A Northern Light
 by Jennifer Donnelly

Bibliography

Donnelly, J. (2003). A northern light. Orlando, FL: Harcourt Books. ISBN 9780152053109

Summary

Mattie loves words and books. Her father doesn't understand this passion, but her best friend, Weaver, and her teacher, Miss Wilcox, do.  A Northern Light tells Mattie's story as she struggles against conventions, expectations, and promises to fulfill her dreams.  Her story is told as flashbacks as she decides what to do with letters given to her by a young girl who has drowned under suspicious circumstances.

Critical Analysis

Jennifer Donnelly brings Mattie and the early 1900's in the North Woods to life for me.  The story is built around a real murder and, although I felt the connection to the murdered girl was a bit forced, both stories are intriguing and kept me up late at night to read to the end.  Donnelly clearly has experience (gained by listening to her own grandmother's stories) with this setting, as the time, place, and people all feel genuine.

Although a typical girl is not faced with the same circumstances as Mattie in the early 2000's, today's teens still face making life choices and growing-up and will be able to identify with her internal and external struggles.

Though purely coincidence, the three books I am reviewing all share the theme of the importance of literature and words.  Nowhere does this theme come through more than in A Northern Light, as words and books shape Mattie's hopes and dreams.

Review Excerpts

* Donnelly's first YA novel begins with high drama drawn straight from history. Many teens will connect with Mattie's deep yearning for independence and for stories, like her own, that are frank, messy, complicated, and inspiring. --Booklist

* Donnelly's characters ring true to life, and the meticulously described setting forms a vivid backdrop to this finely crafted story. An outstanding choice for historical-fiction fans. --School Library Journal


Connections

* Jennifer Donnelly's website has news, reviews, and a bibliography, among other bits of info!

*Recognition:

       Carnegie Medal Winner, United Kingdom

       Los Angeles Times Book Prize Winner

       Borders 2004 Original Voices Award Winner

       Named a Printz Honor Book by the ALA

       Awarded a De Gouden Zoen Honor, The Netherlands

       Named a Top Ten Best Book for Young Adults by the ALA

* Expert from A Northern Light
   
When summer comes to the North Woods, time slows down. And some days it stops altogether. The sky, gray and lowering for much of the year, becomes an ocean of blue, so vast and brilliant you can't help but stop what you're doing-pinning wet sheets to the line maybe, or shucking a bushel of corn on the back steps-to stare up at it. Locusts whir in the birches, coaxing you out of the sun and under the boughs, and the heat stills the air, heavy and sweet with the scent of balsam.

As I stand here on the porch of the Glenmore, the finest hotel on all of Big Moose Lake, I tell myself that today-Thursday, July 12, 1906-is such a day. Time has stopped, and the beauty and calm of this perfect afternoon will never end. The guests up from New York, all in their summer whites, will play croquet on the lawn forever. Old Mrs. Ellis will stay on the porch until the end of time, rapping her cane on the railing for more lemonade. The children of doctors and lawyers from Utica, Rome, and Syracuse will always run through the woods, laughing and shrieking, giddy from too much ice cream.

I believe these things. With all my heart. For I am good at telling myself lies.

Until Ada Bouchard comes out of the doorway and slips her hand into mine. And Mrs. Morrison, the manager's wife, walks right by us, pausing at the top of the steps. At any other time, she'd scorch our ears for standing idle; now she doesn't seem to even know we're here. Her arms cross over her chest. Her eyes, gray and troubled, fasten on the dock. And the steamer tied alongside it.

"That's the Zilpha, ain't it, Mattie?" Ada whispers. "They've been dragging the lake, ain't they?"

I squeeze her hand. "I don't think so. I think they were just looking along the shoreline. Cook says they probably got lost, that couple. Couldn't find their way back in the dark and spent the night under some pines, that's all."

"I'm scared, Mattie. Ain't you?"

I don't answer her. I'm not scared, not exactly, but I can't explain how I feel. Words fail me sometimes. I have read most every one in the Webster's International Dictionary of the English Language, but I still have trouble making them come when I want them to.

Right now I want a word that describes the feeling you get-a cold, sick feeling deep down inside-when you know something is happening that will change you, and you don't want it to, but you can't stop it. And you know, for the first time, for the very first time, that there will now be a before and an after, a was and a will be. And that you will never again be quite the same person you were.

I imagine it's the feeling Eve had as she bit into the apple. Or Hamlet when he saw his father's ghost. Or Jesus as a boy, right after someone sat him down and told him his pa wasn't a carpenter after all.

