A Monster Calls, a Review

“Stories are wild creatures, the monster said. When you let them loose, who knows what havoc they might wreak?”

Conor is a young lad with far too many problems on his plate.  He wakes nearly every night from a recurring nightmare that is too horrible for him to think about.  He’s picked on by a trio of bullies at school.  His home life—living with a single mom whom he loves dearly—is fraught with A Big Problem.  And to make matters even more complicated, a monster shows up outside his house one night at seven minutes after midnight, calling for him.

 

Patrick Ness’ A Monster Calls is definitely one of the most heart-wrenching books I’ve ever read.  The book tackles a serious subject matter—cancer—in a way unlike anything I’ve ever encountered before.  Conor’s monster, a wicked and spiny thing straight from the Wilds, is a vivid beast with an attitude that dares not be trifled with.  A tentative deal is struck between Conor and the monster: the monster will tell Conor three stories and then Conor will tell the monster the truth about his nightmare. 

This is the basic premise of A Monster Calls.  The book is a short, gorgeous thing, filled with illustrations that pull the eyes in for long moments.  The plot is simple, and yet it is not shallow.  The stories from the monster are great to think on, for both the Reader and for Conor.  They’re fantastic cautionary tales worth the read alone. 

I confess that the artwork was enough to pull me into this read.  The detail is wild, easily finding a home in the realm of dream.  Jim Kay, the illustrator, has created several wonderful works of art for this book.  They all fit the tone of the scenes for which they're drawn.  The style reminds me of stuff from the Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark series, only more sketch like.  And, perhaps because of the story, I'm also reminded of Where the Wild Things Are.

One cannot help but feel an overwhelming dread shortly after starting the book.  With each page turned the dread grows thicker, the fate more and more certain.  As I finished up the last several pages I read quickly, hoping to pass the deep punches to the gut unscathed.  I did not.  I closed the book and sighed heavily.  I believe I told Keisha something like, “Oh my gosh I feel like bawling.”  Why do you want to read something like that? she asked.  “Because the emotions make me feel alive.” (Yes, I'm a dork.)

And they do.  And that’s exactly why I recommend Patrick Ness’ A Monster Calls.  That's the whole reason to read, is it not?  To feel something?  Ness's words, along with Kay's illustrations, pierced me. 

This book is a great tool for anyone who is losing a loved one to cancer, but one's circumstances need not be so cursed to get something from the novel.  I'm of the opinion that we all need to read something from time to time that makes us appreciate life a little more, that makes us pay attention to those that are hurting around us, that makes us thankful for what we have.  A Monster Calls does just that.  It's not an easy book to read, in terms of emotional impact, but it is a rewarding book.  It is enjoyable.  It is beautiful.  It is tragic.

If you’ve got a few hours (probably around two-ish) to spare and are itching for some quasi-Realism, then look no further than A Monster Calls.  Wow.  That should do it.

I Had This Dream Last Night

I had this dream last night, where it was Friday next and I was in Lexington to see Pat Rothfuss.  For some reason the book store was a Borders (mayhap because of my pre-ordering problem), even though Pat's signing is at Joseph-Beth next week.  I was there with some of my friends from college, the same guys I went white water rafting with a few months back for William's bachelor party.  William was driving his truck, and Bill, Gaurav, Adam Graham, Chandresh (he didn't raft with us, but he was present nevertheless), and myself were all crammed in William's truck.  It was raining, storming, drawing late.  We arrived at the mall where the signing was to take place and I went in and picked up my copy of the book.  The queue completely filled up Borders and spilled well over into the halls and antechambers of the mall.  Near the end of the line, I decided to go hang out with my friends.  In the dream, time passed quickly, and soon it was almost 10pm and the line had moved only slightly.  Still, Pat was signing away, even though he was getting a bit frazzled.  We decided to wait in the truck for a while, and I thought about just leaving so everyone else could get some sleep.  Besides, I had to drive three hours back home.  But they all assured me it was alright and I should go back in, so I did.  The line was practically non-existent when I returned.  The Borders, for some odd reason, was filled with Christmas trees.  Scores of gold-and-red decorated trees, lights a-burning, surrounded the aisle that led up to Pat's raised dais, where he was surrounded by even more Christmas decor.  As I approached him I noticed he was wearing a wig, red dreadlocks dangling in neat order.  His personal assistant had on two wigs, one on top of the other.  I nervously watched the people in front of me chat with Pat and get their books signed.  Soon it was my turn, the last in line, and I stepped up in front of Pat's table.  He looked at me with disinterest in his eyes; my heart broke a bit.  There was something else, too, though it was slippery and I couldn't quite grasp what the look held.  I presented my book, but instead of signing he turned to the manager of the Borders and began talking.  I looked past him onto the Christmas trees below and tried to understand what was going on.  Pat began talking about his ostrich farm and how he mined iron there in order to make sweet rings, like the one he was wearing and showing off.  The manager was impressed.  Pat said that even though it was late he was still interested in attending the poker tournament, and I saw a few card tables off to the side of some Christmas trees.  Finally Pat turned back to me and signed his name and then I went away, tail tucked and brain addled.  How could I have forgotten about the joint signing & poker game?  As I left I realized I forgot to have him sign my Princess and Mr. Whiffle, but that was okay.

