The Trojan Shore

Tonight, the wind blows bitter
from the stony heights
beyond the city, gusts
at the thousand cook-fires,
lifts dust and grit from the plain,
driving through tent flaps
and into eyes, rank
with the stench of a siege camp –
combined sweat, wounds and excrement
assault every sense, beat at him
where he stands apart,
one more shadow on the beach,
one hand pushed hard
against his black prowed ship
while his eyes strain towards
the long horizon, strive
to see beyond it to the forsaken wife
and unknown child, to the island
hidden behind rising wind and wave –
lost, all lost now, abandoned
for barren conflict
along the Trojan shore.

(c) Helen Lowe

Published in JAAM 2008

—

I am currently organising a new Tuesday Poem series featuring poems themed around “war” and to bridge between that and my previous “Legendary” series, I thought I would repost The Trojan Shore (first posted in May last year.) Like last week’s poem The Wayfarer, this poem is from my Ithaca Conversations sequence. I feel this poem also resonates with my recent BookSworn post, When Characters We Love Die, where I discuss a few of my thoughts around war and realism in relation to fantasy fiction

—

To read the featured poem on the Tuesday Poem Hub and other great poems from fellow Tuesday poets from around the world, click here or on the Quill icon in the sidebar.

Yes, I’ve finally read The Ocean At The End Of The Lane and this is the long overdue book report!

The delay from the Just Arrived post on June 26 is not because I found the book an arduous read, but simply that I have been buried so deep writing Daughter Of Blood (The Wall Of Night Book Three) that reading has taken something of a back seat.

But now, onwards to my report back on this book, which really has been getting a lot of positive attention worldwide.

—

The Ocean At The End Of The Lane, by Neil Gaiman (Headline, 2013, 243 pp)

What’s It About?

The backcover blurb describes The Ocean At The End Of The Lane (OCEAN) as a “fable” and that feels right for the (Merriam Webster) dictionary meaning of “a legendary story of supernatural happenings “, but not so much in terms of “a narration intended to enforce a useful truth”—except in the sense that although all fiction is of course made up, the best fiction also resonates with a sense of greater truth.

So if I look briefly at what OCEAN is not: it is not a fable in the sense of a moral tale, and nor is it the child’s book I was expecting given the cover, the size of the book, and the fact that the protagonist is seven years old—and probably, if I am honest, because Neil Gaiman’s two most recent publications, The Graveyard Book and Odd And The Frost Giants were both children’s stories.

So what is OCEAN? It is a story for older readers (ie both YA and Adult, in my view) that does indeed deal with supernatural happenings in our everyday world, that I would class primarily as Horror—but tinged with more than a little Wonder (there is absolutely no sense whatsoever, despite the premise, in which this is paranormal urban fantasy)—and with a strong sense of the autobiographical to some of the realism aspects of the book.

To give a brief outline of the plot, without (I hope) spoilers: a seven year old boy in post-World War 2 England witnesses a suicide, as a result of which he falls in with the Hempstock family—granddaughter, mother and grandmother—who own the farm at the end of the lane where the suicide happens. The protagonist’s adventure with eleven year old Lettie Hempstock (although Lettie, we learn, may have been eleven for a very long time indeed) gangs somewhat awry and results in a supernatural being manifesting—in the form of an “Ursula Monkton”—in this world. The rest of the story concerns Lettie and the protagonist’s (whose name we never learn; he is only “I”) attempts to set right the consequences of Ursula Monkton’s manifestation.

What I Liked About The Ocean At The End Of The Lane:

Overall, I enjoyed OCEAN very much indeed. One of the strongest elements of the story for me is the way in which Neil Gaiman captures the child’s eye view of the world: the relationship with adults, the way everything trends towards being seen in black and white (the protagonist is seven remember) and the lack of the emotional filters that an adult would employ. In part, this gives the Horror elements of the story their power–and the Horror is anther very strong aspect to this book. I felt it so strongly at one point, dear readers, together with the child’s sense of helplessness, entrapment and fear, that I had to stop reading. It was at that point I decided that “this is not a children’s book”—and then, of course, found out that it was not intended to be!

Other aspects of the story I loved include the wonderful portrayal of the character of the boy and the evocation of the post-war era: through the brief but skilful descriptions of the family and the community, as well as the inner world of the boy, including his reading material. It is these elements , together what we learn of the protagonist’s life once he has grown up, that conveyed the sense that material in OCEAN is autobiographical. The fact that we never learn the protagonist’s name, that he is only ever “I”, reinforces this impression.

I also very much enjoyed the characters of the three Hempstock women and the world within a world of their farm, which is where the story’s sense of wonder is strongest.