What is the word for that feeling? For knowledge and fear and loss all mixed together? Frisdom? Dreadnaciousness? Malbominance?

Standing on that porch, under that flawless sky, with bees buzzing lazily in the roses and a cardinal calling from the pines so sweet and clear, I tell myself that Ada is a nervous little hen, always worrying when there's no cause. Nothing bad can happen at the Glenmore, not on such a day as this.

And then I see Cook running up from the dock, ashen and breathless, her skirts in her hands, and I know that I am wrong.

"Mattie, open the parlor!" she shouts, heedless of the guests. "Quick, girl!"

I barely hear her. My eyes are on Mr. Crabb, the Zilpha's engineer. He is coming up the path carrying a young woman in his arms. Her head lolls against him like a broken flower. Water drips from her skirt.

"Oh, Mattie, look at her. Oh, jeezum, Mattie, look," Ada says, her hands twisting in her apron.

Sssh, Ada. She got soaked, that's all. They got lost on the lake and...and the boat tipped and they swam to shore and she...she must've fainted."

"Oh, dear Lord," Mrs. Morrison says, her hands coming up to her mouth.

"Mattie! Ada! Why are you standing there like a pair of jackasses?" Cook wheezes, heaving her bulky body up the steps. "Open the spare room, Mattie. The one off the parlor. Pull the shades and lay an old blanket on the bed. Ada, go fix a pot of coffee and some sandwiches. There's a ham and some chicken in the icebox. Shift yourselves!"

There are children in the parlor playing hide-and-seek. I chase them out and unlock the door to a small bedroom used by stage drivers or boat captains when the weather's too bad to travel. I realize I've forgotten the blanket and run back to the linen closet for it. I'm back in the room snapping it open over the bare ticking just as Mr. Crabb comes in. I've brought a pillow and a heavy quilt, too. She'll be chilled to the bone, having slept out all night in wet clothing.

Mr. Crabb lays her down on the bed. Cook stretches her legs out and tucks the pillow under her head. The Morrisons come in. Mr. Sperry, the Glenmore's owner, is right behind them. He stares at her, goes pale, and walks out again.

"I'll fetch a hot water bottle and some tea and...and brandy," I say, looking at Cook and then Mrs. Morrison and then a painting on the wall. Anywhere and everywhere but at the girl. "Should I do that? Should I get the brandy?"

"Hush, Mattie. It's too late for that," Cook says.

I make myself look at her then. Her eyes are dull and empty. Her skin has gone the yellow of muscatel wine. There is an ugly gash on her forehead and her lips are bruised. Yesterday she'd sat by herself on the porch, fretting the hem of her skirt. I'd brought her a glass of lemonade, because it was hot outside and she looked peaked. I hadn't charged her for it. She looked like she didn't have much money.

Behind me, Cook badgers Mr. Crabb. "What about the man she was with? Carl Grahm?"

"No sign of him," he says. "Not yet, leastways. We got the boat. They'd tipped it, all right. In South Bay."

"I'll have to get hold of the family," Mrs. Morrison says. "They're in Albany."

"No, that was only the man, Grahm," Cook says. "The girl lived in South Otselic. I looked in the register."

Mrs. Morrison nods. "I'll ring the operator. See if she can connect me with a store there, or a hotel. Or someone who can get a message to the family. What on earth will I say? Oh dear! Oh, her poor, poor mother!" She presses a handkerchief to her eyes and hurries from the room.

"She'll be making a second call before the day's out," Cook says. "Ask me, people who can't swim have no business on a lake."

"Too confident, that fellow," Mr. Morrison says. "I asked him could he handle a skiff and he told me yes. Only a darn fool from the city could tip a boat on a calm day..." He says more, but I don't hear him. It feels like there are iron bands around my chest. I close my eyes and try to breathe deeply, but it only makes things worse. Behind my eyes I see a packet of letters tied with a pale blue ribbon. Letters that are upstairs under my mattress. Letters that I promised to burn. I can see the address on the top one: Chester Gillette, 171_2 Main Street, Cortland, New York.

Cook fusses me away from the body. "Mattie, pull the shades like I told you to," she says. She folds Grace Brown's hands over her chest and closes her eyes. "There's coffee in the kitchen. And sandwiches," she tells the men. "Will you eat something?"

"We'll take something with us, Mrs. Hennessey, if that's all right," Mr. Morrison says. "We're going out again. Soon as Sperry gets the sheriff on the phone. He's calling Martin's, too. To tell 'em to keep an eye out. And Higby's and the other camps. Just in case Grahm made it to shore and got lost in the woods."

