Morwenna Phelps has suffered a strange and unusual tragedy; she and her twin sister are visionary children, able to see fairies and to dabble in magic, but when they rise together to prevent their evil mother from taking over the world, Mori’s sister dies and Mori suffers an injury that permanently damages her leg. When the novel opens, Mori has moved to live with her father, a man she barely knows, and he packs her straight off to boarding school. Alone, isolated and still grieving for all she has lost, Mori takes refuge in the libraries of the school and the town, disappearing into her love of reading to compensate for everything that is wrong with her life.
The novel takes the form of Mori’s diary and pays great debt to verisimilitude; these are typical teenage maunderings, bemoaning the strict regime of the boarding school, recounting the hostility she must encounter as a new girl, describing in detail her explorations of her new environment. Most of all, the diary doubles as her reading journal, in which she jots down thoughts about her reading, praise and criticism and ideas that occur to her. By 100 pages in, I was wondering whether anything was going to happen at all. By 150, I’d more or less resigned myself to the glacial pace. What I knew of the crisis that had brought Mori to her current situation came entirely from the book jacket (and indeed we never really learn any more), and most irritatingly of all, the endless references to science fiction and fantasy novels were no more than that – oblique and perplexing references that would only make sense if you had read the novels yourself. I loved the idea of this book as a love song to libraries and to the healing power of reading, but found myself deeply frustrated by the refusal of the narrative to let me in on that process properly. If you don’t know your sci-fi, you are condemned to be an outsider to this story.
However, I have a theory that when books dare to slow us down, they make a far greater impact on our minds. Sure, the pleasure of zipping through a novel that is compulsively readable is a delightful one. But inevitably the experience fades very quickly afterwards, and the reader can be left wondering whether they can take any sort of souvenir of the experience with them. Among Others produces exactly that slowing effect, and since it is not at all unpleasant to read (despite those frustrating references), it starts to reveal intriguing depths. The most interesting part of the narrative is the understanding of magic that it offers. Mori’s story treads a fine line between its stated conviction in fairies and magic, and the possibility that these are nothing more than the products of an over-sensitive, maybe traumatised, mind. Magic is seen by Mori to be the power humans deploy, particularly in families, to bind other people to them. Her father lives with his three sisters, formidable women whom Mori believes to be using magic – combined with her father’s somewhat spineless nature – to sap his will and hold him hostage. She is intrigued, then, by a visit from her paternal grandfather, Sam, who behaves quite differently in their presence:
There’s a kind of magic about Sam, not real magic, but he’s very solidly himself. It would be hard for any magic to find somewhere to start doing anything to him. It was interesting to see him with the aunts; he’s impeccably polite to them but he treats them as if they’re not important, and they don’t know how to deal with that. He has no cracks for them to get into.
Magic as charisma slides into magic as low-level bullying, into magic as a perverse determination to exert excessive control. There’s an orienting truth to this insight that brings the fantastic world and the real one into productive alignment. Among Others belongs perhaps less to the genre of fantasy and sci-fi in my mind than to that other popular genre of rescue literature. Gradually, gradually, Mori’s situation improves, until the end of the novel finds her contemplating a braver, brighter future.
I have no idea why this book won so many awards – except perhaps given they were all fantasy awards, the readers concerned were able to spot all those references – but it is a very soothing novel, gentle, slow, wise and inward-looking. And a wonderful tribute to libraries and librarians everywhere.
(Many apologies for being so behind in responding to comments and commenting: I will catch up, but am in the middle of a tight turnaround on a longer article. But I’m also so behind in posting reviews that I felt I had to get started. Please do bear with me; I’ll catch up as soon as possible!)