A friend and I made a podcast recording of the parody classic (original found here).
Alternative link here.
Erin Horáková: I spent a chunk of this year doing Worldcon planing and paneling, and now that the dust has settled I still . . . don’t entirely know how I feel about cons (and I suspect my issues aren’t something Nine Worlds etc. could address). I got some fiction and academic work on genre published, which was nice and will hopefully happen more in years to come.
I enjoyed: reading more Diana Wynne Jones, the genre content at the Fringe (“Beowulf” in particular), classic British genre telly, and the gorgeous comic series LES CITES OBSCURES. I got a bit fond of WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE (though not rhapsodically so). I’m still reading T.H. White’s THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING books, but I had to slow down to catch up with Malory (the series being richer and funnier if Malory’s fresh in your mind). The ATTACK ON TITAN sub and PUELLA MAGI MADOKA MAGICA were great, and PRINCESS JELLYFISHbecame one of my favorite stories about the social and emotional experience of being a nerd.
I read/looked at Worldcon nominees specifically for voting for the first time, and was surprised by how naff a lot of entries were. Like, I expected to be choosing between a host of strong options, not . . . two contenders and objective shite, in a few categories. Is it always like that? Jesus. I DESPISED Meathouse Man and I am still pointedly not speaking to Who—I say that every Moffat-year, it’s my “and Carthage must be destroyed.”
Before I read The Islands of Chaldea, I read Aishwarya Subramanian’s review* of the novel, and I heard Ursula Jones, who completed the novel following the death of her sister Diana Wynne Jones, speak at a conference. Thus I knew going in both that this was not peak DWJ, and that I liked Ursula as a story-teller and really wanted her to pull it off.
The former was one of the reasons I wanted to cover Islands of Chaldea relatively early in my reading of the DWJ canon. Chaldea is reminiscent of a stripped-down Power of Three, with a big cast that’s not that thoroughly used. I‘d prefer for my final ‘first time reading this book’ DWJ experience to be a strong one–a good, typical example of the author’s work, rather than this—her final outing. If I were reading chronologically, my last DWJ would be a book that, while still good, cannot help but remind me of the author’s death. I can’t unknow that bibliographic fact. What’s perhaps worse is the way the weakness of the flesh perhaps forces an unwitting testament in the form of the weaknesses of the text. Just before Chaldea, I read DWJ’s immediately antecedent book, Enchanted Glass. It also showed some strain. More, I felt, than Chaldea did, actually.
A year or two ago, I watched a BBC documentary about continuations of Dickens’ unfinished novel, Edwin Drood. The documentary was tied in with the BBC’s continuation!miniseries, and short on discussions of the many, many, many previous attempts to complete the book (or the long, deep history of meta-musings on where Dickens might have been going with this). Instead, it largely consisted of people who’d never heard of fanfiction ‘have I the right?!!?’ing somewhere on a beach (they’d moved on to discussing Jane Austen’s unfinished beach-novel Sanditon) at the thought of touching the work of the artiste!!
People Who Don’t Get Fanfic’s opinions about completing, adapting and continuing literary works are largely useless. Either you understand (with or without a theoretical apparatus) that the author is dead and that the translator has a task, and that you can do:
things with a continuation/adaptation, and that Dickens was not an unfaltering genius bathed in gold dust who shat great ideas (well he did, but only like, 50% of the time, and the rest is The Chimes), or you don’t. And if you don’t, I have no time for your Mathew Arnold bullshit. It is boring to even make the case about why you are obviously wrong.
Long story short, I am down with continuations. I just wish publishers didn’t value the mystique of the author and the single vision of the text to the extent that they apparently believe the public can only be interested in traditional finished novels that present themselves like ‘just another DWJ book, but with an additional name on the cover for some reason.’
The worst-case adaptation scenario is probably that of the Sayers estate. Convinced no one would want to read the unaltered, half-finished final Wimsey book Thrones, Dominations, they had Jill Paton Walsh render up a substantially-edited (to its detriment) version of the first half of the novel (i.e. the half that Sayers had finished and abandoned), and wed it to a technically poor (and ideologically gross) continuation of her own. This really misreads the Sayers fanbase. I think they’d been quite happy (perhaps happier) just to have the notes and fragments of Sayers’ work, or to have the option of buying an affordable ‘scholars’ version’–or at least to get an appendix with that information in with the continuation as released.
Maybe an unfinished book would have put off general-interest mystery readers, but I’d argue that the estate has already been mismanaged to the extent that, while Sayers’ contemporary Agatha Christie is phenomenally popular, a good 90% of casual browsers don’t know what the fuck a Wimsey is. Jim from Milton Keynes probably isn’t going to buy Thrones, Dominations and be pissed it’s not a straight-up, ready-made mystery novel, because JimyJimJimJim probably isn’t going to ever pick it up. So stop pandering to him and ruining it for the rest of us.