"His name's not Carl Grahm. It's Chester. Chester Gillette." The words burst out of me before I can stop them.

"How do you know that, Mattie?" Cook asks. They are all looking at me now-Cook, Mr. Morrison, and Mr. Crabb.

"I...I heard her call him that, I guess," I stammer, suddenly afraid.

Cook's eyes narrow. "Did you see something, Mattie? Do you know something you should tell us?"

What had I seen? Too much. What did I know? Only that knowledge carries a damned high price. Miss Wilcox, my teacher, had taught me so much. Why had she never taught me that?

frac o tious

My youngest sister, Beth, who is five, will surely grow up to be a riverman-standing upstream on the dam, calling out warnings to the men below that the logs are coming down. She has the lungs for it.

It was a spring morning. End of March. Not quite four months ago, though it seems much longer. We were late for school and there were still chores to do before we left, but Beth didn't care. She just sat there ignoring the cornmeal mush I'd made her, bellowing like some opera singer up from Utica to perform at one of the hotels. Only no opera singer ever sang "Hurry Up, Harry." Least not as far as I know.

So it's hurry up, Harry, and Tom or Dick or Joe,

And you may take the pail, boys, and for the water go.

In the middle of the splashing, the cook will dinner cry,

And you'd ought to see them hurry up for fear they'd lose their pie...

"Beth, hush now and eat your mush," I scolded, fumbling her hair into a braid. She didn't mind me, though, for she wasn't singing her song to me or to any of us. She was singing to the motionless rocker near the stove and the battered fishing creel hanging by the shed door. She was singing to fill all the empty places in our house, to chase away the silence. Most mornings I didn't mind her noise, but that morning I had to talk to Pa about something, something very important, and I was all nerves. I wanted it peaceful for once. I wanted Pa to find everything in order and everyone behaving when he came in, so he would be peaceable himself and well-disposed to what I had to say.

There's blackstrap molasses, squaw buns as hard as rock,

Tea that's boiled in an old tin pail and smells just like your sock.

The beans they are sour, and the porridge thick...

The Book Thief

The Book Thief
 by Markus Zusak

Bibliography

Zusak, M. (2007). The book thief. Orlando, FL: Alfred A. Knopf. ISBN 0375842209

Summary

Death narrates a gripping tale set during the Nazi era in Germany.  He focuses on one girl (Liesel) to keep the monstrosities he is witnessing from overwhelming him.  Liesel begins her life as a book thief, and her involvement with death, when she picks up a gravedigger's handbook.  Over the next few years Death explains the circumstances involved as she steals several more books.  The theft of the books all mark significant life events for Liesel and those around her.  

Critical Analysis

A small part fantasy and a big part historical fiction.  That's a good balance for getting young adult readers to pick up a book!  Set in Nazi Germany, The Book Thief portrays an authentic life of a young German girl and the people around her as seen through the eyes of the narrator, Death.  Even though Liesel is younger than the typical reader of this book, there are many people to identify with throughout the story.  Rudy, a rough yet gentle friend, Max, a jew in hiding, and other believable characters pepper Liesel's young life as she just tries to get through every day and as she learns the value of words.  Historical fact makes its mark on this novel as the atrocities of Nazi Germany are a part of the characters lives and Zusak has certainly done his homework.  He leaves the reader feeling they know a bit more about how life was for common people when the Nazis were in power.

Review Excerpts

*“Brilliant and hugely ambitious…Some will argue that a book so difficult and sad may not be appropriate for teenage readers…Adults will probably like it (this one did), but it’s a great young-adult novel…It’s the kind of book that can be life-changing, because without ever denying the essential amorality and randomness of the natural order, The Book Thief offers us a believable hard-won hope…The hope we see in Liesel is unassailable, the kind you can hang on to in the midst of poverty and war and violence. Young readers need such alternatives to ideological rigidity, and such explorations of how stories matter. And so, come to think of it, do adults.” --New York Times 

* Zusak has created a work that deserves the attention of sophisticated teen and adult readers. Zusak not only creates a mesmerizing and original story but also writes with poetic syntax, causing readers to deliberate over phrases and lines, even as the action impels them forward. Death is not a sentimental storyteller, but he does attend to an array of satisfying details, giving Liesels story all the nuances of chance, folly, and fulfilled expectation that it deserves. An extraordinary narrative. --School Library Journal


Connections

* This website has an interesting video interview with Markus Zusak in which he discusses The Book Thief.  There is also a bibliography, forums, and book discussions!

