The Ones Who Walk Away From Hogwarts

Warning: Semi-Spoilers Contained Within

There is a trope in genre literature set in a wizarding academy that long predates Harry Potter. However, most books published over the past two decades that lean on this setup seem to be responding in some way to Hogwarts and to J.K. Rowling.

The Incandescent by Emily Tesh
(Image via Goodreads)

Lev Grossman’s excellent The Magicians trilogy used the premise of Brakebills Academy for Magicians to play with the lack of character development in the Harry Potter novels, suggesting that magic — like wealth and power — allows young men to remain emotionally undeveloped and callow.

In Magic For Liars, Sarah Gailey introduces Osthorne Academy of Young Mages, which provides an exploration of the classism, gender essentialism, and racial undertones of the British elite private school system on which Hogwarts is modelled.

There have been magical academy stories set in Stryxhaven Academy in Magic: The Gathering, and depictions of magical departments in Scholomance, Oxford, Cambridge, and Yale. There are literally dozens of similar stories published in the past few years, most of which seem like reflections and responses to the Harry Potter cultural juggernaut.

And so we come to Chetwood School, the setting for Emily Tesh’s recent novel The Incandescent. A novel which is likely to be on our Hugo nominating ballots. 

Like many wizarding schools, it’s located in England, is steeped in the British class system, and is modelled on boarding schools such as Eton and Wycombe Abbey. But rather than introduce the reader to the school through the eyes of yet another gifted kid, magical prodigy, or child of prophecy, Tesh offers readers the perspective of one of the teachers, Dr. Saffy Walden.

Walden — a former student at the school — heads up Chetwood’s department of magical pedagogy. Now in her late 30s, she leads a comfortable, if stunted, life. Her work is her passion, and her activities rarely stray from the confines of the school.

The early chapters provide terrific and well-thought-out details about how the protagonist navigates the magical academy. Walden worries about pedagogy, and how to keep the interest of easily distractible students. Magic is more like the humanities than an applied science, it turns out, with few students pursuing it at the post-secondary level. Walden’s believer syndrome encourages her most gifted student to continue studying magic because a good degree will open doors, whatever major one selects. The mundanity of these details, and the effortless way they are conveyed to the reader helps make the setting more believable.

There are long portions of the book that seem to meander, and it’s difficult to figure out if the narrative will add up to much more than a day-to-day slice of life at this elite institution. Even once the main villain is revealed, there’s a lack of immediacy about the conflict. Despite the lack of tension and obvious plotting, the general well-roundedness of the main characters kept us engaged.

One satisfying element of the novel — one that’s often missing from other magical academies — is that the primary antagonist has a compelling and believable motivation. Although we would wager that few readers have met someone resembling Voldemort, the villain of The Incandescent is someone we have all met in our day-to-day lives.

Dr. Saffi Walden — much like many 30-somethings in the real world — has spent decades obsessed with a magical academy for young wizards. But over the course of the novel, she realizes that obsession has stifled her personal growth, and that the academy has a darkness that should be avoided.

There are those who stay obsessed with Hogwarts … and there are those who simply walk away. The Incandescent is a perfect novel for the latter.

Aw Warlds In Aw Leids Is Metaphors (Translated Blog Post)

Canadian media theorist an weel-kent cultural icon Marshall McLuhan aince descrived art as “a distant early warning system that can always be relied upon to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.”

Babel – the split new novel fae Astounding Award winner R.F.Kuang – seems tae fit this defineetion. It micht be the maist McLunan-like leewark ever wrutten an-aw.

(Eemage bi gait o Goodreads)

 Set in 1830s Ingland, Babel follaes a Cantonee orphant cryed Robin Swift that’s taen on tae wirk for Oxfuird’s depairtment for owersettins, in a warld whaur the owersettin o words fae ae leid intil anither can hae an uncannie affcome. The glamourie aroond owersettin is at the hert o Ingland’s can tae colonise an daunton muckle o the warld, as siller baurs inscrived wi words in sindry leids can shaw the meaning that’s “tint” throu owersettin. Awmaist alane the Unitit Kinrik hauds this technological glamourie, an Oxfuird is at the hert o the Impire’s maucht.

