How this book managed to slip under everyone’s radar despite being the best fantasy of the year is a mystery to me.
Part epic folk tale, part meta-narrHow this book managed to slip under everyone’s radar despite being the best fantasy of the year is a mystery to me.
Part epic folk tale, part meta-narrative exploration of family and identity, The Spear Cuts Through Water is a work of fiction so perfectly conceived and executed that I will be personally offended if it doesn’t swoop up all the awards next season. Jimenez creates a puzzle of intersecting storylines that fit together like Russian dolls, cleverly employing different perspectives, tenses, and settings to obfuscate his intentions before finally revealing his cards to the reader at the most climactic moment.
Nothing is left to chance; from beginning to end, the narrator presents you with the exact amount of information you need to follow the story, without ever revealing too much or too little. The author trusts you to trust him and let yourself be carried away into an ancestral world where the narrative is out of your control. I can’t remember the last time I felt such a sense of wonder while reading a book: the atmospheric writing is reminiscent of Erin Morgenstern and Neil Gaiman, but Jimenez keeps a tight grip on the plot, never allowing the story to meander or the descriptions to veer into self-indulgence.
This book is an ode to storytelling. It’s a tale told by a grandmother to her favorite grandson, in a kitchen filled with smoke and the smells of a country lost to memory. It’s a foundational myth on the value of love and compassion, a family history, and a play re-enacted by ghosts in a dream theater. Above all, it is a love story stronger than gods and time....more
I wanted to like The Unbroken so bad, and for the most part, I did. The North African inspired setting is fascinating, the prose is eminently readableI wanted to like The Unbroken so bad, and for the most part, I did. The North African inspired setting is fascinating, the prose is eminently readable, and the dynamic between the two protagonists has great potential. This book was pitched to me as “a political fantasy about a disaster lesbian who makes terrible choices”, so I went in fully expecting the main character to mess things up and act in poor judgement. As a result, I wasn’t particularly bothered by Touraine’s bad decision-making skills. I think it’s perfectly understandable that, when thrown into a completely new environment and forced to reconsider her life plans, she panicked and struggled to figure out what strategy she should follow going forward. However, and this is a big however, the same cannot be said for Luca.
I have a really hard time believing that an adult woman who was raised to rule an empire could be as utterly clueless as she is in this book. Right from the beginning, I got the sense that Clark didn’t really know what she wanted to do with her character, and the few interviews I’ve read have only solidified my belief. This book cannot decide whether Luca is a ruthless colonizer who would do anything to ascend to the throne, or a compassionate ruler who sympathizes with the plight of the Qazali people. In case this isn’t clear to anyone reading, the two cannot coexist. Luca can’t have spent her entire life preparing to become queen, only to be shocked at the violence her colonial army is inflicting upon the natives. She is the Balladairan empire; her home country’s wealth and prosperity are directly dependant upon her ability to continue exploiting the colonies.
Her final decision to withdraw from Qazal and grant the rebels independence reads especially absurd when you consider what a long, messy, complex process decolonization is. Given how many different interests are at stake here, the idea that one princess could just wake up one day and decide that colonialism is over with absolutely no pushback from anyone is laughable. How is the economy going to fare, now that they can’t import raw materials from Qazal anymore? Does Luca even have the legal authority to transfer sovereign powers to the rebels, when she isn’t Balladaire’s head of state yet?
In my opinion, this inconsistent characterization negatively affects her relationship with Touraine, too. I initially thought Clark was aiming to establish them as enemies who are fatally attracted to each other; nemeses who cannot be apart, but are destined for mutual destruction. In fact, the possible presence of this trope was one of the main reasons I picked up this book. Instead, I got an angsty romance between a semi-enslaved bodyguard and the colonizer princess who refuses to acknowledge that their interests are incompatible. An odd choice, if you ask me.
All in all, I would say that The Unbroken is less than the sum of its parts. There is a lot to love about it: the nuanced exploration of colonialism, vivid setting, and lovable protagonist kept me interested in the story even when the politics became too hazy and unrealistic for my liking. I’m not sure I will pick up the sequel, but C.L. Clark is an author I want to read more from....more
I can’t believe you read this book in grade nine and thought it a charming, entertaining tale full of lovable characters. Compared to Dear teenage me,
I can’t believe you read this book in grade nine and thought it a charming, entertaining tale full of lovable characters. Compared to you, I’m a little chickenshit who gets scared way too easily. If I were your parents, I would not let you pick this up without first making sure you know what the themes are, and without discussing it together afterwards—but then again, your parents would probably be too embarrassed to explain what exactly the vampire kiss is supposed to symbolize.
