Beautiful book, but doesn't balance it's heavy nature with the storybook format. Picked it up because I think the Catholic flavor of religion is interesting and the idea of saints novel. But the prose is childish (the book is for children) yet at the same time every story ends with the saint's brutal murder. Sometimes they get beheaded or cut open or set on fire. All described in a level of detail that is a bit surprising, but at the same time dances around topics like rape and slavery. I think if it had just embraced the violent history of Christianity and taken its readers a bit more seriously, even if they intended those readers to be children, the book would have been more successful. Very pretty, though.
Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
5.0
This might be my new all time favorite book, and the type of book we need more of in the world.
Fantastic world building. The importance of stories. The non western narrative. Romance on par. Dragons fascinating. Navigating racism tough but illuminating
This book features Native American characters living in a colonized world and one of the major themes is struggling for self-affirmation and the right to self-governance. They face racism of all kinds over the course of the story from mild to violent.
It's easy to tell when certain traits are passed on through family. One of my oldest friends has the exact same sarcastic laugh as her brother. Another friend has a daughter that does the exact same expression of puppy eyes when she wants something. Me? Well, my mom buys stuff off instagram ads like nobody's business. While I don't do that exact same thing, I am easily influenced.
So when I came across a tumblr post by @aplpaca about one of her favorite childhood series, I was cautiously intrigued. Then, while waiting for one of my other holds, I discovered my local library had the entire quartet, so I grabbed a copy of Inda, which I read in a single sitting, and I have no regrets (justice for Dogpiss).
Where to even begin? One of my all time favorite tropes is books with child narrators when the books aren't necessarily for children (see: Ender's Game, This Tender Land, Dear Edward). I think children are such an underutilized point of view in books not aimed for children and Sherwood Smith manages it all so well, it's almost like there are two stories happening at once: one in the idyllic world of children and the other harsh light of adulthood.
Inda (who gives Kaladin vibes for the Stormlight Archive fans) is such a singular title character. This first book focuses on his childhood from a bright-eyed second prince to an exiled privateer on the high seas, this book takes you places. Inda, while clearly the main character, is not the only POV character by far. The world Smith builds is fascinating, queernormative, and expansive. It's hard to encompass everything this book is in one short review, so I'll try and hone in on a few specifics.
Smith is such a master of her craft that even the main antagonist, Aldren, most commonly referred to in the book as the Sierlaef, feels tragic. As a young boy with a disability and a distant father, it's so easy to see how in his desperate search for validation, he reaches for the poisonous influence of his uncle. No child should have to bear the weight of such responsibility, distance, and aloofness. As he grows and the adults around him fail him, and he rebuffs all pivotal moments of redemption and his inevitable descent into villainy becomes a tragedy. Just the right word here, a genuine friend there, and the Sierlaef would have grown to be a noble man, if not a good one. Instead, by the end of the novel he goes from misguided, angry teen to a selfish, dangerous, obsessed man.
This book made me laugh, it made me cry. (Yes, I did cry real tears for a character named Dogpiss by his fellow child soldiers). The love depicted in this book—familial, friendship, duty—is exquisite. There aren't really any romantic relationships I can point to in this installment, most marriages are marriages of convenience or politics and romance isn't a factor. This is a book of loyalty, bonds, and destiny. I can't recommend it enough.
Is there a point in every girl's life when she is obsessed with disasters? I remember accidentally pulling an all-nighter watching tsunami videos only a few years ago. Maybe it was the fact that when I was in kindergarten when 9/11 happened, that year and every year after our teachers, media, and government set out on retraumatizing us every year, forcing us to watch videos of it, watch documentaries of the people who jumped to their deaths, forced us to revere the men who went to war to traumatize a whole new generation of children. And I've lived through a few disasters of my own. I survived Harvey in 2017. I survived getting caught in a tornado. Who wouldn't be curious? It's that curiosity that drove me to pick up The Unthinkable and in the end to be disappointed by its lackluster offering.
Fundamentally, I think this book suffers as a product of its time. Published in 2008, and surely years in the making, this book cannot escape the perverse fascination of a post 9/11 world and all that it entails. Ripley spends an inordinate amount of time on the World Trade Center, survivors, and Ground Zero stories. Despite claiming to be interested in the average person, Ripley almost solely focuses on soldiers, policemen, and special forces stories and studies, and only scales her research to a white western audience, which she tacitly acknowledges.
Despite feeling a certain kinship with Ripley over our interest in disasters and how people respond to them, I found myself almost disgusted with how uncurious she seems to be about the most interesting questions she poses (and then abruptly brushes aside). At her core, Ripley is a bioessentialist and a skeptic. She believes in a rigid and inflexible binary that colors everything. You are the sum of the labels foisted upon you. Altruism is nothing except an evolutionary biproduct of breeding rituals: looking like a hero makes you appeal to the women around you—a woman being a hero? We don't do that here—and if you die being heroic then the women in your family will get more attention and therefore breed and make more babies ensuring your genetic material lives on.
Ripley briefly acknowledges that men are more likely to be labeled as "heroes" as a by product of them having more dangerous jobs in general, or being more prone to engage in risky behavior but is so dispassionate about exploring the reasons why. Combined with her hero-worship of the people who do the most harm in this world: soldiers, police, and special forces, it seems like Ripley is trying her best to appease a male audience who won't take her seriously unless she engages in the imperialist circle-jerk of the military industrial complex.
Ripley is also incapable of removing herself from the narrative, even though she claims to be a journalist. She dedicates an entire chapter to, bizarrely enough, the size of her amygdala. Instead of acknowledging her own humanity as a subjective and connective force of her storytelling, Ripley feels the need to insert herself into the narrative alongside the survivors she interviews, despite not being a survivor herself (or acknowledging herself as one). She's like a child at a birthday party, incessantly reminding everyone else it's her birthday next week. We can indulge you once or twice, but after that "Honey, it's not your turn. Let someone else have a go."
This is an ambitious work that falls short of its goal. Despite its claims it did not introduce me to my "disaster personality" nor did it pose any questions that I had not already asked myself as a person with an interest in disaster, who has survived one or two of her own. I can't quite tell if this work suffers as a product of its time, or if Ripley was simply a poor messenger for its delivery