Pat was like the King of Christmas or something.  He reminded me a lot of the Ghost of Christmas Present.  And the poker game?  What the heck?  But, oddest of all, is the ostrich farm.  Really?

On a related note, I got a copy of Wise Man's Fear yesterday.  I found out I don't have to buy a book at the signing and I had a gift card to my local bookstore, so it's a win-win.  So far, the book's awesome, even if it is causing weird dreams.

A Strange Dream + A Rant on Christianity

I’m sick.  I did my last mowing of the year on Saturday, had Thanksgiving with my family that afternoon, and have felt awful ever since.  I think it’s probably a mix of sinuses, allergies, and the chilled November morning air.  After church yesterday, I plopped on the couch and lay there for the rest of the day, watching STAR WARS in HD on Spike and playing Oblivion.  Keisha bought me some stuff to make me feel better (Reeses, Smarties, Trail Mix, Sonic Rt 44 drink) and made some great beef stroganoff for supper.  I went to bed around 9:00.  I read for an hour or so and then turned the light off and instantly fell asleep.

My dreams are often weird, but last night’s was quite strange.  I don’t know why or who was doing it, but I was being crucified.  It was my fourth crucifixion.  Apparently I was getting crucified every week for some reason, and it was time again for my agony.  I was laying horizontal on top of a cross.  Tight leather straps bound my wrists above my head and bound my feet against the cross.  Behind my thighs were several large, rusty spikes.  My legs were forced down and the spikes went into them.  I don’t know what happened afterwards.  I was frantic and scared and dying.  And then I either died or didn’t, but there was a lot of blood.  A LOT of blood.

I’ve never really been one to think that dreams have a meaning.  Sure, I believe God used Joseph to interpret dreams for the pharaoh, Jacob fought with an angel in his sleep, and many other instances of Biblical dreaming.  I even think God still speaks to us in dream, but I don’t look into all dreams as having a message.  The slope is too sticky to do that, so I make a point in not looking into dreams.  (I’m speaking personally.  For others, God’s plan is undoubtedly different.)

But the thing is, after Sunday School yesterday, or after reading the final chapter of the Interrupted study I mentioned a few weeks back, I’ve been thinking about how we know what God wants us to do.  I’ve been wondering what sort of practical, everyday things in my life can I change or work on for God.  I wonder how to hear God’s voice guiding me.  And so I prayed last night before I went to sleep for God to show me what He wants me to do.  I randomly opened my Bible, which happened to fall on Psalm 83.  The first verse reads: “O God, do not keep silence; do not hold your peace or be still, O God!”

This was the exact thing I was wanting.  And I wondered back to the Psalmist, Asaph, and how he was feeling God’s absence.  I closed my Bible and prayed again for the Lord to show me ways to be more like Him in my daily walk.  I am not one of those Christians that think they are better than everyone because I have Jesus.  I’m not one of those Christians that will scorn someone because of their sin.  No, I am no better than anyone.  I am a fellow traveler in this quagmire of filth, willing to be there for anyone in need.  I don’t care if our ideals are different.  I don’t care if our religion’s are different.  What I care about is showing a loving heart and lending loving hands to those in need.