The Chaldea case is nothing like that bad, but ffs, why do publishers think I’m some precious ten-year old who doesn’t know how book-sausage gets made? You don’t need to conceal what’s changed, where the new writer’s taken over. I’d appreciate the information. It would interest me. It wouldn’t put me off. And not just because I’m a scholar–though I’d argue the audience for Sayers, and to some extent DWJ, is already pretty heavily comprised of scholars and like-minded laypeople. It’s like the question of when and what to tell our partners about our exes. We can debate how we want to convey this information, but I don’t think there’s much point in elaborately pretending you’ve never loved another, etc. What IS it with the ‘resurrection of the body’ preoccupation with the wholeness of the orphaned text?
So: I don’t have beef with continuations. I resent publishing companies’ twee insistence that I will want to read some Potemkin village mock-up of the ‘whole’ story, and can’t handle the orphaned Bakhtinian text.
I am interested in where the switch-over between authors happens (Ursula’s afterword and DWJ’s composition style indicate that it was a pretty clean switch, and that Ursula had neither an outline nor notes to guide her), but emphatically not in that ‘where were we abandoned by the hand of the perfect master and left with some impostor?!’ kind of way so characteristic of those bloody Edwin Drood documentary opiners and their ilk.
I have two options for where I think this clean break might have been:
On page 230, we get this sentence:
“It must by then have been mid-morning and the sun blazed in through a dozen tall windows.”
That’s– the wrong rhythm? We at least need a comma after ‘morning’. The whole sentence feels not-quite-right. Up until that point I’d had a creeping sensation of ‘maybe the writer’s changed?’, but right there it crystallized into conviction.
It’s difficult judgment call, in that there isn’t a sharp quality drop. I just have a growing perception of untidiness. That’s either DWJ’s illness/the Enchanted Glass effect, or it shows a less trained (at least in this form) storyteller at work. Ursula’s not bad, in the portion I’m fairly sure is hers. She’s inventive. But she’s not honed. She reads more like a writer earlier in her career.
Conversely, even though I read Subramanian’s review beforehand, and thus anticipated the book’s final passage with the Lone Cat (which, as Subramanian points out, must be Ursula’s), I still found it unexpectedly moving. In a way, this ending is too ‘good’ for DWJ. Even if Ursula’s ending is more thinly written than the start of the book (not poor, but rough), it’s also too conventionally satisfying, in the way DWJ’s endings never are. (Some people would say DWJ’s endings are post-modern difficult brilliance that refuses conclusion etc. etc.–I just think DWJ is great at almost everything and can’t write an ending to save her life.)
I feel the copy editing also could have used DWJ’s precision. There’s a ‘maybe’ early on, when someone means ‘may be’, for example. ‘That’s as maybe’. That feels like an editorial flub, and the sort of mistake that people familiar with this kind of writing don’t make so much? ‘I should write and tell them’, I thought. Then I thought about working in a modern publishing house (which I’ve done, for my sins), and I lol’d at the idea that anyone might care/be able or willing to fix that niggle.
Lately the Strange Horizons book club conversations (I’m thinking of Tigerman and Fire in the Unnamable Country, though to a small extent Ombria in Shadow also touched on this) have been circling the question of what it means to talk about the real world via semi-referential ‘representative’ countries. What are the ethics and effects of that decision? Those discussions made me wonder what Islands of Chaldea gains from thinly fictionalizing England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales. It could easily discuss these places, or timeless fantasy versions thereof, using their real names, but it chooses not to. Did DWJ simply want to dodge the research-burden associated with historical fiction? I don’t even know, really, that it would have been incumbent on her to do and convey a lot of research. People do vague ancient fantasy British Isles all the time (his name? MERLIN!!).
What’s the upshot of whatever Chaldea has to say about these places? Are they just a setting for these characters? The novel and its world-building are at their vaguest when they come to faux-England. Granted, that’s the only section Ursula almost must have written. But if Englishness is here de facto portrayed as an unmarked ‘normal’ state, that’s invoking a familiar and dangerous imperial logic. I just don’t know what the book wants to say about England/Englishness.
In this world, it feels like nothing outside these islands (and the lost Atlantis) exists. (Which could itself say dubious things about the insularity and all-Whiteness of British fantastic imagination.) Then the ending sort of back-justifies unification between England and Scotland, and maybe all four of these ‘islands’. Is this a depiction of the kingdoms as, ideally, separate but equal, and somehow unified, or a retroactive justification/alt origin story for a history of English invasions?
Subramanian wondered whether the Mediterranean element in faux-Wales complicated this schema, and whether it might allude to Roman Britain. That didn’t bother me, actually? I sort of thought that was a nod to French celts and Brittany, and/or the intermarriage that randomly happened with Italy and Wales, which my Welsh flatmate Robin and the works of RTD assure me is important. Yet I’m tempted to just say ‘it’s Brittany.’
The novel leaves me with a lot of questions. What’s with lost Atlantis—what is that there for? Why does our hero’s aunt and traveling companion, the Wise Woman Beck, hate faux!Ireland? Etc., etc. Like Enchanted Glass, Chaldea really isn’t a bad book, but it’s not quite on par with the bulk of the DWJ oeuvre, and there’s much about it that’s frustrating.
