You need to sign in or sign up before continuing.
Take a photo of a barcode or cover
A review by nixazrael
The Ring of Solomon by Jonathan Stroud
4.0
Let me start this review off by saying: Jonathan Stroud, you depress me.
You depress me because I don't have that kind of wit. I can dissect the humor of this book into randomness, sarcasm/irony, and lovable arrogance, but I can't imitate it. I blame it on Bartimaeus. Inimitable, he is.
(At this juncture, I would like to crawl into a corner and disappear, or wail something like "I FAIL AT LIFE," but I have to finish this review, no?)
So, to business.
Ford and Zaphod: To business!
*facepalm* Anyway, before the President and the author interrupted me, I was going to say that this book is awesome.
(See, if a book depresses me, it's either good and not mine or terrible and mine. Therefore, since I am not Jonathan Stroud, you must assume that this book was good.)
As many have said, Bartimaeus was definitely the best part. He was like Frankenstein's monster in that he was cast out from society and had an unfortunate propensity for murder. However, I don't think Mary Shelley's monster was quite the eloquent, irreverent, hilarious, and arrogant character that Bartimaeus was. (And if he was, I would have appreciated Frankenstein a lot more. But with Shelley's treatment of the countryside [can't remember if it was Ingolstadtan or Genovan] you can't expect her to describe witty monsters. Wouldn't quite go with the Gothic tone of the novel, eh?)
Honestly. Not many books manage to make me laugh while involving me with their plot. Some books, while still hilarious, have slightly less plot. *coughPJATOcough*
(Yeah, yeah. I'm kind of picking up on a negative tone from my friends, and since I haven't read said books in a while, I'm a tad . . . well, let's not say gullible, that sounds bad . . . and influencible isn't a word . . . malleable. But I like to keep myself deluded. Free will might be an illusion, but if I don't think it's an illusion, it doesn't bother me. That free will is an illusion, I mean, not free will itself--but I'm kind of rambling so I'll stop this train of thought and get back to the review. Seriously. I've written more in parentheses in this review than not in parentheses.)
I really have nothing to say here. Nothing really. I'll just put Jonathan Stroud's name on a virtual plaque and stick him up on the shelf that until now has held only Terry Pratchett and Douglas Adams. That comparison should tell you something.
Ah, that's right. Because of the brilliance of Stroud's wit, I was bored during the serious parts. BORED. And it was perfectly good writing. When Asmira came out with the queen and whatnot, I was wondering when Bartimaeus would come back. I felt bad. He worked hard on those passages, brain! Sludge through them! (Uh-oh. Now I'm insulting them.) Bartimaeus spoiled me. Really badly.
I liked how Bartimaeus (geez, this is a review of Bartimaeus, not the book really) knew when to be serious. Well, sort of. *coughpygmyhippocough* He could talk to Asmira and not make me laugh and he was still likeable.
Before I ramble on too long (I've used, oh . . . THREE THOUSAND AND EIGHTY THREE? NO WAY. I don't even write that much of my novel in three days. WHAT IS WRONG WITH MAH BRAIN?) I'll just say that this is the next step up from PJATO. The humor's a little lower on the shelf than Douglas Adams and Terry Pratchett, but only by a hair. Stroud's a brilliant writer and I would love to see more of his work.
Oh, and I nearly forgot. A phoenix. HOW AWESOME IS THAT. On the cover /and/ inside the book. Not like the Firebird story collection I shelved the other day which had nothing to do with phoenixes and everything to do with the name of the publishing company.
So since there's nothing more to be said at the moment, this phoenix is going to fly off now. And I, luckily, don't have to carry any string bags of artichokes unless I want to.
You depress me because I don't have that kind of wit. I can dissect the humor of this book into randomness, sarcasm/irony, and lovable arrogance, but I can't imitate it. I blame it on Bartimaeus. Inimitable, he is.
(At this juncture, I would like to crawl into a corner and disappear, or wail something like "I FAIL AT LIFE," but I have to finish this review, no?)
So, to business.
Ford and Zaphod: To business!
*facepalm* Anyway, before the President and the author interrupted me, I was going to say that this book is awesome.
(See, if a book depresses me, it's either good and not mine or terrible and mine. Therefore, since I am not Jonathan Stroud, you must assume that this book was good.)
As many have said, Bartimaeus was definitely the best part. He was like Frankenstein's monster in that he was cast out from society and had an unfortunate propensity for murder. However, I don't think Mary Shelley's monster was quite the eloquent, irreverent, hilarious, and arrogant character that Bartimaeus was. (And if he was, I would have appreciated Frankenstein a lot more. But with Shelley's treatment of the countryside [can't remember if it was Ingolstadtan or Genovan] you can't expect her to describe witty monsters. Wouldn't quite go with the Gothic tone of the novel, eh?)
Honestly. Not many books manage to make me laugh while involving me with their plot. Some books, while still hilarious, have slightly less plot. *coughPJATOcough*
(Yeah, yeah. I'm kind of picking up on a negative tone from my friends, and since I haven't read said books in a while, I'm a tad . . . well, let's not say gullible, that sounds bad . . . and influencible isn't a word . . . malleable. But I like to keep myself deluded. Free will might be an illusion, but if I don't think it's an illusion, it doesn't bother me. That free will is an illusion, I mean, not free will itself--but I'm kind of rambling so I'll stop this train of thought and get back to the review. Seriously. I've written more in parentheses in this review than not in parentheses.)
I really have nothing to say here. Nothing really. I'll just put Jonathan Stroud's name on a virtual plaque and stick him up on the shelf that until now has held only Terry Pratchett and Douglas Adams. That comparison should tell you something.
Ah, that's right. Because of the brilliance of Stroud's wit, I was bored during the serious parts. BORED. And it was perfectly good writing. When Asmira came out with the queen and whatnot, I was wondering when Bartimaeus would come back. I felt bad. He worked hard on those passages, brain! Sludge through them! (Uh-oh. Now I'm insulting them.) Bartimaeus spoiled me. Really badly.
I liked how Bartimaeus (geez, this is a review of Bartimaeus, not the book really) knew when to be serious. Well, sort of. *coughpygmyhippocough* He could talk to Asmira and not make me laugh and he was still likeable.
Before I ramble on too long (I've used, oh . . . THREE THOUSAND AND EIGHTY THREE? NO WAY. I don't even write that much of my novel in three days. WHAT IS WRONG WITH MAH BRAIN?) I'll just say that this is the next step up from PJATO. The humor's a little lower on the shelf than Douglas Adams and Terry Pratchett, but only by a hair. Stroud's a brilliant writer and I would love to see more of his work.
Oh, and I nearly forgot. A phoenix. HOW AWESOME IS THAT. On the cover /and/ inside the book. Not like the Firebird story collection I shelved the other day which had nothing to do with phoenixes and everything to do with the name of the publishing company.
So since there's nothing more to be said at the moment, this phoenix is going to fly off now. And I, luckily, don't have to carry any string bags of artichokes unless I want to.