* Awards:

• 2006 - Commonwealth Writers Prize for Best Book (South East Asia & South Pacific)
• 2006 - Horn Book Fanfare
• 2006 - Kirkus Reviews Editor Choice Award
• 2006 - School Library Journal Best Book of the Year
• 2006 - Daniel Elliott Peace Award
• 2006 - Publishers Weekly Best Children Book of the Year
• 2006 - Booklist Children Editors' Choice
• 2006 - Bulletin Blue Ribbon Book
• 2007 - Boeke Prize
• 2007 - ALA Best Books for Young Adults
• 2007 - Michael L. Printz Honor Book
• 2007 - Book Sense Book of the Year
• 2009 - Pacific Northwest Young Readers Choice Master List

     

* Expert from The Book Thief (read more here)

Part 1: DEATH AND CHOCOLATE

First the colors.
Then the humans.
That's usually how I see things.
Or at least, how I try.

***HERE IS A SMALL FACT ***
You are going to die.

I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations. Please, trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

***Reaction to the ***
AFOREMENTIONED fact
Does this worry you?
I urge you--don't be afraid.
I'm nothing if not fair.

--Of course, an introduction.

A beginning.

Where are my manners?

I could introduce myself properly, but it's not really necessary. You will know me well enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variables. It suffices to say that at some point in time, I will be standing over you, as genially as possible. Your soul will be in my arms. A color will be perched on my shoulder. I will carry you gently away.

At that moment, you will be lying there (I rarely find people standing up). You will be caked in your own body. There might be a discovery; a scream will dribble down the air. The only sound I'll hear after that will be my own breathing, and the sound of the smell, of my footsteps.

The question is, what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying?

Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky. Dark, dark chocolate. People say it suits me. I do, however, try to enjoy every color I see--the whole spectrum. A billion or so flavors, none of them quite the same, and a sky to slowly suck on. It takes the edge off the stress. It helps me relax.

***A SMALL THEORY ***
People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment.
A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors.

Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blues. Murky darknesses.
In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.

As I've been alluding to, my one saving grace is distraction. It keeps me sane. It helps me cope, considering the length of time I've been performing this job. The trouble is, who could ever replace me? Who could step in while I take a break in your stock-standard resort-style vacation destination, whether it be tropical or of the ski trip variety? The answer, of course, is nobody, which has prompted me to make a conscious, deliberate decision--to make distraction my vacation. Needless to say, I vacation in increments. In colors.

Still, it's possible that you might be asking, why does he even need a vacation? What does he need distraction from?

Which brings me to my next point.
It's the leftover humans.
The survivors.

They're the ones I can't stand to look at, although on many occasions I still fail. I deliberately seek out the colors to keep my mind off them, but now and then, I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs.

Which in turn brings me to the subject I am telling you about tonight, or today, or whatever the hour and color. It's the story of one of those perpetual survivors--an expert at being left behind.

It's just a small story really, about, among other things:
* A girl
* Some words
* An accordionist
* Some fanatical Germans
* A Jewish fist fighter
* And quite a lot of thievery

I saw the book thief three times.

The Wednesday Wars

The Wednesday Wars

 by Gary D. Schmidt

Bibliography

Schmidt, G. D. (2007). The Wednesday wars. Boston, MA: Clarion Books. ISBN 054723760X

Summary

As the only Presbyterian in his class, Holling Hoodhood has to spend every Wednesday afternoon alone with his teacher when all the other children go for religious training.  Let the war begin, or not really.  There is already a war going on in 1967 - and it is in Vietnam.  A lot of growing up occurs in The Wednesday Wars, all set against the backdrop of Vietnam Era suburbia, with a lot of Shakespeare, a little romance, and fun for everyone who reads.

Critical Analysis

The Wednesday Wars is excellent historical fiction for middle school aged readers.  It portrays the true flavor of Vietnam Era suburban America without all the grit of an actual war story.  The main character, Holling, speaks in the first person through out the novel in the mostly true voice of a seventh grader, though he does have a beautiful grasp of language for his age.  Schmidt makes good use of references to historical figures such as Bobby Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr., and The Beatles.  Even though Holling is from a different era than today's readers, current middle schoolers will certainly identify with the universal themes examined in the book, such as growing up and war in far away places.