* If you need a plot outline of Chaldea, I suggest flicking over to this review and popping back. I mostly want to talk about the novel in terms of other things (how it was constructed and published, continuations of deceased authors’ work), to an audience that’s either read the novel in question or is interested in said other things rather than Islands of Chaldea per se.
Enchanted Glass isn’t a bad book. Were it not by Diana Wynne Jones (of whom I expect perfection, because she so regularly delivers it that not to do so would be to ignore all precedent), it’s even a book I’d be fairly excited about. The writing is competent, engrossing and pacey. The set up and the characters are well-drawn and interesting.
It’s simultaneously the most disappointing Diana Wynne Jones book I’ve read yet.
The book is really reminiscent of some of her other work. I don’t care much, but I suspect that must bug some people. The ‘distracted’ enchanter Andrew and his field of care and his ward/relation Aiden remind me a bit of Christopher and Cat Chant, down to the paired names. DWJ’s patented poor parent-child relationships come into play, as does the ‘made family’ solution she sometimes deploys (which I am never entirely convinced by, in her work), with its beneficent avuncular, grandparent or master and apprentice-ish relationships. The cast of assistants and villagers is a little Chrestomanci, but maybe primarily in that it seems very DWJ. She has a slightly Dickensian knack with personalities, creating something a little like the ‘cast of thousands’ she mocks in “Carol Oneir’s Hundredth Dream”. The plot arc, with its resolution at the fete, feels somewhat familiar (as does the conceit of the mirror/window/glass)–I want to say Eight Days of Luke, but suspect that’s not quite it. It’s a shame that the things this reminds me of, I like better.
So, what’s not working?
The characters make stupid decisions to make the climax work (why the ever-loving fuck are they at this fete?), which is a common fantasy malady, but not one very typical of the writer. The magic system is naturalistic and under-worked, and while I like the refusal to exposit, it can also be a bit frustrating. I don’t know what magical actions mean in this world, what alternative plot options are possible, what’s behind Andrew’s childhood amnesia–is that just supposed to be Freudian childhood amnesia, writ large? Did I miss something?
Andrew’s grandfather, the previous magic-user in charge of doing murky, unclear things to attain a murky, unclear ‘safety’ for the area he lives in, is presented as a lovely parental figure for Andrew. Then we’re told that he called Andrew’s secretary-cum-fiancée Stashe her father’s “silly little bitch” (p. 274) when she was young. At the end of the book, we’re further told that he slept with a teenage distant relation/daughter of a close friend, sent to live with him briefly while going through a rough patch. The hell? Is the reason his daughter wasn’t close to him something really sinister along these lines? I really don’t think that’s the book’s implication, but it’s where my mind jumps, given this strangeness about him and young women. Was DWJ both ill and thus not at her best and, at this point, so famous no editor pointed out that this sounds a bit like incest/abuse? Because you can have examinations of how abusive fucks can also be decent people or decent parents in other respects, and that’s what makes it harder, that’s what people from outside these backgrounds don’t get–but I don’t feel that’s where we’re going, here.
The relationship between Andrew and Stashe is economically drawn, but doesn’t make a ton of sense to me. I like Stashe! But what’s up with the offhand mentions of Andrew’s former fiancée/grad student? Such relationships can develop and be handled in an above board manner, but in the context of Andrew’s later second engagement with an employee, as well as his grandfather’s inappropriate relationships with young women, it looks odd. Also I wonder what the hell will Stashe and Andrew do/talk about? Couples aren’t a collection of shared hobbies, but Stashe and Andrew seem more like pleasant co-workers who are a bit attracted to one another and should maybe go out for coffee than people who should be getting married right now. It’s a bit hard to be pleased about a relationship you’re not sure is a decent idea yet, which will have a major effect on the life of a child who’s already lost all his other relatives–and the book wants you to be pleased.
The book is tonally awkward. It can’t really decide what age range it’s pitching to. It seems lost in a quite ambiguous time period (I’m thinking about the treatment of technology), and it displays a ‘kids these days with their telly and their bling’ crotchetiness. The last two make DWJ feel tired and dated, a vibe I never get from her otherwise!
The dog-boy thing is last-minute and under-developed. I think I need to know a bit more about the doubles. Not enough happens with the glass, or the chapel. It’s not her richest use of folklore either. The hell is up with Andrew’s vague, revelatory book/view of history? Reminds me of the Machine that they can’t get patented in Little Dorrit.
In true DWJ fashion (but worse than usual), the ending is a lump of ‘…wait what? Is that… over now, or?’
Let me stress: this is a decent book I’d be happy to see coming across my reviewer’s desk (I wish I had a desk, tbh) right now. It’s so freaking readable. DWJ makes it look easy, makes you think this is the standard every book should be performing to. I like the POV-shifting, though I know that bothers some people. I like Stashe, really all the characters. Creepy, funny, good imagery, interesting concept, great small moments in character and setting (The foster family! That coffee! And there again the war between the domestic Stocks!) etc. It’s not the DWJ I’d recommend as conversion-literature, but it’s quite something if this book is your off-day.