Category: Books

Book Review: Daughter of Smoke and Bone, by Laini Taylor

Like so many books published of late, Daughter of Smoke and Bone had what promised to be a wonderful premise. Pseudo-angels vs. pseudo-demons, with portals into the human world from the mysterious realm of Brimstone, the ‘Wishmonger’. A funky female protagonist, Karou, and all set in the beautiful city of Prague. Throw in a little forbidden romance and the stage is set. Karou is instantly a character with whom you wish to spend more time, if only to find out how such a peculiar human being came into existence. Karou herself has questions, not only about her life, but also about her inexplicable job as a globe-trotting trader in teeth.

Billed as Northern Lights meets Pan’s Labyrinth, this novel should be utterly spectacular.

Alas, while it started well, with complex and unique characters, and a relatively lively pace, it was soon plagued by the pit falls that have become many a book since the runaway popularity of the Twilight Saga. Clichés overtook the elements that were at first so absorbing, and it took the form of a story you have now read so many times, which you can put the book down as soon as it begins to unfold, for you already know exactly how it will play out, and exactly how it will end.

While the romantic aspect is present from the start, it is initially interspersed with an intriguing set of circumstances the reader is drawn into, and a puzzle you cannot help but need to solve. The writing is solid, not spectacular literature, but certainly far better than a lot of Young Adult material, with some beautiful descriptions and a smattering of amusing dialogue. Then there comes a point where the plot takes, what can only be described as, the Twilight Twist. The entire novel becomes about the romance, and as a consequence drops the aspects of the plot which were actually unique and interesting. Major events are somehow left unresolved as a brand new and totally unoriginal subplot pops up out of nowhere, overtaking the whole novel. You are left with the impression that the printers made an error, and stuck the first part of a promising novel to the second half of something very dull.

You feel cheated.

Another let down of the novel is its setting, for while there are some stunning descriptions of Prague, you get no sense at all of Czech culture; it’s an American novel on holiday. In addition there are several scenes – some of them quite lengthily – which have no real function, other than playing out what is obviously something the author thought was a fun idea. While there is no disputing that some of these scenes are, indeed, quite fun, others are simply girlish fantasies, the rest just plain dull.

The saving grace of Daughter of Smoke and Bone is, as with Twilight, as with Fifty Shades of Grey, that it is – at least for some people – wonderful escapology. For the actual Young Adult audience, there’s no doubt it’s a magnificent read, a fact attested by the popularity of the novel. For the older audience who still like to indulge their inner teen once in a while, the same can probably be said. For the rest of us though, who like a little more substance to the books we read, even when reading for an escape, it falls short. Worse still, one can only infer from the direction the novel takes that the best has already occurred, and the sequel will bring nothing but further disappointment.

Modern Book Review: Star of the Sea (2003)

In 2003, Irish author Joseph O’Connor released the historical novel Star of the Sea, combining fact and fiction in an innovative way to create a tale – a collective biography – depicting the harrowing journey undergone by Irish immigrants escaping the terrible famine ravaging the country. This period in history would come to be widely known as “the greatest social catastrophe of 19th century Europe”, as described in a review of the novel upon its release by Terry Eagleton. Such was the immense scale of human loss and sacrifice.

 The main event in the narrative – the Star of the Sea voyage – takes place in 1847, with the details of various passengers’ life stories continually emerging. These eventually combine to create a collage of human experience within the context of “History”, managing to be every bit as evocative, as if it were written –or compiled as the case seems to be – into a present-day diary. The voyage of the Star of the Sea to America became infamous as one of the most deadly of those many that attempted a similar path across the ocean, claiming lives relentlessly throughout the journey – with a cruel irony, some even before the journey had begun.

The “menace” of the impending journey is established early; the “viciously black water which could explode at the slightest provocation” already sets a dangerous and foreboding atmosphere. A dark figure – the Ghost, or the Monster, as he is described in the passage, whose real name is Pius Mulvey, stalks the decks, adding menace to an already apprehensive atmosphere. “He seemed to carry an indescribable burden” – that burden being the “mission” he was being coerced into undertaking at some point during the journey.

Then we meet the troubled couple, David and Laura Merrdith, and their nanny Mary Duane, all of whom are linked in more ways than what it appears to be on the surface. It transpires, unfortunately not surprisingly at the time, that David had been propositioning Mary, but simply to watch her undress and nothing more. It is not clear whether Laura realises what occurs between them but they become an almost normally squabbling couple; “Abusing each other had become a kind of pantomime”.

