In Spud, we read the diary of 13-year-old John Milton, a.k.a. “Spud,” as he navigates his first year at a boarding school in South Africa. His entries describe being (justifiably) mortified by his parents, terrorized by sadistic older students, confused by girls, and embarrassed about being a “spud”—meaning his “balls haven’t dropped” and he sings like a girl [albeit beautifully].

The reader follows Spud and his first-year roommates (The Crazy 8) as they experience pranks, peer-pressure, and some slapstick moments. But along with the fart jokes, they face issues of depth, including alcoholism, mental illness, hazing, child exploitation, and death. Author John van de Ruit also acknowledges but avoids scratching beyond the surface of the topic of apartheid, setting the story in 1990 (the year Nelson Mandela is released from prison), but focusing on concerns more immediate to Spud.

Some things in the book disturbed me enough to be glad I don't have an adolescent son confronting even remotely similar challenges. These disturbing-to-me things are probably many of the same things that would appeal to an adolescent son if I did have one.

Two worlds united in the sound of one bell and through one house, Aislinn House. One world has fallen under the spell of a sorcerer from the other, and the only hope it has to break free of “the ritual” lies with a princess, who dares to question the strict customs that nobody seems to understand, and a descendant of the sorcerer who (like his ancestor) crosses the threshold between the two worlds.

Sealey Head, a remote Victorian-like town situated on the ocean’s craggy coast, is of the world that is not spellbound, but it is enchanting. It is the setting for most of Ms. McKillip’s narrative, and, for me, it provided the most enjoyable part of an enjoyable book. While I read on to unravel the mystery of the bell, I reveled in the description of Sealey Head Inn, its food (good and bad) and decoration, and of Hesper’s home in the woods surrounding Aislinn House. I also appreciated the relationships between women in and across the two worlds, which encouraged examination of women’s roles by juxtaposing them. The finish seemed a little abrupt and unsatisfying after having such a good time getting to it, but overall, I thought this was a magically subtle book about magic and other things. I rate it 3.5 out of 5 stars.

Little America (copyright 1977) is a bit like Chaucer’s Miller’s tale on steroids. Its deliberate architecture has more words (grouped in short bursts; 100 chapters of 2-3 pages), more raunch, more characters, more storylines, and an Oedipal complex or two thrown in for good measure, all weaving together toward a surprisingly tame climax—yes, I used “climax”—compared to the outrageousness of the rest of the book. Of course, while the miller tells his tale as a diversion during a journey to the shrine of Sir Thomas Becket, Swigart’s story includes the journey itself, to Little America, Wyoming, “the largest service station in the world,” where one can find food and gas, and maybe sex in an Airstream trailer and a small atomic bomb. I gave it three out of five stars, and I don't recommend it for those put off by sexually explicit content.