Review Excerpts

*Schmidt makes the implausible believable and the everyday momentous. Seamlessly, he knits together the story's themes: the cultural uproar of the '60s, the internal uproar of early adolescence, and the timeless wisdom of Shakespeare's words. Holling's unwavering, distinctive voice offers a gentle, hopeful, moving story of a boy who, with the right help, learns to stretch beyond the limitations of his family, his violent times, and his fear, as he leaps into his future with his eyes and his heart wide open. --Booklist

*Schmidt rises above the novel's conventions to create memorable and believable characters. --The Horn Book


Connections

*Available in Kindle edition and on audio.  I listened to the audio as I read the book.  I liked the way the narrator portrayed the children's voices, but some of the adult voices were "meaner" on the audio than I would have read them in my head.

     

* Expert from The Wednesday Wars

September Of all the kids in the seventh grade at Camillo Junior High, there was one kid that Mrs. Baker hated with heat whiter than the sun. Me. And let me tell you, it wasn't for anything I'd done. If it had been Doug Swieteck that Mrs. Baker hated, it would have made sense.

Doug Swieteck once made up a list of 410 ways to get a teacher to hate you. It began with "Spray deodorant in all her desk drawers" and got worse as it went along. A whole lot worse. I think that things became illegal around Number 167. You don't want to know what Number 400 was, and you really don't want to know what Number 410 was. But Ill tell you this much: They were the kinds of things that sent kids to juvenile detention homes in upstate New York, so far away that you never saw them again.

Doug Swieteck tried Number 6 on Mrs. Sidman last year. It was something about Wrigley gum and the teachers water fountain (which was just outside the teachers lounge) and the Polynesian Fruit Blend hair coloring that Mrs. Sidman used. It worked, and streams of juice the color of mangoes stained her face for the rest of the day, and the next day, and the next day-until, I suppose, those skin cells wore off. Doug Swieteck was suspended for two whole weeks. Just before he left, he said that next year he was going to try Number 166 to see how much time that would get him.

The day before Doug Swieteck came back, our principal reported during Morning Announcements that Mrs. Sidman had accepted "voluntary reassignment to the Main Administrative Office." We were all supposed to congratulate her on the new post. But it was hard to congratulate her because she almost never peeked out of the Main Administrative Office. Even when she had to be the playground monitor during recess, she mostly kept away from us. If you did get close, shed whip out a plastic rain hat and pull it on. Its hard to congratulate someone who's holding a plastic rain hat over her Polynesian Fruit Blend-colored hair.

See?

That's the kind of stuff that gets teachers to hate you. But the thing was, I never did any of that stuff. Never. I even stayed as far away from Doug Swieteck as I could, so if he did decide to try Number 166 on anyone, I wouldn't get blamed for standing nearby.

But it didn't matter. Mrs. Baker hated me. She hated me a whole lot worse than Mrs. Sidman hated Doug Swieteck. I knew it on Monday, the first day of seventh grade, when she called the class roll-which told you not only who was in the class but also where everyone lived. If your last name ended in "berg" or "zog" or "stein," you lived on the north side. If your last name ended in "elli" or "ini" or "o," you lived on the south side.

Lee Avenue cut right between them, and if you walked out of Camillo Junior High and followed Lee Avenue across Main Street, past MacCleans Drug Store, Goldmans Best Bakery, and the Five and Dime, you come to my house-which my father had figured out was right smack in the middle of town.

Among the Hidden

Among the Hidden
 by Margaret Peterson Haddix

Bibliography

Haddix, M. P. (1998). Among the hidden. New York, NY: Simon & Schuster. ISBN0689824750

Summary

A supposed food shortage and government intervention lead to population control measures in Among the Hidden.  No more than two children are allowed per family, but what happens when there is a third child, a shadow child who must remain hidden at all costs?  What happens when one of these children longs for more and goes to find it when he spots another third child through a window?  In Among the Hidden, Luke ventures out of his safe hiding place to find company, but gets more than he bargains for when his new friend wants him to join a public protest against the government.  His entire world is at risk...will he go?

Critical Analysis

Among the Hidden is a convincing and weighty dystopic novel.  The world we read about is closely related to ours and feels like something that could happen if all conditions were right - or wrong in this case.  Haddix setting is easy to believe and she creates a covetously simple yet intriguing plot that draws the reader into the story and makes it impossible not to care about the main character, Luke, and his engaging friend, Jen.

Typical of dystopic novels, Among the Hidden carries a warning as a main theme, beware a government that controls the people and not the other way around - retain your freewill!  Psychological drama and not the events carry the story, but enough happens to keep the reader interested.  And the story is extremely well written.  Among the Hidden is targeted toward a rather young audience (ages 8-12) so while very intense, the sociological and psychological aspects are kept at a level appropriate for the age group.

