ones on this case – there’s a media frenzy, which Feinstein handles knowledgeably, and professional journalists as well as law-enforcement personnel are on top of the story. The eventual plots-within-plots unraveling is clever, but it is also highly manipulative on Feinstein’s part. Feinstein is a longtime sports writer and author of sports-related books for adults, and he clearly loves the games he portrays. But readers may feel he doesn’t play entirely fairly with them.
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