The'r a lang tradeetion in genre leetratur o the Breetish historical leebuik as a pyntit wark o escapism. Stories set throu the Napoleonic Weir, or the Victorian Days, can gie’s a couthie setting that affen evites ony speirings anent the stauning atween racial groups, social clesses, an sexes. This isna tae be aff-luif wi thir warks – as escapism haes its place – but this orra kind o auld fernyears can whiles edit or lea oot important maiters o social justice. Hooanever, Babel isna blate aboot the injustices o its day, but raither gets tore in aboot. It wad tak mair nor magic, the buik seems tae say, for tae mak a fairer, mair just warld.

Here a novel that traivels the Regency times setting o the historical leebuik for tae warsle wi maiters o social justice that’s at the fore o cultural screivings in lee-science an leewarks the day. In short, it uses the cultural customs o Ingland at the heicht o its colonial maucht for tae airt oot an question hoo thir systems affectit society.

It's warth takkin tent that tho mony American screivars haes attemptit tae follae the style o historical Breetish prose, the feck haes failt, affen soondin like the proverbial bool in the mou. But insteid o haunless pastiche, Babel comes ower like a leebuik William Makepeace Thackery micht’a wrutten. Kuang gies us baith a pree o the times, an prose fae the region we can lippen on, that’s that skeely we haed tae twyce check tae find oot that she wisna hersel born an reared in Hertfordshire or Dorset. (We wad strangly airt awbody tae the “Author’s Note on Her Representations of Historical England, and of the University of Oxford in Particular.”, that comes afore the text o the novel). It is awthegither braw that a buik that’s insnorlt wi langage as a concept uses it wi sic skeel.

At the hert o the themes in the buik is the three guid freens that Swift maks at Oxfuird. Victoire Desgraves, Letitia (Letty) Price, an Ramiz (Ramy) Mirza is – like Swift – three students in hauns wi makkin owersettins. Thay’v taen a scunner anent the wey that thair peers haunles race, cless, sex, or aw thae cheils thegither. Caulcuttay-born Ramy an Haitie-born Victoire feels the ill-will airtit agin them bi rich, racist an cless-reekit white students, tho Letty, that’s white hersel, never seems tae unnerstaun or tae see whit her freens is haein tae thole.

“All words, in all languages are metaphors,”
wrate Marshall McLuhan – a souch that
the leaders-aff in Babel micht haud wi
(Eemage bi gait o University of Toronto)

Aboot a decade syne, speirars o psychology in Texas vizzied the pattrens o gremmar that fowk used as a strang sign o hoo siccar thair romantic an relationship fancies micht be. The possible explanation thay offert wis that same like pattrens an order o functional words (prepositions, airticles, quantifiers, gey common verbs, an the lave) likely reflect the same pattrens o thocht…an sae can be a pynter for hoo meaningfae relationships micht be. Intressinly, this seems tae haud true athort leids. Rami an Robin - that’s life stories mirra ane an anither’s in sindry weys – speak the same langage o love an o freenship, an pit some o us in mind o thae speirings. That thay are drew til ane anither, but it’s never said fair oot, gies an emotional backbane tae the buik. As muckle as mony readers (oorsels comprehendit) wad love for thair romance tae haud-gauin cantie like, the’r mense in shawin the characters raither as presonars o the 19t century’s narra-nebbitness agin same-sex airtit fowk.

Langage can astrict an-aw, even amang thaim that speaks the same ane. For muckle o the novel, warking-cless fowk is ill-quotit. Labourers on strike is depictit as speakin raivelt an thair concerns is dealt aff-luif like bi Robin, Rami, Victoire an Letty. But syne the novel daes a rare bit o narrative clearance, shawin that even the leaders-aff can be unkennin anent maiters o social justice, an that allies can be fund in less-expectit places. Labour unions – the Oxfuird Owersettars Union comprehendit – become uphauders o solidarity an for makkin brigs atween cultures.

Efter three braw novels, R.F.Kuang haes awready estaiblisht hersel as ane o the best young screivars o the leewark genre. Wi Babel, she haes taen her wark til a new heicht.

Set ower in Scots bi Dr Dauvit Horsbroch, 2024

All Words In All Languages Are Metaphors

(image via Goodreads)

Canadian media theorist and pop cultural icon Marshall McLuhan once described art as “a distant early warning system that can always be relied upon to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.”

Babel — the latest novel from Astounding Award-winner R.F. Kuang — seems to fit this definition. It may also be the most McLuhanesque fantasy novel ever written.

