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tasharobinson's review against another edition
4.0
Honestly, as graceful as the writing is in this book, and as compelling as some sections are, I don't think I would have finished it if I wasn't a fan of Jo Walton's, and if she hadn't earned my trust as a writer, because I had such difficulties latching onto it. This is several books simultaneously. One is a joint sequel to Twelfth Night and The Tempest, set in an alternate Florence where no one dies except by will (deliberate murder or their own decision to die), and people typically live many hundreds of years in a Renaissance setting where "progress does not exist." That story is something of a political fable about a power struggle between Miranda's children, Caliban's son Geryon and his half-brother Duke Orsino.
But this is also the personal history and memoir of Sylvia, the modern-day fantasy author who's writing this book, while looking back on childhood and marital abuse. And it's also the story of her muse, the living inspiration in her head, her imaginary friend, who has consciousness and a major part in her books but no individual agency most of the time, and it's about his attempts to escape her head. And then there are a Victorian couple who fall into fictional-Florence as if it's Narnia, and there are also numerous chapter-length essays on art and creativity and Italian artists being smarmy dicks to each other, plus plenty of byways off into the rules of fantasy Florence and larger thoughts on everything from religion to food. It's a lot all at once, and especially in the first half, the book jumps between these layers so often that it's impossible to really get a sense for the characters or the thoroughline. It's the kind of book (much like Walton's Among Others!) where you absolutely have to get to the end to have any perspective on what you just read and what it's meant to be.
With that in mind, I feel like I could immediately re-read this book and have a very different experience, and a much clearer idea of how all the seemingly unrelated bits fit together. But on a first read for me, it was a herky-jerky ride, because every time I started to get drawn into any particular narrative (like what it would mean for a classically educated, well-off Victorian 19-year-old woman to drop into a society where she's invited to dress and act like a young man, find a profession, and support herself), it would shift to something else and I'd lose the rhythm and focus.
And as a result, I rarely really felt connected to most of the characters. Orsino's history with Geryon, when it comes clear, is certainly compelling, and so is the dilemma he faces mid-book. And I enjoyed the virtual tour of modern Florence, which I'm not likely to get to anytime soon given the pandemic. The description of Raphael's Agnolo and Maddalena Doni portraits, with their secret reverse-side art, was pretty fascinating, and so was looking it up afterward and finding the images online. Visiting the Teatro del Sale, which she describes so rapturously, is now high on my bucket list.
I wasn't as sure how to take the Sylvia sections of the book. For the longest time, I really thought this was a true Jo Walton memoir, particularly given the rapturous descriptions of real places and experiences, and the way Sylvia's books and awards and habits (going to Worldcon every year, for instance) map to Walton's. But a lot of the biographical stuff doesn't actually seem to fit, which makes the book feel less intimate in a mildly disappointing way. On the other hand, it would be a relief to know Walton is not actually recovering from some of Sylvia's experiences, or headed in the direction she is by the end.
All in all, a strange experience that feels very much like being invited to hang out in Walton's head with the worried muse-character, watching her alternately write a fantasy novel, follow some of her intellectual obsessions, and live her life. What an unusual place to visit!
But this is also the personal history and memoir of Sylvia, the modern-day fantasy author who's writing this book, while looking back on childhood and marital abuse. And it's also the story of her muse, the living inspiration in her head, her imaginary friend, who has consciousness and a major part in her books but no individual agency most of the time, and it's about his attempts to escape her head. And then there are a Victorian couple who fall into fictional-Florence as if it's Narnia, and there are also numerous chapter-length essays on art and creativity and Italian artists being smarmy dicks to each other, plus plenty of byways off into the rules of fantasy Florence and larger thoughts on everything from religion to food. It's a lot all at once, and especially in the first half, the book jumps between these layers so often that it's impossible to really get a sense for the characters or the thoroughline. It's the kind of book (much like Walton's Among Others!) where you absolutely have to get to the end to have any perspective on what you just read and what it's meant to be.
With that in mind, I feel like I could immediately re-read this book and have a very different experience, and a much clearer idea of how all the seemingly unrelated bits fit together. But on a first read for me, it was a herky-jerky ride, because every time I started to get drawn into any particular narrative (like what it would mean for a classically educated, well-off Victorian 19-year-old woman to drop into a society where she's invited to dress and act like a young man, find a profession, and support herself), it would shift to something else and I'd lose the rhythm and focus.
