I have just finished Among Others by Jo Walton. It won both the Nebula and Hugo awards in 2012.
I loved the vague magic as a lens through which Mori could process grief and loss, trauma, and change. Her sense of agency resulting from her ability to see faeries and to do magic allowed her to feel powerful when she was at the mercy of strangers and the state.
I am glad the problems with her mother were not clearly delineated.
I do not understand the one fleeting reference to her father making a drunk pass at her. . . His character is a bit of a mystery. Is he weak? Is he controlled? Is he just pathetic?
Overall, I enjoyed it despite the fantasy elements, which I normally loathe. There were passages that were so beautifully written that I want to reread them. But I do not feel a need to reread this one. . . I think the references to Sci-Fi classics and other literature was bordering on gratuitous, although I did laugh at the “Heinlein is fascist” argument.
. . . . .
After ruminating on this for another 16 hours, I feel like I can really connect with Mori’s longing for the valleys and the homes of her cherished relatives in Wales once she is removed to the new life. I can understand the longing for a place and time that does not exist any longer in the way you recall it.
In my case, I miss the spaces between the things – I miss the time to hang out between class and practice, the time after youth group where you could driver around and your parents would not know you did not come straight home. I miss the physical spaces as well – the forests and lake front areas and the playing fields edged by woods and blackberries. Most of the physical locations have long since changed and been developed. The spring above TOTV has long since dried up and the creek at the bottom of the ravine no longer flows year-round.
I think it is possible that my places – the magic of my youth – were no more real than the magic of Mori’s faeries. And maybe magic is the best way to describe that type of memory. It feels like magic, even now that I am old and far removed from that place.
Walton conjures up something bittersweet and universal in this. It is a beautiful piece of writing and is a far more honest tale in the telling than most stories told of one’s life. We all try to make our memories make sense and one thing logically follow another. But that is not how they exist in our brains. That’s how it is for me at least. The memories get bound up together and scrambled and reorganized into these impressionist ideas and images that are “true” but were never “real” in the way that I remember them. The feelings are real. They were forged in the moment the thing happened. And while I may not precisely remember why I felt that thing, I know the feeling is the truth of it. And that is enough for me.
I do long for the forests of my youth where they were alive with possibilities of real danger and they felt like a home to me.