Set in 1830s England, Babel follows a Cantonese orphan Robin Swift who is recruited to work for Oxford’s translation department in a world in which the translation of words from one language to another can have mystical consequences. The enchantment of translation has become crucial to England’s ability to colonize and exploit much of the globe, as silver bars inscribed with words in multiple languages can manifest the meaning that is ‘lost’ in translation. The United Kingdom has a near monopoly on this magical technology, and Oxford is at the heart of the Empire’s power.

There’s a long tradition in genre literature of the British historical fantasy as a particularly escapist work. Stories during the Napoleonic War, or the Victorian Era, can provide a cozy and comfortable setting that’s often insulated from vital questions of equity between those of differing racial groups, social classes, and genders. This is not to dismiss these works — as escapism has its place — but this peculiar form of nostalgia can conveniently edit or omit important issues of social justice. Babel, however, does not shy away from any of the injustices of the timeframe it is set in, but rather confronts them head-on. It would take more than magic, the book seems to suggest, to make a fairer, more just world.

This is a novel that uses the form of Regency-era historical fantasy to tackle themes of social justice that are at the forefront of today’s cultural vanguard in science fiction and fantasy. In short, it uses the cultural precepts of England at the peak of its colonial power to disclose and critique the social impacts of those systems.

It’s worth noting that although many American authors have attempted to mimic the style of period British prose, the vast majority have failed, often sounding affected, or pompous, or leaden. But instead of clumsy pastiche, Babel feels like a fantasy that William Makepeace Thackeray might have written. Kuang evokes era-appropriate ambiance and regionally-believable prose and dialogue so skillfully that we double-checked to see if she was born and raised in Hertfordshire or Dorset. (We strongly encourage everyone to read the “Author’s Note on Her Representations of Historical England, and of the University of Oxford in Particular,” which precedes the text of the novel.) It is especially gratifying that a book that is deeply concerned with language as a concept uses it so skillfully.

“All words, in all languages are metaphors,” wrote
Marshall McLuhan — a sentiment that might 
resonate with the protagonists of Babel.
(Image via University of Toronto)

Central to the themes in the book are the three close friends that Swift makes at Oxford. Victoire Desgraves, Letitia (Letty) Price, and Ramiz (Ramy) Mirza are — like Swift — translation students who are alienated from their peers for reasons related to race, class, gender, or a combination of these. Calcutta-born Ramy and Haitian-born Victoire keenly feel the animosity directed towards them by racist and classist rich white students, though Letty, who is white herself, never seems to understand or to see what her friends are going through.

About a decade ago, psychological researchers in Texas examined how the grammatical patterns that individuals use are a strong predictor of romantic attraction and relationship stability. The possible explanation they offered was that similar patterns and order of functional words (prepositions, articles, quantifiers, high-frequency adverbs, etc.) probably reflect similar patterns of thought … and can therefore be a signifier of the potential for meaningful relationships. Interestingly, this seems to be true across languages. Rami and Robin — whose life stories parallel each other in myriad ways — speak the same language of love and of friendship, and reminded some of us of this research. Their attraction, though never explicitly spelled out, is an emotional backbone of the novel. As much as many readers (us included) would love for their romance to play out more happily, there is a certain degree of integrity to depicting the characters as being prisoners of the heteronormative homophobia of the 19ᵗʰ century.

Language can also act as a barrier, even among those who speak the same one. For much of the novel, working-class characters are given short shrift. Striking labourers are depicted as speaking incoherently, and their concerns are dismissed by Robin, Rami, Victoire and Letty. But then the novel pulls a nice piece of narrative revelation; showing that even the protagonists can be unaware of matters of social justice, and that allyship can be found in less-expected places. Labour unions — including the Oxford Translators Union — become vehicles for solidarity and for bridging cultural divides.

After three excellent novels, R.F. Kuang had already established herself as one of the best young writers in genre fiction. With Babel, she has taken her work to a new level.

Urban Renewal

What a great time to read about a city loved by so many.

Three-time best novel
winner N.K. Jemisin's
latest book.
(Image via Goodreads)

For the past year, New York City has been inaccessible to travelers, tourists, and those seeking to commune with its genius loci (though, if Jemisin’s interpretation is correct, this is what the City would prefer). Hardcore urbanists from all over will get a particular thrill from a book like The City We Became, which invokes the boroughs as characters and evokes memories of wanders through their streets.