And as a result, I rarely really felt connected to most of the characters. Orsino's history with Geryon, when it comes clear, is certainly compelling, and so is the dilemma he faces mid-book. And I enjoyed the virtual tour of modern Florence, which I'm not likely to get to anytime soon given the pandemic. The description of Raphael's Agnolo and Maddalena Doni portraits, with their secret reverse-side art, was pretty fascinating, and so was looking it up afterward and finding the images online. Visiting the Teatro del Sale, which she describes so rapturously, is now high on my bucket list.
I wasn't as sure how to take the Sylvia sections of the book. For the longest time, I really thought this was a true Jo Walton memoir, particularly given the rapturous descriptions of real places and experiences, and the way Sylvia's books and awards and habits (going to Worldcon every year, for instance) map to Walton's. But a lot of the biographical stuff doesn't actually seem to fit, which makes the book feel less intimate in a mildly disappointing way. On the other hand, it would be a relief to know Walton is not actually recovering from some of Sylvia's experiences, or headed in the direction she is by the end.
All in all, a strange experience that feels very much like being invited to hang out in Walton's head with the worried muse-character, watching her alternately write a fantasy novel, follow some of her intellectual obsessions, and live her life. What an unusual place to visit!
menshevixen's review against another edition
5.0
What a wonderfully impossible book to review in any traditional sense! I received an advance copy from the author, a very kind gesture, and I'm looking forward to talking this book up to library patrons and reader friends alike when it launches in July. Whenever a new Walton book appears I have to reconfigure my favorites settings, as it were; where does the new one fit into the grand scheme of her catalogue, and how deeply do I feel it was written just for me? In this case, Or What You Will feels like a love letter: to Florence and its art and most especially its food, to the notion of many lives lived in one lifetime, to some of the less obvious corners of the fantasy canon, to Shakespeare (and my favorite of his plays, The Tempest), to unusual families and unorthodox friendships, and most of all to readers.
siavahda's review against another edition
4.0
Whatever you think this book is going to be, you’re wrong.
Or at least, I was very wrong about this book. I was hoping… I’m not sure, exactly, but I was incredibly excited about the idea of a book about a muse. About the avatar of someone’s imagination, their creativity.
And it’s true that this is about a muse. But it’s not really about the muse.
To be honest, I really struggled with this one. I started it in March, when I received the arc, and just finished it now, in June. I got bored. Jo Walton’s writing tends to be slow and kind of luxurious, but here it feels pretty rambly. And in fairness I think that’s on purpose; the nameless muse narrates in first-person, and real people don’t speak perfectly and concisely all the time. They ramble a bit, they wander, they backtrack. It gives Or What You Will the sense that you really are being spoken to by a real person, which is kind of vital, because one of the very first things the narrative needs to do is convince the reader that the muse is a real person, something far more complicated than just a figment of Sylvia’s imagination.
Sylvia, of course, being the writer whose head the muse lives inside. The two are aware of each other; they talk to each other directly, although Sylvia is a little confused or dismayed by the muse’s insistence that he’s as real as she is. We’re not real in the same way, she tells him, seeming a little worried that he – the nameless muse is very much male – thinks that they are. But it’s pretty clear that he’s a lot more than a delusion, or an imaginary friend. As we get more and more of their story – their story, not just the book they’re writing together, but their entwined past together, the journey of Sylvia’s life and how intrinsic the muse has been to it – well. We talk about how writers need to write, storytellers need to tell stories, but this isn’t that. Their relationship, Sylvia’s and her muse, isn’t that.
It’s life or death.
Read the rest on Every Book a Doorway!
Or at least, I was very wrong about this book. I was hoping… I’m not sure, exactly, but I was incredibly excited about the idea of a book about a muse. About the avatar of someone’s imagination, their creativity.
And it’s true that this is about a muse. But it’s not really about the muse.
To be honest, I really struggled with this one. I started it in March, when I received the arc, and just finished it now, in June. I got bored. Jo Walton’s writing tends to be slow and kind of luxurious, but here it feels pretty rambly. And in fairness I think that’s on purpose; the nameless muse narrates in first-person, and real people don’t speak perfectly and concisely all the time. They ramble a bit, they wander, they backtrack. It gives Or What You Will the sense that you really are being spoken to by a real person, which is kind of vital, because one of the very first things the narrative needs to do is convince the reader that the muse is a real person, something far more complicated than just a figment of Sylvia’s imagination.