And I can’t finish the “What I Liked” section without mentioning the way Neil Gaiman manages to combine a sense of simplicity to his writing with a wonderful use of language: it’s one of the aspects of his writing that I also enjoyed a great deal in The Graveyard Book.

Quibbles (If Any)

As you know, I only do reports here on the blog for books I’ve enjoyed, but that doesn’t mean I may not have minor quibbles. They are very minor indeed for OCEAN and  probably more correctly classified as subjective concerns rather than quibbles with the actual story or its telling.

My main concern is to warn that this is not a children’s book, despite the child on the front cover. The backcover says “there is primal horror here” and this should be heeded. I would go further and say that for some young readers aspects of this story would be terrifying.

My second quibble is definitely subjective, which is that I personally don’t care for autobiographical elements in fictional works. So although I think that sense did not detract from OCEAN’s overall strength as a story, it does affect whether a story will be “my favourite.”

The third quibble relates to the back cover material and is definitely an issue with the way these are often written, rather than with OCEAN! But yes, the backcover does indeed say that this book is: “a fable that reshapes modern fantasy.” So I have to say that, in my opinion, no, it doesn’t—at all. OCEAN is  a great story, very well told, but I failed to detect any reshaping of what I know of the genre. And in fact modern fantasy doesn’t need to be reshaped, it’s doing just fine as it is, in all its multiplicity of subgenres and forms!

So Overall, Then…

The Ocean At The End Of The Lane is a fine tale, featuring several wonderful character portrayals in a skilfully evoked world, one where the sometimes quite terrifying horror is countered by elements of profound wonder and delight. I enjoyed it a lot and thoroughly recommend it for YA and Adult readers who enjoy blendings of the fantastic, the horrific and the real. I believe it will appeal to readers who enjoyed Neil Gaiman’s earlier novel, Neverwhere, as well as China Mieville’s The City & The City, Raymond Feist’s Faerie Tale, and Melissa Marr’s Graveminder.

“LOVE this!”

—

Robin’s comment was made on this week’s Tuesday Poem, in which I posted my poem The Wayfarer, from my Ithaca Conversations sequence.

To read the poem, click on the title:

The Wayfarer

“The chief duty of a narrative sentence is to lead to the next sentence … [because] the basic function of the narrative sentence is to keep the story going and keep the reader going with it.”

~ Ursula Le Guin, Steering The Craft

—

What can I say, except “Hear, hear!” and “Bravo!” and /or any number of other expressions of authorly enthusiasm and approval. Whenever I am tempted to overwrite (the temptation arising out of my love affair with language and words), i.e. at least every other sentence, this dictum brings me back to terra firma.

As for this being the fourth and final quote—well, I could go on forever, but I hope I’ve given you sufficient flavour over the past four Saturdays, that you’ll feel compelled to seek out Steering the Craft for yourself. Honestly, whether you are a writer or aspiring writer yourself, or just love reading about the art and craft, I don’t think you will be disappointed.

The Wall of Night Series map; design by Peter Fitzpatrick

The A Geography of Haarth post series is traversing the full range of locales and places from The Wall of Night world of Haarth. Currently, we’re in “G.”

—

Gray Lands:   the desolate plains that adjoin the Wall of Night

‘The wind was blowing again, no longer a full Wall storm but driving in gusts, bringing dust and grit from the jagged peaks that towered above the Gray Lands.  It blew under the bivouac where the small band of fugitives lay hidden and shrilled around its perimeter.’

~ The Heir Of Night: The Wall of Night Book One; Chapter 25 — The River Of No Return

.

‘She turned away, but another voice spoke out of the heart of the cairn, ominous as distant thunder: “There is always a price … And now Winter’s heart lies buried in these gray lands, Winter’s blood soaked into barren ground.”’

~ from ©  The Gathering Of The Lost: The Wall of Night Book Two; Chapter 32 — Cockcrow

Lots of writing, that’s what, for starters. I am now into the penultimate section of Daughter Of Blood, The Wall Of Night Book Three and there is not a great deal to report beyond that I shall keep writing, writing — in a fashion that makes authors otherwise very dull sorts of creatures indeed 😉 — until it is done. And hope to reach the shores of the magical realm encapsulated by those two words “The End”, as soon as may be…

—

Lots of writing doesn’t generally make for lots of reading time, so I am a little behind on the “Just Arrived” list — but I can report that I have ‘finally’ read Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean At The End Of The Lane and will be sharing my terribly important thoughts with you sometime next week, most likely on Monday.  So ‘watch this space…’

—

Otherwise, I am pleased to say that I have some great new poems coming up to share with you as Tuesday Poems…

—

And in case you missed them, I’ve done two posts recently for my other regular blogging gigs:

BookSworn Writers: When Characters We Love Die

(There’s some nice discussion on this one.)

