I think I did this one wrong. I could see, as I was reading it, what captivated many people. I could see, how if I had read it the right way, I could have been, if not scared, then delightfully weirded out.

However, I read the graphic novel first.

My bad.

(Ooh. I can’t believe I just wrote that.)

See, I knew the plot — I knew what Coraline was going to experience on the other side of the door and how she was going to get out of it. I knew all the weirdness and the suspense, and so I think on some level I missed out on the experience that should have been Coraline the novel.

I have to admit that the graphic novel did an excellent job of adapting Gaiman’s work. It caught the spirit of the book, and surprisingly, didn’t leave any detail out. I knew what was going to happen — there were really no surprises — because I had seen it all before. On the other hand, the novel was wonderfuly descriptive (hence the really good graphic novel adaptation), and had an interesting feeling of foreboding and adventure all rolled up into one.

Still. I think I might have expected too much from the book; I know if I had read this one first, I would have enjoyed it that much more.

Lesson learned. If there’s a graphic novel adaptation of a novel, read the book first.

The Just So Stories, by Rudyard Kipling, are, I think, some of the most retold stories in English language. I know I’ve heard most of them (though not all) in some form or other before I ever picked up this collection of the original tales to read. Not all the stories are equal: the most famous ones — about how the elephant got his nose, or how the camel got his hump — are justifiably so, being timeless, funny, and enjoyable to read. Some of the others are clever, but kind of silly (like how the alphabet was made… Cute, but… kind of dumb). Some — like the first story about the whale — were just weird. Even so, it was an enjoyable experience.

Although I enjoyed reading the stories, and I could tell the affection Kipling had for his daughter (whom the stories were written for), I really think these stories are better enjoyed told, or with a lot of illustrations, then read straight through. Kipling has an almost Seussian grasp of the language, inventing words to suit his needs. I often resorted to reading out loud just so I could hear what Kipling was trying to do with a certain passage.

It was definitely worth the time, though.

I picked this one up ages and ages ago (another one off the TBR pile! YAY!) because I’m a frequent lurker at Lisa Yee’s blog, which I think is hilarious. After a while, though, I felt kind of silly loving someone’s blog — especially when that someone is a published author — and never having read anything by them. So, I mooched this one (no, I didn’t actually pay for it; I’m horrid) and finally got around to it yesterday.

It’s a really cute book. I think I was expecting something more laugh-out-loud funny –kind of like her blog can be — but I wasn’t disappointed. It was a very sweet, fun, cute book.

Millicent Min is a genius. She’s 11 years old, and just finished up her junior year in high school. She’s the captain of the math team, routinely routs everyone at chess, has multiple awards and articles written about her, and has… no friends. She tells herself that this doesn’t bother her — she’s bonding with her the professor of her college poetry class after all — and there’s just too much to learn and do in a day for her to actually have friends. Besides, everyone’s usually intimidated or turned off by her genius status for her to get close to anyone. Then, her life changes. Her mother decides that she needs to go out for team sports, and signs her up for volleyball. She meets Emily, who’s new in town and doesn’t know Millicent is a genius. And, on top of that, she is asked (and paid) to tutor Stanford Wong (her nemesis) in English so he can pass the 6th grade. And because of these two simple things, her life will never be the same.

That makes it sound more ominous than it really is. She does manage to have a good summer, in spite of not wanting to play volleyball or tutor Stanford, but beyond that, she learns how to have friends. I liked that about the book. That Yee didn’t set out to do something huge or grand, but rather choosing to have someone — someone very bright, but very backward — learn something really simple, but something that you can’t learn from books.

And so, I read it with a smile, thoroughly charmed by everyone in the book. I’m glad I mooched it, too. It’s a keeper.

I picked this one up (and a couple of others) after finishing The Penderwicks on Gardam Street, partially because Lelia compared Jeanne Birdsall to Hilary McKay and I felt a little doofish because I had no idea who Hilary McKay was, and partially because Jane (in the book) was reading the sequel to this one (Exiles in Love), and both of these things sparked my curiosity.