It sickens me when I hear people—Christians—putting down other people.  Christians are no better than anyone else.  No, Christ tells us to be lowly and to serve, not to be haughty and above others.  I hear Christians making fun of homosexuals and it breaks my heart.  I hear Christians using derogatory words for other ethnicities and it breaks my heart.  And yet we wonder why the world is not coming to Christ.

Jesus did not make fun of others.  He did not hang out with the educated and higher-up Jews; He spent his time with sinners and tax collectors (the lowliest in the Jewish society).  He met peoples physical needs before He met their spiritual ones, and that is what I want to do.  I want to be sensitive to my environment, to have open eyes to see where people are hurting and what they are needing.  I want to be the eyes and hands and feet of Christ, helping my fellow sojourners.

And so, like last night, I still pray for God to show me what I can do.  I pray that my eyes are opened and my ears tuned.  Like the Brandon Heath song (see below, it’s a very catchy song with a sweet beat), my prayer is “Give me your eyes for just one second, give me your eyes so I can see everything that I keep missing, give me your love for humanity.  Give me your arms for the broken hearted ones that are far beyond my reach.  Give me your heart for the ones forgotten, give me your eyes so I can see.”

I see no meaning in my dream.  Not yet, anyway.  What I see is a world that desperately needs Jesus.  But I see a world that desperately needs food, clothing, shelter, protection, and love, too.  I see Christians that are too busy seeing to themselves and their own that the rest of the world is suffering.  I don’t want to be on that boat.  As corny as it sounds, I want to be on the love boat.  I want to show the world that we’re not all bad, that we’re not all spiteful and hateful, that we’re not all disrespectful and proud.  I want to show the love.

Last Night's Dream

I pride myself in the strange and quirky dreams I have. I also pride myself in my ability to usually remember my dreams. The good ones. The scary ones. The completely insane ones. For instance, I can still remember having this dream as a little kid where I got to join the X-Men and fight alongside them in an anti-gravity room. I remember flying around with them, fighting and saving the world. This was the cartoon X-Men, too, not the Hugh Jackman and gang group. It was the best dream I ever had, mostly because of how real it was.

But my dreams grew stranger and more off-the-wall as I aged. I won't offer any reasons for this, but it happened. Last night I had the strangest dream (I've always wanted to use that sentence).

There was a vast city under the ocean. There was my cousin Ashley. We were playing the Wii and it was of the utmost importance to beat the game we were playing. Then I was a giant octopus/squid/jellyfish thing that had to wrap all around the underwater city, needing to consume it. Ashley was doing an impossibly hard riff on Guitar Hero to beat it. Next thing I know, I'm kidnapped and doing some training for something important. Then I'm suddenly in a strange room with Keisha, and it was actually Keisha that had the training. Keisha was trying to teach me how to use the art she learned when we were attacked. (This art involved dipping Vanilla Wafers or Corn Salsa Chips into blue cake icing. You had to get the corners of the wafer or chip coated in the blue icing. Then, you would stand the weapon up on your face-up-opened hand and flick it at your target. The icing-coated projectile would then either cut through the object or turn it into a blue 2-D image that would dissolve into nothingness.) We rushed about, fighting the giant-morbidly-obese man that dragged Keisha off and up the stairs and I ran after, confused why the giant-morbidly-obese man turned into a giant-morbidly-obese woman. No matter, I dipped and threw my wafers and salsa chips in vain, and the lady dragged Keisha into the room at the top of the stairs. I was at a loss, wondering if I had dipped too much icing or not enough on the chips or wafers. I knew that the wafers were more powerful than the chips, but I didn't know why. Then I woke up.

I lay in bed and wondered what the heck that was about. It was time to get up, so I went through the morning ritual and returned to bed to lay back down for a minute or two with Keisha and Stella. Keisha woke up and said she had a really weird dream last night. "I bet it wasn't weirder than mine," I replied, then proceeded to tell her of our adventures.

"You win," she said.

I like dreaming. It's like Mr. Gump's famous box of chocolates; I know what to expect, but I never really know what exactly I'll get.