With a plot kicked off by a young homeless man discovering his destiny as the avatar of New York City, the story involves a larger-scale need to rally the Burroughs to defend urbanism against community-destroying White supremacy in the form of a Lovecraftian horror. This entity lashes out and seeks to destroy New York out of a fear of culturally-rich diverse communities. As with many Lovecraftian horrors, significant elements of the unknown and unknowable are left to the reader’s imagination.

Jemisin’s talent for creating characters we care about surviving and surpassing structural barriers took center stage. Every new superhero needs an origin story and this story provides this by expanding on the creative city hero concept Jemisin introduced in the original short story “The City Born Great.” While a minor quibble, the cameo character Bel seems more Aussie than British to us and no one in our book club remembers seeing a pound sterling note in about three decades. More decisively, the nod to her sensitivity readers in the acknowledgements was appreciated, however some members of the book club felt the characters were reductive and that the narrative occasionally relied on telling the readers rather than showing the heroic status of the protagonists.

This is a novel that is subtly intertextual, paying homage to Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere, and subverting the works of H.P. Lovecraft. In fact, the allusions to Lovecraft are so integral to the text that the occasional forays into Lovecraftian prose became distracting to at least one of our members. Those who dislike the way Lovecraft wrote may find some of the prose difficult. 

But despite being steeped in the ideas behind famous fantasy works, The City We Became sometimes

Given how much this novel is in conversation with
both the city of New York, and the works of H.P. 
Lovecraft, it is worth noting how Lovecraft had
an irrational dislike of New York. 
(Image via NPR)

seems more aligned with the narrative traditions of magical realism; it sometimes isn’t clear where the metaphor ends and what portions of the story are supposed to be read literally. Readers who lean towards more literary novels will likely enjoy this more than those who seek out pulp adventures.

As expected, and true to Jemisin’s style, there's a satisfying through line in The City We Became that illuminates a determinative cultural construction. The divisiveness that we've all seen play out in the US over the past decade or so is simplified to an “urban vs rural” or “white vs non-white” dichotomy in this novel, and we suspect it will play an important role in the next two books. The fact that this tension was not resolved with an unbelievable love-in between the Burroughs (a few of us were dreading that type of ending), and the recognition that spatial and cultural practices, not necessarily political boundaries, provide the glue for urban gestalt provided a graceful end to a fantasy novel focused on character development.

Fantastical stories expect some level of abandon by readers, and for the most part that was easy to do with this book. We were a bit tripped up by a few easy-outs, however, including a pep talk that reminded us of Rhonda Byrne’s The Secret and a few convenient but sticky plot holes filled in by bystanders inexplicably unable to see things or eagerly accepting dubious explanations. American exceptionalism also peeked around a few corners (The repetitious refrain: “this time is different / never happened in the other cities”) but this will likely support the book finding its audience.

Given Jemisin’s well-earned following and the timely depiction of a much-loved survivor city, we are glad to see The City We Became on this year’s Hugo short list.

The Privilege Of Magic

The most frightening villain ever to stalk the halls of a school for magic isn’t Voldemort, it’s

Designed by Will Staehle,
the cover of Magic For
Liars is memorably great.
(Image via Amazon)

privilege: the subtle, corrosive force at the heart of Magic For Liars.

At its core, Sarah Gailey’s debut novel is about how the powerful impose their will without consent, and without a second thought. These power dynamics might be portrayed within Magic For Liars as the relationship between the magical and non-magical, but they are grounded in well-observed real-world dynamics between those who have privilege and those who don’t. 

Setting the story at the Osthorne Academy for Young Mages, Gailey uses the standard tropes of the magical academy to explore notions of privilege by telling the story from the perspective of someone who lacks magical ability. The protagonist, private investigator Ivy Gamble, is the non-magical twin sister of a teacher at the school. Ivy is lead by circumstance to investigate a murder within the magical community. 

Through this set-up, Gailey interrogates themes of power, consent, toxic relationships, sibling resentment, and identity. Memorable scenes, such as when a magical healer subjects Ivy to an invasive procedure without asking, or a flashback to a practical joke her sister played on her, effectively reinforce these themes. This is a lot of heavy subtext for a novel with a sprightly cadence and breezy prose, but for the most part it works. 

Some of the things we enjoyed the most about Magic For Liars were what Gailey chose to omit. Rather than deluging the reader with endless explanations of magic or magical society, Gailey focuses on characters and motivations. Rather than treating the sexuality of characters as big revelations, the inclusion of LGBTQ characters is refreshingly natural and casual. 