Supernatural Underground: Longhand Pages — A Writing Touchstone

—

Enjoy the rest of the week!

USA

UK/AU/NZ

You may recall, a ways back in the mists of early this year, I did a “Just Arrived” post for Miserere, An Autumn Tale, the first novel by my fellow BookSworn author, Teresa Frohock. I then went on to give you my report back, here.

As I said at the time though, Teresa and I had done a book swap—and now Teresa has posted her report on The Heir Of Night.

Here’s a snippet of what she has to say:

“Lowe utilizes necromancy and other dark arts to give the novel the right touch of dread for epic fantasy fans—not so much as to qualify for horror, but just enough to send a shiver down your spine.”

To read Teresa’s full review, click on:

Teresa Frohock On The Heir Of Night

Apparently, reading HEIR also sparked more epic thoughts on Teresa’s part, so you may also be interested to read her post:

Epic or Not, That Is The Question

Have some Wednesday fun with both the links. 😉

The Wayfarer: Odysseus at Dodoma

Acorns lie strewn with old leaves, thick
as years beneath the shadow of spreading oaks
where an old woman stoops, picking up sticks
that are no more or less twisted than she, binding
them onto her bent back, and watching with one
bright, blackbird eye as the wayfarer approaches,
an oar balanced across his knotted shoulder, his eyes
narrowed between deep seams, as one who has looked
out to numerous horizons and seen wonders: the moon’s
twinned horns rising from a twilit sea like some mythic
beast, awe and terror bound into the one moment
of seeing – those same eyes strayed now into this land
of low, green hills where the margin of the world
is always close as the line of the next, wooded slope
meeting sky, and where a crone hobbles closer
beneath her load, head twisted up to see him better,
curious as a crow, cackling to think there can be
any burden greater than hers in this world of suffering,
flapping work-worn hands and husking at him
in her cracked voice, bidding him return to the hearth
fire and the home isle, to sit in the sunlit porch
with grandchildren clutching at his knees –
but the wanderer hears only the ravens cawing,
lifting in clouds from the sacred grove, darkening
the sun with their wings, crying out that he is fated,
condemned to roam across sea and land, never
resting or knowing ease until he comes at last
to some far country where salt too is a stranger
and no traveller has ever brought word to those
who dwell there, or led them to imagine
the immeasurable vastness, the restless expanse
of the great ocean, that is the circumference,
the greater part of an unknown world.

(c) Helen Lowe, 2006

Published Takake 62

—

Over the past few weeks I’ve been featuring “legendary” poems and to round it off thought I’d re-feature one of my own.

The Wayfarer is the seventh and (to date) final poem in my Ithaca Conversations sequence, which  reflects my long held love of myth and legend, a love which began when my Standard 4 teacher, Mrs Hook, placed a colourful poster of the “Twelve Olympians” on our classroom wall. I was fascinated, absorbed … and read every book about the Greek myths that I could lay my hands on. The reading process continued into adult life, with translations of Ovid, Homer, and less mythic but equally legendary stories such as Xenophon’s Anabasis, as well as novels such as Robert Graves’ Homer’s Daughter. But the Iliad and the Odyssey were amongst my earliest loves and the power they exerted over my imagination is best evidenced by the way they continue to infiltrate my poetry and short fiction—and that the novels I write are centred around epic, legend and myth, both in what is loosely our world (Thornspell) and alternate worlds (The Wall of Night Series.)

—

To read the featured poem on the Tuesday Poem Hub and other great poems from fellow Tuesday poets from around the world, click here or on the Quill icon in the sidebar.

And here, for more local readers, is the panui:

.

Catalyst: Rolling Like Thunder Since 2003

(Yup, 10 years folks — spewing literary lava since 2003!)

Catalyst Open Mic

Wednesday 7th August, 8pm

The Darkroom 336 St Asaph St

SEE YOU THERE!
.

“…you’ve kept going with the books even with all the quake and post quake stress. You should be really proud of yourself! :)”

—

Wen’s comment came via webmail—and it is certainly true that not just the 18 months of awful, from September 2010 through to December 2011, but also the aftermath of the earthquakes that shattered Christchurch has been stressful in the extreme. Because, dear readers, neither shattered physical environments, nor emotional ones, whether for individuals, families, or communities, can be put right ‘just like that.’ It all takes time, and when you’re in it, the experience  becomes like those mills that grind both exceedingly slowly as well as exceedingly small.

So yes, keeping going at all on the books has felt  like a labour of Sisyphus—and I feel that everyone in Christchurch who has “kept going” should be proud. Really though, I think I said it best in the conclusion to one of my earthquake poems:

This Will be Us

“…and only fleetingly imagine
the reality that these people —
flickers on a newsreel,
stills in a frame —
experienced, lived through,
endured.”