First off: Leia’s right. Birdsall is a lot like Hilary McKay. They have the same feel, the same kinds of stories, the same values (for lack of a better word) for a happy childhood. The Exiles are four sisters (even that’s the same), who are a bit impractical and bookish. Not to mention, slightly, um, childish. So when their parents (who aren’t terribly likeable, in my opinion, unlike Mr. Penderwick) come into some money, they ship their girls — Ruth, 13; Naomi, 11; Rachel, 8; and Phoebe, 6 — to their grandma, affectionately called Big Grandma, for the summer. There, they are deprived of reading material and forced to have adventures. And work. And it turns out to be a smashing good summer. Even if they’re reduced to reading cookbooks.

It was a fun read, and I didnt’ dislike it, but I have to admit I liked the Penderwicks better. I liked the girls better, the parents better, and I thought McKay was a bit heavy handed with the “too much reading is warping kids brains” theme. (Though I admit, this may be becuase I let M read so much… not to mention my reading habits…) I got that it was supposed to be tongue-in-cheek, but it lacked that charm, that sweetness, that made me really like the Penderwick sisters. (No matter how cute Phoebe is, she will never be as cute as Batty. Period.)

I’m not sure if any of you are still following along, but things have gotten pretty grim for the Grimm sisters. Mr. Canis was arrested by Ferryport Landing’s sham of a cop and mayor and is being put on trial for the murder of Red Riding Hood’s grandmother. It’s up to the sisters, of course, and their grandmother to prove Mr. Canis’s innocence and keep him alive.

I didn’t like this one as much as I’ve liked the past two, but it wasn’t bad. For all of Buckley’s verboseness, he did come up with some clever plot twists and action points, and a decent ending, the “to be continued” notwithstanding. I thought his re-telling and manipulation of the Red Riding Hood tale was pretty clever, giving the story a whole new interpretation.

But that’s about it. I do have to say that I’m honestly glad that this is the last one for a while. Though, both M and C really loved the series.

I knew I would love this book. The first charmed its way into all our hearts around here — I picked it up on a whim at the bookstore, drawn by the title, and never regretted the purchase — and because Jen, Leila, and Erin all highly recommended it, I knew going in that this one would be just as wonderful.

There are books that are exciting and thrilling, holding you on the edge of your chair; there are books that make you laugh; and there are books that contain numerous twists and turns of plot, intricately setting up the conclusion. The Penderwicks on Gardam Street is not one of those books.

Then there are the books that you just smile at, content knowing the end from nearly the beginning, savoring the characters and loving the plot — such as it is — and patiently waiting for the characters to realize what you already know. The Penderwicks on Gardam Street is one of those books.

All the things I loved about the first book are back: the sisters, of course, but especially Batty (she’s at that wonderful, fun, precocious age); their lovable, endearing, slightly absent-minded father; boys to be friends with (their neighbors across the street — though I admit that I did miss Jeffrey); the scrapes the girls get themselves in to; and the wonderful, fun, evocative language. And there are new things to love: an amazing, smart, fun, interesting new next-door-neighbor with a very cute toddler whose one word is “Duck”; a scheme to keep their dad from dating, as his sister Claire seems determined to have him do; a neighborhood forest for exploring and hiding; and a little bit of learning and maturing on everyone’s part.

Other reasons to like the Penderwick family:

[Jane] hated finishing one of her favorite books, because she knew she’d have to wait at least a few months before she could read it again. It was a rule she’d imposed on herself after reading The Various twice in one week — a disaster, like eating three large slices of chocolate cake at one sitting.

He hung up the phone with a bang. “Here’s some advice, daughters. Try to avoid having younger sisters.”
“Too late for that, Daddy,” said Jane.

[Batty] must have done it well, because Hound nuzzled her joyfully, and then she pounced on hi, and they wrestled around the yard until they knocked the red wagon over and all the animals tumbled out. And then there was putting them back in, which was fun, and altogether, it was turning out to be an okay afternoon, even if Rosalind had scolded her for being noisy.

