diana wynne jones
Apr. 3rd, 2011 08:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nnozomi I discovered Diana Wynne Jones when I was just the right age, eleven or so and living in London. We were going out to an Indian restaurant with friends of my parents, and I had Charmed Life. I love Indian food, but on that evening I didn't care what I ate or if I ate at all, I just wanted the dinner to be over quickly so I could get back to my book. (My parents, otherwise understanding, didn't approve of reading at the table.) The next one I got was Howl's Moving Castle, which didn't grab me quite as much on the first readthrough, but as soon I was finished I discovered I somehow had to go back and read it again, and again, and... And so on and forth. Probably one of the most satisfying days of my life up until then was the day a few months later in Paris, when I got Archer's Goon from the American Library on the same day my father took me to see Fantasia for the first time.
I've been trying to pin down what made her books so distinctively good. Wildly imaginative, deftly characterized, funny, well paced, definitely all that, but more than anything, maybe, the incredibly tight construction. I'm having trouble expressing what I mean here, but in the best of her books, every prop, every action, literally every single word is exactly right and is there for a reason, creating a kind of perfect, compelling sphere of plot/mood/atmosphere. The only other writer I can think of who routinely does anything like that is Peter Dickinson, in the best of his mysteries.
Mostly my favorite of her books are the ones I read early on, from the eighties, I suppose. The later ones tend to be less amazing, although only in the way that Brahms' First is less amazing than his Second, meaning it's still quite a lot more amazing than ninety percent of everything else. The Year of the Griffin, though, makes me wonder if she wrote it partly in impatience with the Harry Potter series. Read through the chapter describing the essays on "What is wizards' magic?" if you want to start seeing the magic in the Harry Potter books as incredibly childish and simplistic.
I wrote a short essay on LJ a few months back about Howl's Moving Castle and a Japanese folktale, so I won't talk about it here. What else? Witch Week is hilariously funny, and horrifying, and a good example of the way absolutely everything in the book works together for a purpose. And one thing I always like about it: in the epilogue, when Nan and Charles and the others are part of our world as they should have been, their non-magical lives are not less exciting or less filled with possibility for being non-magical.
The Dalemark books should be fantasy classics, and hopefully will end up that way. I read Drowned Ammet first, and then lost sight of it for many years and always remembered it, and found it again with enormous excitement. Cart and Cwidder is in some ways the most straightforward of the lot, but now that I read it again I see that though it was sold as a kids' book, and is told from the perspective of a young boy, it's not for the faint of heart. Moril and Brid see their father murdered, to begin with, and then find that their mother doesn't want the life they do--but even those are in a way standard tropes, necessary to put the kids on their own for their adventure. What chilled me the most, this last reading through, was that Kialan saw his brother hanged. I'd forgotten that.
The Spellcoats is primeval. I don't know what else to call it. It is not like anything else.
The Crown of Dalemark, I have to say, disappointed me compared to the others. It has wonderful moments, but the ending felt awkward, abrupt, unresolved, and the plot undirected. I wish she could have rewritten it.
The ending to Fire and Hemlock used to bother me too--is this a happy ending or not? what's going on here?!--but has come to do so less. Fire and Hemlock is a joy for me because I'm a cellist too and I love Tom's cello playing, and the quartet rehearsal--one of my all-time favorite scenes--and the little musical touches, the orchestra playing the Eroica Symphony. (See also Jan Mark's Handles, but that's completely different.)
I'm also pretentious enough to associate Eight Days of Luke with music--it always makes me want to go and listen to "Siegfried's Rhine Journey" (can't remember the German) and other bits of Wagner. In that book, the way she evokes gods and eternal things is so different from the way anyone else would. It begins with the most everyday, humdrum scenes of chewing gum and lost luggage and bad food and marrows, and without ever breaking stride or changing pitch jaggedly, ends in, well, the Ring cycle with all its mystery and tragedy and un-human power. One thing that I notice more as I reread it as an older woman is Astrid's sadness at the end. (I've always read it as meaning that she spent the three days of David's fire journey being in some way involved with Thor, and now knows she had that time but will never have it again.) I can't help wondering why Diana Wynne Jones chose to add that touch, unless it's to emphasize the Ring themes of love and loss.
The Ogre Downstairs is in some ways a classic British children's fantasy book--strange, episodic magical adventures end up solving real-world problems for a family of children--but so good, and so funny, and so serious. The process of de-Ogrification reminds me a little of Edwin Dodd in Antonia Forest's Ready-Made Family--a newcomer who isn't able to adjust his methods of living to his new relations, who in turn take a long time to realize that they've been missing the point of him. The kids, too, learn (and demonstrate) the "only connect" principle, finding where they fit together--Malcolm and Gwinny as the gentle ones, Malcolm again and Johnny as the malcontent younger brothers, Caspar and Douglas and their Indigo Rubber, and so on.
If I had to choose one favorite DWJ book, it might be Archer's Goon. There are so many splendid things about Archer's Goon that I don't even know where to start. If I wanted to take it (maybe too) seriously, I might say that it's about family and about growing up, and the point it makes (apart from the marvelous ten points on the first page) is that you learn to grow up by nurturing someone else. Howard with Awful, Quentin and Catriona with both their children (as lacking as Quentin may be in some ways, he comes off as a genuinely caring father), Hathaway with his family in the past, Erskine unexpectedly enough with Howard and Awful themselves. The "bad guys"--Archer, Shine, Dillian, even Fifi and Miss Potter--are the ones who haven't learned this, haven't grown up, and never will. (And then there's Torquil, who is in a class of his own.)