Review Excerpts

* The plot development is sometimes implausible and the characterizations a bit brittle, but the unsettling, thought-provoking premise should suffice to keep readers hooked. --Publishers Weekly

* the loss of free will is the fundamental theme of an exciting and compelling story of one young person defying authority and the odds to make a difference. Readers will be captivated by Luke's predicament and his reactions to it. --School Library Journal


Connections

* Expert from Among the Hidden
   

He had never disobeyed the order to hide. Even as a toddler, barely able to walk in the backyard’s tall grass, he had somehow understood the fear in his mother’s voice. But on this day, the day they began taking the woods away, he hesitated. He took one extra breath of the fresh air, scented with clover and honeysuckle and -- coming from far away -- pine smoke. He laid his hoe down gently, and savored one last moment of feeling warm soil beneath his bare feet. He reminded himself, “I will never be allowed outside again. Maybe never again as long as I live.”

He turned and walked into the house, as silently as a shadow.

* You can listen to a sample from the audio version here.  Look under the blue cover picture.

*There are seven books in the Shadow Children Series.

• Among the Hidden
• Among the Imposters
• Among the Betrayed
• Among the Barons
• Among the Brave
• Among the Enemy
• Among the Free

Twilight

Twilight
 by Stephanie Meyer

Bibliography

Meyer, S. (2005). Twilight. London, UK: Little, Brown, & Co. ISBN 0316160172

Summary
Bella Swan leaves the warmth and sunshine of Phoenix for the grayest place in the United States, so her mother can travel with her new husband.  In Forks, WA, Bella meets Edward, a very unique boy:  Unique because he's a vampire.  Twilight chronicles the first part of Bella and Edwards story as they meet, fall in love, and fight for Bella's life in more ways than one.

Critical Analysis

Twilight is sort of like a train wreck for me.  I want to look away, yet am compelled to continue reading.  Stephanie Meyer has a knack for getting the reader to suspend disbelief, but for me it only lasts as long as I am absorbed in the story.  Once I put it down, I start to pick it apart.  I just don't see the same skill as J.K. Rowling or Philip Pullman.  I think people will continue to enjoy the story, but time will tell if it has the staying power of some others.

Meyer does draw her main characters extremely well, yet they are either too admirable or too hard to admire.  Edward is too perfect, Bella is too flawed.  She is not a bad person, but her willingness to die for anything to do with Edward is off-putting.  There is also little development in the characters personalities through the story.

Twilight does have strengths, and is a mesmerizing story.  Meyer couldn't have picked a better setting, and she crafted it very well into the storyline.  Her villains are scary and also believable.  The plot carries this story:  It is one of those books that is hard to put down.  But Twilight is essentially a love story/romance that just happens to be set in a fantasy world, rather than a true fantasy novel with all its conventions and elements.


Review Excerpts

* Their love is palpable, heightened by their touches, and teens will respond viscerally. There are some flaws here--a plot that could have been tightened, an overreliance on adjectives and adverbs to bolster dialogue--but this dark romance seeps into the soul. --Ilene Cooper

* This is far from perfect: Edward's portrayal as monstrous tragic hero is overly Byronic, and Bella's appeal is based on magic rather than character. Nonetheless, the portrayal of dangerous lovers hits the spot; fans of dark romance will find it hard to resist. --Kirkus Reviews 

* Realistic, subtle, succinct, and easy to follow, Twilight will have readers dying to sink their teeth into it.-- Hillias J. Martin, New York Public Library

Connections

* You can listen to a seven minute sample from the audio version here.

* The entire Twilight Saga includes:
Twilight
New Moon
Eclipse
Breaking Dawn


* Expert from Twilight
 
    
I'd never given much thought to how I would die -- though I'd had reason enough in the last few months -- but even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this.
I stared without breathing across the long room, into the dark eyes of the hunter, and he looked pleasantly back at me.
Surely it was a good way to die, in the place of someone else, someone I loved. Noble, even. That ought to count for something.
I knew that if I'd never gone to Forks, I wouldn't be facing death now. But, terrified as I was, I couldn't bring myself to regret the decision. When life offers you a dream so far beyond any of your expectations, it's not reasonable to grieve when it comes to an end.
The hunter smiled in a friendly way as he sauntered forward to kill me