I have to agree that it’s a practically perfect book in every way.

(Just for the record: because this is a Cybils nominee, I’ve been asked to make sure y’all know this is my opinion only, and not that of the panel. Thank you.)

There is something about E.L. Konigsburg’s writing that simultaneously entertains, enlightens, and even mildly annoys me. I enjoy her books, sometimes immensely– as in this case– but am usually left with a sense of not-quite-getting it, of not entirely being in on the joke.

I felt that way after finishing this book, but I’m not sure it mattered.

The basic story is about Amadeo — a precocious boy who is looking for friends and the chance to discover something that has been lost. He falls in with William, whose mother (Dora Ellen Wilcox) supervises estate sales, and ends up helping with the categorization when his next-door-neighbor, Mrs. Zender — former opera singer and diva supreme– decides that she needs to put the contents of her house up for sale. There ensues a mystery, a discovery, and a bonding.

Sounds pretentious, and in some ways it is. Yet, I liked the story a lot. Possibly because Konigsburg’s writing is so wonderful. A passage early on in the book:

Mrs. Zender swept her arm in the direction of the back of the house. The hallway was wide enough to allow them to walk side by side, but Mrs. Zender walked ahead. She was tall, and she was zaftig. Definitely zaftig. She was also majestic. She moved forward like a queen vessel plowing still waters. Her kimono corrugated as she moved. There as a thin stripe of purple that winked as it appeared and then disappeared in a fold of fabric at her waist.

And later — though taken out of context, it sounds like it could be from a self-help book:

Friendship is a combination of art and craft. The craft part is knowing how to give and how to take. The art part is knowing when, and the whole process only works when no one is keeping track.

The other reason I enjoyed this book so much, in spite of is precociousness, is because I really loved the precocious and mildly irritating characters. Especially Mrs. Zender. She was a hoot. A dignified, respectable hoot, but one nonetheless. From near the end:

“I haven’t read a book in years. Every now and then I read a review in a magazine at the beauty parlor, and sometimes I think I would enjoy reading an entire book, but I allow the thought to pass.”

How wonderful is that?

At the mysterious edge of the heroic world… pretty wonderful.

I think it was over at Bookfoolery and Babble (but it may have been somewhere else…) where I saw someone comment that the first Levine book you read is the one you like best. I thought about that a lot while I read this story.

It has all the hallmarks of a good fairy tale — mortal girl, Kezi, who is inadvertently sentenced to death to avoid the wrath of the god she worships (her father made an oath, and she ended up fulfilling the oath to save her aunt’s life…). And then there’s the uber-handsome (well, if you believe the cover) Akkan god of the wind Olus, who is not only intrigued by mortals, but longs to be friends with them. It’s inevitable that they will fall in love. But it’s not exactly a comfortable love: one of them will live forever, the other is doomed to be sacrificed in less than 30 days. So, they do what all star-crossed lovers do: look for the loophole.

There’s a good story there. And I enjoyed much of it. I think, though, what I enjoyed most was the questions of love, faith and doubt that the book raised. In that respect, it was very challenging, especially to someone who has a belief in religion. I thought Kezi’s doubt was very real, especially when confronted with someone like Olus, a god who is a real, physical being, unlike the god Kezi’s always believed in. I wasn’t sure what Levine was trying to “say” about religion, if anything, but the journey fascinated me.

That said, while it was enjoyable, it wasn’t, well, as good as the first Levine I read (or even the second or third). I thought it lacked the character development and romance found in Ella Enchanted, the humor found in the short Princess Tales, the “good message” of Fairest, the compelling heroines in Two Princesses of Bamarre.

Any Levine book is going to be a good book. She’s a good writer, and tells good fairy tales. It just so happens that this one is, perhaps, the fourth best one I’ve read. Maybe it’s because I read all the others first.