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Is it not what you thought it would be?
I read the first two chapters of Charles Butler's Four British Fantasists: Place and Culture in the Children's Fantasies of Penelope Lively, Alan Garner, Diana Wynne Jones, and Susan Cooper (Scarecrow Press, 2006) this afternoon, before I got distracted first by Ostia Naye, then by Jones' The Merlin Conspiracy, which I am now about halfway through. So far it—in this case the critical work, although my opinion applies to the novel as well—is wonderful. Three of these authors I grew up on; the fourth I should clearly look into. What I have not yet seen, and what I am hoping there's room for, is a serious discussion of identity in the works of Diana Wynne Jones, because it's a topic I think about off and on. This particular think cut for spoilers for A Tale of Time City, Charmed Life, The Merlin Conspiracy, and any books that may come up in comments.
Circularly, the catalyst for this entry was a passage in The Merlin Conspiracy (2003):
In the manse, Grandfather Gwyn was waiting by the tea table to say grace. At first glance he seemed as somber and expressionless as ever, and maybe a little tired. One black eyebrow twitched impatiently as Grundo uttered cries of joy at the plate heaped with griddle cakes. But after he had thundered forth a longer grace than usual, my grandfather looked at me briefly. There was just a flick of a smile for me, private between the two of us. Now, the smile seemed to say, you know some of my secret.
Yes, I thought, and some of that secret is that Sybil owns you for the moment. I can't tell you anything now. But I couldn't resist smiling back.
The narrator's mysterious, forbidding grandfather, previously known only as the kind of relative her parents took care to keep her away from, has just been revealed as Gwyn ap Nudd, gatherer of souls and leader of the Wild Hunt.* I am pleased to say that I called it from his first offstage mention, on page 6—I can attribute this either to knowing too much mythology, or to reading too much Diana Wynne Jones. The joke on her books is that in the last chapter half the cast will turn out to be the other half and the rest will turn out to be someone else entirely. But it's true in the sense that identity and revelation are two of her essential themes, usually paired: the traditional Jones protagonist realizes not that s/he has become someone else, but that s/he has been someone else all along. A mundane example from A Tale of Time City (1987) is Sempitern Walker's discovery that he's a born deadpan comedian; an example more central to the plot is Dr. Wilander, who has nothing like an identity crisis or a secret side, yet doesn't remember that he's one-fourth of the legendary Faber John until he has the similarly unrecognized Lead Casket in his hands again. The archetypal example is Cat, from Charmed Life (1977): the story's climax is his understanding that rather than the useless tagalong brother of a brilliant young witch, he is instead a nine-lifed enchanter, a magical rarity against whose powers Gwendolen's look like a handful of dead leaves thrown against a storm—and he has always has been. I have no idea if Roddy's supernatural ancestry will have any effect on the events of The Merlin Conspiracy (as opposed to the immediately useful magical knowledge she has just downloaded from a centuries-gone witch in the form of a file directory of dry briars and brambles), but the point is that it's not a sudden manifestation, simply a reappraisal of information. All sorts of characters change shape in Jones' work, either literally or figuratively, but the important part is less transformation than recognition; fixing cognitive dissonance. Cf. Sophie, Howl's Moving Castle (1986). The world does not pull itself out from under the characters' feet; their own selves do. For all sorts of reasons, this interests me. If I did not have to get up in four hours, I would drag Patricia McKillip's Riddle-Master trilogy (1976—1979) into the discussion. As it is, I think I'm going to finish The Merlin Conspiracy and go to bed.
Points again to Charles Butler. There is not enough scholarship on the writers I love!
* Yes, I am sure there exist crossovers (or at least commiserations) with Terry Pratchett's Susan Sto Helit. Please do not point me toward them. I have already promised![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nineweaving that if I ever lose a bet, I will drop Roddy's grandfather into an Elizabeth Goudge novel and watch the plot machinery explode around him.
Circularly, the catalyst for this entry was a passage in The Merlin Conspiracy (2003):
In the manse, Grandfather Gwyn was waiting by the tea table to say grace. At first glance he seemed as somber and expressionless as ever, and maybe a little tired. One black eyebrow twitched impatiently as Grundo uttered cries of joy at the plate heaped with griddle cakes. But after he had thundered forth a longer grace than usual, my grandfather looked at me briefly. There was just a flick of a smile for me, private between the two of us. Now, the smile seemed to say, you know some of my secret.
Yes, I thought, and some of that secret is that Sybil owns you for the moment. I can't tell you anything now. But I couldn't resist smiling back.
The narrator's mysterious, forbidding grandfather, previously known only as the kind of relative her parents took care to keep her away from, has just been revealed as Gwyn ap Nudd, gatherer of souls and leader of the Wild Hunt.* I am pleased to say that I called it from his first offstage mention, on page 6—I can attribute this either to knowing too much mythology, or to reading too much Diana Wynne Jones. The joke on her books is that in the last chapter half the cast will turn out to be the other half and the rest will turn out to be someone else entirely. But it's true in the sense that identity and revelation are two of her essential themes, usually paired: the traditional Jones protagonist realizes not that s/he has become someone else, but that s/he has been someone else all along. A mundane example from A Tale of Time City (1987) is Sempitern Walker's discovery that he's a born deadpan comedian; an example more central to the plot is Dr. Wilander, who has nothing like an identity crisis or a secret side, yet doesn't remember that he's one-fourth of the legendary Faber John until he has the similarly unrecognized Lead Casket in his hands again. The archetypal example is Cat, from Charmed Life (1977): the story's climax is his understanding that rather than the useless tagalong brother of a brilliant young witch, he is instead a nine-lifed enchanter, a magical rarity against whose powers Gwendolen's look like a handful of dead leaves thrown against a storm—and he has always has been. I have no idea if Roddy's supernatural ancestry will have any effect on the events of The Merlin Conspiracy (as opposed to the immediately useful magical knowledge she has just downloaded from a centuries-gone witch in the form of a file directory of dry briars and brambles), but the point is that it's not a sudden manifestation, simply a reappraisal of information. All sorts of characters change shape in Jones' work, either literally or figuratively, but the important part is less transformation than recognition; fixing cognitive dissonance. Cf. Sophie, Howl's Moving Castle (1986). The world does not pull itself out from under the characters' feet; their own selves do. For all sorts of reasons, this interests me. If I did not have to get up in four hours, I would drag Patricia McKillip's Riddle-Master trilogy (1976—1979) into the discussion. As it is, I think I'm going to finish The Merlin Conspiracy and go to bed.
Points again to Charles Butler. There is not enough scholarship on the writers I love!
* Yes, I am sure there exist crossovers (or at least commiserations) with Terry Pratchett's Susan Sto Helit. Please do not point me toward them. I have already promised
nineweaving that if I ever lose a bet, I will drop Roddy's grandfather into an Elizabeth Goudge novel and watch the plot machinery explode around him.