    MY MOTHER DROVE ME TO THE AIRPORT WITH THE windows rolled down. It was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. I was wearing my favorite shirt —sleeveless, white eyelet lace; I was wearing it as a farewell gesture. My carry-on item was a parka.
In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this inconsequential town more than any other place in the United States of America. It was from this town and its gloomy, omnipresent shade that my mother escaped with me when I was only a few months old. It was in this town that I'd been compelled to spend a month every summer until I was fourteen. That was the year I finally put my foot down; these past three summers, my dad, Charlie, vacationed with me in California for two weeks instead.
It was to Forks that I now exiled myself —an action that I took with great horror. I detested Forks.
I loved Phoenix. I loved the sun and the blistering heat. I loved the vigorous, sprawling city.
"Bella," my mom said to me —the last of a thousand times —before I got on the plane. "You don't have to do this."

My mom looks like me, except with short hair and laugh lines. I felt a spasm of panic as I stared at her wide, childlike eyes. How could I leave my loving, erratic, harebrained mother to fend for herself? Of course she had Phil now, so the bills would probably get paid, there would be food in the refrigerator, gas in her car, and someone to call when she got lost, but still . . .

"I want to go," I lied. I'd always been a bad liar, but I'd been saying this lie so frequently lately that it sounded almost convincing now.

"Tell Charlie I said hi."

"I will."

"I'll see you soon," she insisted. "You can come home whenever you want —I'll come right back as soon as you need me."

But I could see the sacrifice in her eyes behind the promise.

"Don't worry about me," I urged. "It'll be great. I love you, Mom."

She hugged me tightly for a minute, and then I got on the plane, and she was gone.
It's a four-hour flight from Phoenix to Seattle, another hour in a small plane up to Port Angeles, and then an hour drive back down to Forks. Flying doesn't bother me; the hour in the car with Charlie, though, I was a little worried about.

Charlie had really been fairly nice about the whole thing. He seemed genuinely pleased that I was coming to live with him for the first time with any degree of permanence. He'd already gotten me registered for high school and was going to help me get a car.

But it was sure to be awkward with Charlie. Neither of us was what anyone would call verbose, and I didn't know what there was to say regardless. I knew he was more than a little confused by my decision —like my mother before me, I hadn't made a secret of my distaste for Forks.

When I landed in Port Angeles, it was raining. I didn't see it as an omen —just unavoidable. I'd already said my goodbyes to the sun.

Charlie was waiting for me with the cruiser. This I was expecting, too. Charlie is Police Chief Swan to the good people of Forks. My primary motivation behind buying a car, despite the scarcity of my funds, was that I refused to be driven around town in a car with red and blue lights on top. Nothing slows down traffic like a cop.

Charlie gave me an awkward, one-armed hug when I stumbled my way off the plane.

"It's good to see you, Bells," he said, smiling as he automatically caught and steadied me. "You haven't changed much. How's Renée?"

"Mom's fine. It's good to see you, too, Dad." I wasn't allowed to call him Charlie to his face.
I had only a few bags. Most of my Arizona clothes were too permeable for Washington. My mom and I had pooled our resources to supplement my winter wardrobe, but it was still scanty. It all fit easily into the trunk of the cruiser.

"I found a good car for you, really cheap," he announced when we were strapped in.

"What kind of car?" I was suspicious of the way he said "good car for you" as opposed to just "good car."

"Well, it's a truck actually, a Chevy."

"Where did you find it?"

"Do you remember Billy Black down at La Push?" La Push is the tiny Indian reservation on the coast.

"No."

"He used to go fishing with us during the summer," Charlie prompted.

That would explain why I didn't remember him. I do a good job of blocking painful, unnecessary things from my memory.

"He's in a wheelchair now," Charlie continued when I didn't respond, "so he can't drive anymore, and he offered to sell me his truck cheap."

"What year is it?" I could see from his change of expression that this was the question he was hoping I wouldn't ask.

"Well, Billy's done a lot of work on the engine —it's only a few years old, really."

I hoped he didn't think so little of me as to believe I would give up that easily. "When did he buy it?"

"He bought it in 1984, I think."

"Did he buy it new?"

"Well, no. I think it was new in the early sixties —or late fifties at the earliest," he admitted sheepishly.

"Ch —Dad, I don't really know anything about cars. I wouldn't be able to fix it if anything went wrong, and I couldn't afford a mechanic. . . ."

"Really, Bella, the thing runs great. They don't build them like that anymore."

The thing, I thought to myself . . . it had possibilities —as a nickname, at the very least.