The magic of privilege enables many
people to become their worst selves.
(Image via Twitter.) 

Because of the massive cultural hegemony of Harry Potter, it’s difficult not to compare any novel about a school for magicians to the one in J.K. Rowling’s best-sellers. But we’d argue that the school in Magic For Liars might more aptly be compared to Eton College, the famous privilege factory that has churned out generations of upper class twits such as David Cameron and Boris Johnson. 

Some have suggested that the book is more comparable to Lev Grossman’s The Magicians than to the Harry Potter series. This is in part due to the age of the students and the mature tone of the books. Most notably, the ability — the privilege —of doing magic enables characters to be their own worst possible selves. Interestingly, Ivy Gamble is a far more likeable protagonist than Quentin Coldwater.

When dealing with characters and their relationships, when dealing with magic as a metaphor for social stratification and when dealing with implied politics, Magic For Liars succeeds, but as a mystery novel, it is somewhat unsatisfying. The investigative threads are occasionally obvious, and the lack of observational acuity among the school faculty beggars belief. Most troubling is the convenient trail of notes left for the protagonist — most of our book club found it too simple to be considered a puzzle.

Gailey’s prose oscillated at times between light and engaging fantasy and noir detective pastiche. Some readers found this tone switching distracting, especially in early chapters where the overuse of similes was especially annoying. One reader almost didn’t finish the book because of lines like “The drought-impossible velvety green lawn that surrounded the school looked like frosting that was waiting to have a finger through it.” It was suggested that this tone might have been intentionally over-the-top to evoke hard-boiled detective prose. 

But despite these quibbles and qualms, it is a book that we recommend. We suspect that it will appeal to many Hugo voters, especially given how the protagonist reminded at least a few of us of Elma York, the hero of Mary Robinette Kowal’s Hugo-winning The Calculating Stars. Much like York, Ivy Gamble is a flawed narrator who deals with anxiety and impostor syndrome, and much like York, she challenges systems of privilege and power.

We look forward to reading Gailey’s subsequent works.

Ninefox Gambit — Book Club Review

Image via Amazon.ca

The horrors of war, sacrifice and a theocratic-fascist society are at the forefront of Yoon Ha Lee’s debut novel, that also happens to be a less-than-typical military science fiction novel.

The novel primarily follows two characters: Cheris, a living soldier with a gift for math, and Jedao, a brilliant, undead general and feared mass murderer. To up the tension between the two, Lee places both characters in Cheris’ body. Together, the two must face a “heretical” enemy that is altering the fabric of reality with “calendrical rot.”

The universe of Cheris and Jedao isn’t well-explained by Lee, who instead throws readers out of the boat to teach them to swim. There isn’t much description of the technology, the different cultures and castes, the boundaries between science and what some of us saw as ritualistic magic (ie. blood sacrifices at holidays), or how seemingly basic things work. Most of our group wasn’t bothered by this approach, and it lead to many comparisons to Ann Leckie’s Ancillary Justice. In fact, we enjoyed discussing how we came to understand the mechanics of the story’s setting. For example, some of us interpreted the frequent references to “calendar” as a type of math (ie. instead of calculus, it’s calendar), while others saw calendars as a means of creating a uniform collective unconscious or psychic energy able to affect certain technologies.

While maybe a paragraph explaining the meaning of “calendar” in this context would have been welcome, we respected that Lee probably cut down the page count by half with the approach he took. Lee’s efficient prose reflects the militaristic society and the war genre. Lee never shies away from the gruesomeness of war and the remarkable tyranny of the theocratic-fascist society he creates, which elevates Ninefox Gambit beyond the average military science fiction story. In Lee’s universe, war is not to be celebrated or enjoyed; it is awful, brutal and at least two characters recognize that it needs to be stopped. 

Beyond Ancillary Justice, this book opened up a lot of comparisons to some of this year’s other Hugo-nominated books: the absence of variety in species/culture in contrast to A Closed and Common Orbit, the lack of defined gender roles unlike Death’s End, community service as a punishment in the criminal justice system in Too Like the Lightning and the boundaries of magic between science, as seen in Obelisk Gate and our final book club read, All the Birds in the Sky.

While we all doubted that it would win the Hugo, at least one of us thought it was the best novel on the shortlist and we are ready to see where the rest of the series goes.