Sylvia, of course, being the writer whose head the muse lives inside. The two are aware of each other; they talk to each other directly, although Sylvia is a little confused or dismayed by the muse’s insistence that he’s as real as she is. We’re not real in the same way, she tells him, seeming a little worried that he – the nameless muse is very much male – thinks that they are. But it’s pretty clear that he’s a lot more than a delusion, or an imaginary friend. As we get more and more of their story – their story, not just the book they’re writing together, but their entwined past together, the journey of Sylvia’s life and how intrinsic the muse has been to it – well. We talk about how writers need to write, storytellers need to tell stories, but this isn’t that. Their relationship, Sylvia’s and her muse, isn’t that.
It’s life or death.
Read the rest on Every Book a Doorway!
jenmcmaynes's review against another edition
4.0
I went into this book knowing almost nothing about it. I had read Walton’s Among Others and enjoyed it, thought the brief blurb on this sounded interesting, and dove in. I think that lack of knowledge is why I ended up loving it so much. The plot constantly surprised and intrigued me, which is very rare for me these days (lifelong bookworms will know what I mean!). Had I known more about it, perhaps I wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much. So I won’t write a lot of spoilers about the plot, to hopefully aid others to have the same experience as me. ;) I’ll say that the blurb led me to believe there would be similarities to the movie Stranger Than Fiction, which there were to a certain extent. But this story went deeper and more meta than that. The plot also draws heavily from The Tempest, Twelfth Night, Greek mythology, and Renaissance history and art. Plus a lot of fantasy stuff. It’s a strange combo that might not work for most readers, but I loved it. I’d like to say highly recommended, but I feel like this isn’t a book for everyone. But it was definitely for me!
erikars's review against another edition
2.0
The mixing of stories that only explicitly join at the end tends not to grab me, regardless of genre or plot. So, ultimately, this wasn't for me.
readingthething's review against another edition
emotional
mysterious
reflective
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.0
chirson's review against another edition
5.0
In the hands of a less accomplished writer, this might have dissolved into a solipsistic navel-gazing mess. But instead, I loved it. Maybe not as much as Lent, which enraptured me, but still rather a lot. Walton is playful and melancholy here, spinning a story of many worlds and characters and bringing together her love of Florence, Shakespeare, sff literature and metafiction. There is experimentation here, and self-indulgence, and not everything she throws on the page sticks the landing completely, but the parts that do work so well. I laughed, and I cried a little, and I thought "this is the most canlit Walton has ever been" and then there was that ending.
It also made me want to read everything, which is always the case with Walton and one of the reasons I wanted to start 2021 - a new year, a new decade - with her.
Spoiler
I think Walton's commitment to ending on a happy note is simply exceptional, and while it didn't have the same weight Lent had, I loved the life-affirmation.It also made me want to read everything, which is always the case with Walton and one of the reasons I wanted to start 2021 - a new year, a new decade - with her.
champagneghost's review against another edition
2.0
A beautifully written book, if self indulgent at times. But it wasn't for me & that's ok
heatherjm's review against another edition
emotional
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.0
jwells's review against another edition
adventurous
challenging
emotional
informative
reflective
Very strange book. I kept wondering, how in the world did Jo Walton get away with this? LOL
Not so much the protagonist who is an author's imaginary friend, or the other characters who are swiped from Shakespeare. (Shakespeare wouldn't have minded; he stole characters - not to mention plots - all the time.) It's more that I can't believe she got away with the big nonfiction digressions into the history of Florence/Firenze. You're not supposed to be able to do that, as a novelist, just drop in chunks of moderately-relevant exposition, on the grounds that they're interesting.
You better believe I read all of it though, and craved a gelato and a performance of Twelfth Night afterward.
I admire Walton so much, the way she writes something different every time, and it's always something intriguing.
Not so much the protagonist who is an author's imaginary friend, or the other characters who are swiped from Shakespeare. (Shakespeare wouldn't have minded; he stole characters - not to mention plots - all the time.) It's more that I can't believe she got away with the big nonfiction digressions into the history of Florence/Firenze. You're not supposed to be able to do that, as a novelist, just drop in chunks of moderately-relevant exposition, on the grounds that they're interesting.
You better believe I read all of it though, and craved a gelato and a performance of Twelfth Night afterward.
I admire Walton so much, the way she writes something different every time, and it's always something intriguing.
Content Warnings
Moderate: Terminal illness