And Charmed Life. I've always had a crush on Chrestomanci.
Because I didn't have the honor of knowing her personally, it's very hard to think of Diana Wynne Jones as dead, when her books are still here. May her memory be a blessing.
I've been trying to pin down what made her books so distinctively good. Wildly imaginative, deftly characterized, funny, well paced, definitely all that, but more than anything, maybe, the incredibly tight construction. I'm having trouble expressing what I mean here, but in the best of her books, every prop, every action, literally every single word is exactly right and is there for a reason, creating a kind of perfect, compelling sphere of plot/mood/atmosphere. The only other writer I can think of who routinely does anything like that is Peter Dickinson, in the best of his mysteries.
Mostly my favorite of her books are the ones I read early on, from the eighties, I suppose. The later ones tend to be less amazing, although only in the way that Brahms' First is less amazing than his Second, meaning it's still quite a lot more amazing than ninety percent of everything else. The Year of the Griffin, though, makes me wonder if she wrote it partly in impatience with the Harry Potter series. Read through the chapter describing the essays on "What is wizards' magic?" if you want to start seeing the magic in the Harry Potter books as incredibly childish and simplistic.
I wrote a short essay on LJ a few months back about Howl's Moving Castle and a Japanese folktale, so I won't talk about it here. What else? Witch Week is hilariously funny, and horrifying, and a good example of the way absolutely everything in the book works together for a purpose. And one thing I always like about it: in the epilogue, when Nan and Charles and the others are part of our world as they should have been, their non-magical lives are not less exciting or less filled with possibility for being non-magical.
The Dalemark books should be fantasy classics, and hopefully will end up that way. I read Drowned Ammet first, and then lost sight of it for many years and always remembered it, and found it again with enormous excitement. Cart and Cwidder is in some ways the most straightforward of the lot, but now that I read it again I see that though it was sold as a kids' book, and is told from the perspective of a young boy, it's not for the faint of heart. Moril and Brid see their father murdered, to begin with, and then find that their mother doesn't want the life they do--but even those are in a way standard tropes, necessary to put the kids on their own for their adventure. What chilled me the most, this last reading through, was that Kialan saw his brother hanged. I'd forgotten that.
The Spellcoats is primeval. I don't know what else to call it. It is not like anything else.
The Crown of Dalemark, I have to say, disappointed me compared to the others. It has wonderful moments, but the ending felt awkward, abrupt, unresolved, and the plot undirected. I wish she could have rewritten it.
The ending to Fire and Hemlock used to bother me too--is this a happy ending or not? what's going on here?!--but has come to do so less. Fire and Hemlock is a joy for me because I'm a cellist too and I love Tom's cello playing, and the quartet rehearsal--one of my all-time favorite scenes--and the little musical touches, the orchestra playing the Eroica Symphony. (See also Jan Mark's Handles, but that's completely different.)
I'm also pretentious enough to associate Eight Days of Luke with music--it always makes me want to go and listen to "Siegfried's Rhine Journey" (can't remember the German) and other bits of Wagner. In that book, the way she evokes gods and eternal things is so different from the way anyone else would. It begins with the most everyday, humdrum scenes of chewing gum and lost luggage and bad food and marrows, and without ever breaking stride or changing pitch jaggedly, ends in, well, the Ring cycle with all its mystery and tragedy and un-human power. One thing that I notice more as I reread it as an older woman is Astrid's sadness at the end. (I've always read it as meaning that she spent the three days of David's fire journey being in some way involved with Thor, and now knows she had that time but will never have it again.) I can't help wondering why Diana Wynne Jones chose to add that touch, unless it's to emphasize the Ring themes of love and loss.
The Ogre Downstairs is in some ways a classic British children's fantasy book--strange, episodic magical adventures end up solving real-world problems for a family of children--but so good, and so funny, and so serious. The process of de-Ogrification reminds me a little of Edwin Dodd in Antonia Forest's Ready-Made Family--a newcomer who isn't able to adjust his methods of living to his new relations, who in turn take a long time to realize that they've been missing the point of him. The kids, too, learn (and demonstrate) the "only connect" principle, finding where they fit together--Malcolm and Gwinny as the gentle ones, Malcolm again and Johnny as the malcontent younger brothers, Caspar and Douglas and their Indigo Rubber, and so on.
If I had to choose one favorite DWJ book, it might be Archer's Goon. There are so many splendid things about Archer's Goon that I don't even know where to start. If I wanted to take it (maybe too) seriously, I might say that it's about family and about growing up, and the point it makes (apart from the marvelous ten points on the first page) is that you learn to grow up by nurturing someone else. Howard with Awful, Quentin and Catriona with both their children (as lacking as Quentin may be in some ways, he comes off as a genuinely caring father), Hathaway with his family in the past, Erskine unexpectedly enough with Howard and Awful themselves. The "bad guys"--Archer, Shine, Dillian, even Fifi and Miss Potter--are the ones who haven't learned this, haven't grown up, and never will. (And then there's Torquil, who is in a class of his own.)
And Charmed Life. I've always had a crush on Chrestomanci.
Because I didn't have the honor of knowing her personally, it's very hard to think of Diana Wynne Jones as dead, when her books are still here. May her memory be a blessing.