"How cheap is cheap?" After all, that was the part I couldn't compromise on.

"Well, honey, I kind of already bought it for you. As a homecoming gift." Charlie peeked sideways at me with a hopeful expression.

Wow. Free.

The Golden Compass

The Golden Compass
 by Philip Pullman

Bibliography

Pullman, P. (1995, 2005). The golden compass: His dark materials, book 1 (Deluxe 10th anniversary edition). New York, NY: Alfred A. Knopf. ISBN 0375838309

Summary

The Golden compass is the first of a three part epic tale and tells of Lyra's extra-ordinary adventures in a world so nearly our own but with fantastical differences!  Lyra must leave her beloved, cozy, if not exactly perfect, life to travel with her daemon, gypsies, an aeronaut, witches, and a very special bear to save children, make a delivery, and unbeknownst to her, commit a great betrayal.  Along the way she learns to use the golden compass.

Critical Analysis

Philip Pullman's greatest talent in this book is getting the reader to suspend disbelief.  He does this by creating a world believable because it is so nearly true, yet fantastic because of the parts that are clearly a world of fancy.  No small part of this great achievement is the creation of his heroine, Lyra, and other characters we grow to cherish.  Lyra is every child, yet no one's child.   She is lovable and mischievous, but by the end of the story, she is strong and righteous. She is special because she has the power to understand the compass.   Other characters are also developed with truly human strengths and weaknesses, even if they are not human.

Universal themes common to fantasy novels abound in The Golden Compass.  There is the traditional quest, good versus evil, and the heroine certainly gains self-knowledge through the adventure.  Philip Pullman manages to combine all of this into a readable, sometimes exciting novel where horrific evil must be conquered and life and death battles occur.  The ending, however, should be called "The Beginning," and characters the reader believes are villains exchange places several times through the story and may change several more times in the next books.


Review Excerpts

* In The Golden Compass, Philip Pullman has written a masterpiece that transcends genre. It is a children's book that will appeal to adults, a fantasy novel that will charm even the most hardened realist. Best of all, the author doesn't speak down to his audience, nor does he pull his punches; there is genuine terror in this book, and heartbreak, betrayal, and loss. There is also love, loyalty, and an abiding morality that infuses the story but never overwhelms it. This is one of those rare novels that one wishes would never end. --Alix Wilber

* This is a captivating fantasy, filled with excitement, suspense, and unusual characters.... There is some fine descriptive writing, filled with the kind of details that encourage suspension of disbelief. The story line moves along at a rapid clip, but flags when it delves into philosophical matters. The ending is less than satisfying, but serves as a lead-in to part two of the series. --School Library Journal


Connections

* Expert from The Golden Compass
 
     After darkness had fallen, and when the stores and equipment had all been safely unloaded and stood in waiting on the quay, Farder Coram and Lyra walked along the waterfront and looked for Einarsson's Bar. They found it easily enough: a crude concrete shed with a red neon sign flashing irregularly over the door and the sound of loud voices through the condensation-frosted windows.
     A pitted alley beside it led to a sheet-metal gate into a rear yard, where a lean-to shed stood crazily over a floor of frozen mud. Dim light through the rear window of the bar showed a vast pale form crouching upright and gnawing at a haunch of meat which it held in both hands. Lyra had an impression of blood-stained muzzle and face, small malevolent black eyes, and an immensity of dirty matted yellowish fur. As it gnawed, hideous growling, crunching, sucking noises came from it.
Farder Coram stood by the gate and called:
     "Iorek Bymison!"
     The bear stopped eating. As far as they could tell, he was looking at them directly, but it was impossible to read any expression on his face.
     "Iorek Byrnison," said Farder Coram again. "May I speak to you?"
     Lyra's heart was thumping hard, because something in the bear's presence made her feel close to coldness, danger, brutal power, but a power controlled by intelligence; and not a human intelligence, nothing like a human, because of course bears had no daemons. This strange hulking presence gnawing its meat was like nothing she had ever imagined, and she felt a profound admiration and pity for the lonely creature.
      He dropped the reindeer leg in the dirt and slumped on all fours to the gate. Then he reared up massively, ten feet or more high, as if to show how mighty he was, to remind them how useless the gate would be as a barrier, and he spoke to them from that height.
     'Well? Who are you?'

* You can listen to a sample from the audio version on Philip Pullmans website.  There are also other things to explore on the site.  Check it out here.

* His Dark Materials Trilogy includes:
The Golden Compass
The Subtle Knife
The Amber Spyglass