Above all, I’m a little concerned about your obsession with Lestat. I know you think he’s the sexiest male protagonist ever written, after Heathcliff of course (that’s a whole other can of worms we don’t have time to open now). However, I would gently encourage you to take a more critical look at his actions, especially the part where he abuses, manipulates, and stalks Louis and Claudia for literal decades. That’s… not great. Not really something a good love interest would do.
Speaking of Claudia: don’t blame her for “ruining Louis and Lestat’s relationship”. It’s really not her fault Lestat is a terminal narcissist and a whiny baby. No matter how hard the media try to convince you that women are to blame for everything, they aren’t—especially when the women in question are literal children who shouldn’t be involved in adult romance anyway.
Did you really read all of this without getting even a little bit frightened? If yes, you’re a badass. I wish I was just as unfazed by murder, violence, and gore as you are. Maybe that’s the beauty in reading uncritically, pouring yourself into a story with no ulterior motive or thought: you’re too immersed to take note of what goes on around your favorite vampires, and can just brush off the atrocities they commit as necessary evils. Chances are I will never be able to experience books like that again, but I’m glad you managed to do it before I came around to spoil your fun....more
I will never forgive this book for making me realize that fictional lesbians can be just as basic and boring as straight people.
If I had to describe OI will never forgive this book for making me realize that fictional lesbians can be just as basic and boring as straight people.
If I had to describe Our Wives Under the Sea in one word, I would say it's cold: everything from the writing style, to the characters, to the main romantic relationship felt impersonal and detached. The love story between Leah and Miri, which is supposed to be the crux of the narrative, never rang true to me because of how bland and emotionless all their interactions were. Similarly, their personalities seemed very generic—I had trouble keeping up with who was narrating because their voices were indistinguishable from one another. They’re boring middle class women with boring middle class lives, only sometimes we’re reminded that they’re gay because one of the straight side characters says a casually homophobic line. Armfield steadfastly refuses to engage with any of the themes she hints at (fear of disease, queer Catholic guilt, human control over nature, and so on), choosing instead to circle back to the fallout of a relationship that’s about as interesting as white bread.
It’s almost offensive how the author manages to take such an exciting premise and do absolutely nothing with it. After reading this book, I am fundamentally unconvinced that Armfield understands the purpose of horror as a genre—which is to say, reflecting societal anxieties by taking them to their extreme conclusions in a safe space. What are the fears, the issues that Our Wives Under the Sea aims to explore? Does it have anything to say at all, aside from “the deep sea is mysterious and scary”?
Most importantly: how do you write a story about lesbians and sea monsters, without making the monsters even a little bit sexy? Truly a remarkable achievement (derogatory)....more
I reached the end of this book feeling dirty on the inside. Never in my life have I read something so close to pure, unadultered trauma porn.
The furthI reached the end of this book feeling dirty on the inside. Never in my life have I read something so close to pure, unadultered trauma porn.
The further I got into Jennette McCurdy’s memoir, the more I questioned her decision to publish it—or rather, the forces at play behind her decision to publish it. With every new detail about her abusive family, miserable acting career, and depressing love life, my queasiness grew. I couldn’t put the book down, not because I enjoyed her writing, but purely out of morbid curiosity for what she would reveal next.
Maybe I should just accept that McCurdy is a grown woman who can freely decide what she wants to share with the public. Still, reading her memoir made me all too aware of the fact that this woman was brought up to be a relentless people pleaser, an emotionally neglected validation seeker who craved nothing more than praise and acceptance.
And there is nothing our current cultural climate praises more than the public sharing of personal trauma.
In the eyes of society, trauma grants you victimhood, and victimhood grants you sympathy, support, visibility. The closer you are to a perfect, blameless victim, the louder the support is. To me, it’s incredibly obvious that this book was written to incite sympathy and pity in the audience. Its 320 pages contain little to no self-reflection or personal thoughts; instead, what we get is an endless list of increasingly horrifying episodes from the author’s life. McCurdy lays herself bare in every sense of the word: we learn all kinds of graphic details about her eating disorders, sexual encounters, and relationship with her (incredibly invasive and inappropriate) mother.
This felt like reading someone’s emails to their therapist; not in a good way, but in a why-are-you-telling-this-to-millions-of-strangers way. It’s clear that McCurdy is deeply, and rightfully, angry at what has been done to her. She’s mad at the adults who failed her, and wants to be recognized as a victim by the public at large. What I’m wondering is: is writing, and publishing, an autobiography really the best way to process your very private, personal trauma?
I hope, for Jennette’s sake, that the answer is yes. I hope she never lives to regret feeding her most traumatic, shameful memories to the shark that is the public eye....more
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