Review: Ysabel, by Guy Gavriel Kay
A few weeks ago, swan_tower went to Vericon, and when she left, I asked her to get something signed by Guy Gavriel Kay, since he was the Guest of Honor. Since I'd forgotten to hand her a copy of any of his books that we owned before she left for the airport, I suggested that she might grab a copy of whatever book he had most recently written. She returned saying that she'd been too busy to manage this, but it turned out that she had purchased Ysabel and gotten him to sign it. ("For Kyle, All best wishes, Guy Kay.") The deception, in this case, was due to Valentine's Day and our week of anniversaries, first date and engagement being the most prominent. She presented it to me on Friday, extracting a promise from me to read it for at least a half hour while she was off at a game that I felt too exhausted to attend.
I believe that the first thing that I'd read that Guy Gavriel Kay had been involved with was The Silmarillion, though I'd been unaware of his involvement at the time, as I was young and rarely read the author's -- or in this case the editor's -- acknowledgements. I had been underwhelmed by the book at the time, but when one is thirteen, reading a copy of what amounts to Tolkein's elven bible is not necessarily what you seek in what my mother sometimes dismissively described as "your escapist literature." That said, the hardcover copy of the book I got at my church's book fair is one I still have, entranced as I was by the elegantly slim volume with the fold-out map in the back. It was years later that I'd pick it up and read it cover to cover, devouring the doom of Túrin Turambar and the tragedies of Beren and Lúthien.
Several years later, perhaps in college, I picked up a copy of The Summer Tree, and I fell in love with Kay's work. Underneath it all, I suppose I'm a horrible romantic, but his Fionavar Tapestry struct a chord with me that few authors before or since have managed. Perhaps it was the epic yet surprisingly understated sweep of the story, casting the familiar Arthur-Guenevere-Lancelot dynamic as a pale reflection of a storied Truth. Perhaps it was the idea of the meta-narrative itself which blew my mind. Perhaps it was the humanizing touches that Kay inserted into the story at just the right times. Whatever it was, he earned himself a place on my list of favorite speculative fiction authors, along side Kathrine Kurtz, David Eddings, and Neil Gaiman. I'll be the first to admit that these aren't necessarily the most gifted genre storytellers I've read, but my first encounter with their work (the Deryni books, the Belgariad, and Sandman, respectively) will forever have significant emotional resonance for me for various reasons.
In any case, since the Fionavar Tapestry, Kay has continued to write exceedingly readable fiction, generally with an epic sweep in a style that is distinctly unconventional compared to most mainstream fantasy novelists. Tignana. A Song for Arbonne. His Sarantine Mosaic. Each with a different perspective, each with a different tone, but each distinctly Kay in scope, theme, style, and characterization. Ysabel is no exception.
This is the first novel he's written which is clearly an urban fantasy -- set in a recognizable modern world where the fantastic intrudes -- though the Fionavar Tapestry could be though of such when you look at its framing story. Ysabel follows Ned Marriner, a fifteen year-old son of a famous Canadian photographer, tagging along with his father's team on a six week shoot in southern France, while his mother is on a mission in Darfur with a Médecins Sans Frontières. As his father tries to capture Saint-Sauveur Cathedral's facade, Ned wanders its interior, where he meets a young American exchange student and a mysterious scarred man in a leather jacket. From that point, everything gets progressively stranger as Ned and his family are drawn into ... well ... a meta-narrative.
There are points -- particularly in describing Ned's perspective -- where I feel that Kay is a bit weak, but since it's been a decade and a half since I was fifteen, it's a bit difficult for me to throw stones or call foul. While there certainly are young men of that age who are classic rock aficionados, Kay's description of Ned's musical tastes seems disconnected from reality. Likewise, some of the exchanges of dialog are jarring, where Ned is far wittier and self-possessed than most fifteen year-olds I've encountered. That said, these are quibbles. Kay's strengths include his masterful characterizations, and apart from some of the more modern touches, Ysabel is no exception. The arc of the story is simple, powerful, and bittersweet, just as most of his other novels, and -- since I'm writing this review less than two days after starting the book -- it goes without saying that it is engrossing.
All in all, a great gift, and one I don't hesitate to recommend.
I believe that the first thing that I'd read that Guy Gavriel Kay had been involved with was The Silmarillion, though I'd been unaware of his involvement at the time, as I was young and rarely read the author's -- or in this case the editor's -- acknowledgements. I had been underwhelmed by the book at the time, but when one is thirteen, reading a copy of what amounts to Tolkein's elven bible is not necessarily what you seek in what my mother sometimes dismissively described as "your escapist literature." That said, the hardcover copy of the book I got at my church's book fair is one I still have, entranced as I was by the elegantly slim volume with the fold-out map in the back. It was years later that I'd pick it up and read it cover to cover, devouring the doom of Túrin Turambar and the tragedies of Beren and Lúthien.
Several years later, perhaps in college, I picked up a copy of The Summer Tree, and I fell in love with Kay's work. Underneath it all, I suppose I'm a horrible romantic, but his Fionavar Tapestry struct a chord with me that few authors before or since have managed. Perhaps it was the epic yet surprisingly understated sweep of the story, casting the familiar Arthur-Guenevere-Lancelot dynamic as a pale reflection of a storied Truth. Perhaps it was the idea of the meta-narrative itself which blew my mind. Perhaps it was the humanizing touches that Kay inserted into the story at just the right times. Whatever it was, he earned himself a place on my list of favorite speculative fiction authors, along side Kathrine Kurtz, David Eddings, and Neil Gaiman. I'll be the first to admit that these aren't necessarily the most gifted genre storytellers I've read, but my first encounter with their work (the Deryni books, the Belgariad, and Sandman, respectively) will forever have significant emotional resonance for me for various reasons.
In any case, since the Fionavar Tapestry, Kay has continued to write exceedingly readable fiction, generally with an epic sweep in a style that is distinctly unconventional compared to most mainstream fantasy novelists. Tignana. A Song for Arbonne. His Sarantine Mosaic. Each with a different perspective, each with a different tone, but each distinctly Kay in scope, theme, style, and characterization. Ysabel is no exception.
This is the first novel he's written which is clearly an urban fantasy -- set in a recognizable modern world where the fantastic intrudes -- though the Fionavar Tapestry could be though of such when you look at its framing story. Ysabel follows Ned Marriner, a fifteen year-old son of a famous Canadian photographer, tagging along with his father's team on a six week shoot in southern France, while his mother is on a mission in Darfur with a Médecins Sans Frontières. As his father tries to capture Saint-Sauveur Cathedral's facade, Ned wanders its interior, where he meets a young American exchange student and a mysterious scarred man in a leather jacket. From that point, everything gets progressively stranger as Ned and his family are drawn into ... well ... a meta-narrative.
There are points -- particularly in describing Ned's perspective -- where I feel that Kay is a bit weak, but since it's been a decade and a half since I was fifteen, it's a bit difficult for me to throw stones or call foul. While there certainly are young men of that age who are classic rock aficionados, Kay's description of Ned's musical tastes seems disconnected from reality. Likewise, some of the exchanges of dialog are jarring, where Ned is far wittier and self-possessed than most fifteen year-olds I've encountered. That said, these are quibbles. Kay's strengths include his masterful characterizations, and apart from some of the more modern touches, Ysabel is no exception. The arc of the story is simple, powerful, and bittersweet, just as most of his other novels, and -- since I'm writing this review less than two days after starting the book -- it goes without saying that it is engrossing.
All in all, a great gift, and one I don't hesitate to recommend.