This Gaiman title differed from the last Gaiman title I read, which differed from the one I read before that. Mr. Gaiman may well write well in any style. His Odd and the Frost Giants reads like a myth, with personable (and personality-filled) characters, including a boy named Odd who has lost his father and most of the use of one leg. He leaves his village after his mother marries a man with several children of his own and without any interest in Odd. Then the story really kicks off. Odd encounters a bear, a fox, and an eagle with an interesting history--yes, they can talk--and a problem that Odd is determined to try to fix for the sake of his village as well as his new companions. It's a quick read that, I think, would engage grade school readers on up.

What would you wish for if you could have one wish granted every day? Five siblings--well, really only four of five because "Lamb" is too young--in E. Nesbit's Five Children and It discover that deciding what to wish for is only the beginning of their troubles. When they uncover a sand fairy who promises to grant them a wish a day, "careful what you wish for" becomes a much more colorful aphorism.

Somehow, I had not read E. Nesbit's work before, and I am not familiar with turn-of-the-20th-Century British lit for children. I don't know if this title is typical; it's really a collection of tales bound by a theme and characters. Not all of the tales translate as well to this time as some do, but they create a fun structure for the story, and Nesbit's conversational style delighted me. Her voice, speaking directly to her young readers, was probably my favorite part of the book--witty, instructive without patronizing, friendly. She charmed me.

Unseen Academicals, a Discworld story, offers more of Mr. Pratchett's reliable humor and satisfying characters, but it also offers a different kind of satire than other Discworld titles I've read. In Unseen Academicals, "it's personal."

With the introduction of Nutt and his circle of friends who are truly the "unseen" keeping the wheels of Unseen University turning (and its faculty eating), Pratchett focuses his commentary on what it means to be an individual in a group, a more granular and yet more universal target than politics or nationalism or capitalism or sexism. Here we have a story that explores what makes us who we are, raising questions about the relationships between perceptions, personal worth, and identity--again, not superficial topics, but, as always with Pratchett, super-fun.

Sleepless, a well-crafted story told well, presents a realistic dystopian LA landscape ravaged by a worldwide plague of sleeplessness—a terminal disease that infects indiscriminately (young, old, rich, poor). The city teeters on the edge of chaos, yet somehow also maintains an indulgent elite with enough toys (many of them virtual) and money to distract it from the surrounding devastation. And everyone, whether or not privileged, must carry on.

For me, Huston’s details hit the mark every time, from his description of the misunderstood origins of the disease, to the virtual world that emerges to exploit it for profit, to the dissolution of a family affected by it. The character of Jasper and his abilities seem the only part of the story that may reach beyond “believable,” but I don’t care. The story works. All that being said, I can’t recommend it wholesale. Sleepless is bleak, not just in it’s landscape, but in every way. The message I took away from it is not necessarily one that I want to spread. And yet, I think this is a very good book.

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.