David soon comes to blows with the claiming-to-be enlightened and self-promoting American, Mr Dixon, who takes a fashionably liberal stance towards the plight of immigrants and the ongoing slavery which was rife in America at the time; ie., “Treat a man like a savage and he’ll behave like one”. This certainly contrasts heavily with the virulent extracts from the magazines, but even here there seems to be a scale of discrimination. However, soon even Mr Dixon veers slightly from his supposedly liberal agenda, to comment on the many troubles Ireland was facing at the time, saying simply that “its nom de guerre is Laissez Faire”.

Inevitably, the class system was going to infiltrate Irish society, if not in legal terms then certainly in attitude. Ships at the time would be holding these people together for great lengths of time, so many would revert back to the familiar class system in order to reassure the passengers that not all law and order was lost at sea; that this happens on a ship with primarily Irish people, most of whom are merely trying to survive, is in itself worthy of note.

It soon emerges that Mulvey, his brother and Mary Duane have a history; Mulvey, rebelling against taking the priesthood like his brother, got involved with Mary Duane, resulting in a sort of “love triangle”. When Mary ends up in “the family way”, Mulvey leaves abruptly, with Mary soon suffering a miscarriage. Shunned by the Mulvey brothers, and by society, she was forced into prostitution for some time before being adopted into the Merridith family as a nanny.

However, it is Pius Mulvey who perhaps has the darkest story to tell; after the “incident” with his brother and Mary Duane, he essentially goes “on the run”; he goes to the city, eventually ending up in London, and ending up in a life of crime, keeps going under new aliases to fit in. However, his past does not get left behind completely, as shady acquaintances blackmail him into carrying out another murder on the Star of the Sea – the intended victim being David Merridith – before reaching the shore.

Just as the ship was so unbearably close to shore at home, problems begin to arise as the ship draws tantalisingly close to the American shore. Immigration issues mean that the ship is not allowed to dock and allow its passengers to disembark, so technically, while the ship is so close to shore, it and everyone within is still subject to the laws of the old country. People continue to die, and others in desperation – just as before – leap off the ship and swim to shore.

Furthermore, Mulvey has been carrying the burden of his past and the task he’s been assigned for some time, continually “speaking at an angle”, prompting him to actually warn Merridith of the plot, saving his life initially and absolving himself of the responsibility, yet someone else ends up taking it upon themselves to kill Merridith, giving a tragic foreshadowing quality to someone saying not long before, “one of them would never set foot in Manhattan”.

The Star of the Sea had become a prison, and by the end of the journey, in the literal sense. A prison which, those who did survive, grew more determined to escape; when that day finally did come, the fates of the characters on board the Star of the Sea proved to be variable. After the death of her husband, Laura Merridith and her sons try to repair and restart their lives in the New World, while Mulvey ends up not being able to escape his past entirely, as he ends up being caught and murdered quite gruesomely, putting an abrupt end to his troubled life of crime. Meanwhile, there is the unexplained disappearance of Mary Duane – she embarked upon the New World never to be seen again. Hints of her whereabouts, and possible identity, crop up all over the country, but no-one can be sure that it is in fact Mary, because she disappears again just as quickly.

Even in the time since this novel’s release, there have been far more Irish authors approaching the subject of their nationality, and its troubled history. Joseph O’Connor has articulated this traumatic time in Ireland’s history, using fact and fiction in turn, where they are deemed necessary. Possibly the most “true-to-life” example, if not entirely anchored in fact, of life on board the “Star of the Sea” in the deadly winter crossing of 1847, as there is likely to be.

Book Review: Sea Of Glass

Barry Longyear’s Sea of Glass is one of those rare gems that you tear through, then habitually re-read, until the spine is more creases than cover and you know it inside out. Despite this, you are still unable to quantify precisely why you love it so much.

Published in 1987, and set in a dystopian future that is now the present day, the subjects of overpopulation and the consumption of natural resources are now old and familiar. Despite the age of the book and its themes, the narrative is as fresh today as it was in its infancy. Told from the perspective of Thomas Windom, first as a seven year old, then as an extremely troubled teen, the novel offers a peculiar perspective on the inner workings of a body and mind subjected to far too much, for too young.

On his seventh birthday, Thomas opens the window in his stuffy attic room and, for the first time in his life, sees Sky – a concept he had previously struggled to grasp, yet knew existed. Spotted by a neighbour, and reported to the dreaded ‘men in black’, Thomas is taken to an orphanage for illegal children while his parents are executed. As a ‘redbird’ at the orphanage, Thomas is immediately flung into a world of violence, oddly mixed with the sexual tensions surrounding any group of pre-teens and adolescents living in very close quarters. In his struggles against the ‘blackshit’, Thomas comes to learn more about the world and understand that, due to massive overpopulation, the planet’s inhabitants have essentially split into two, one half dedicated to preventing the destruction of mankind, by strictly limiting population growth, the other allowing nature to take its course. Running in the background is the ominous presence of MAC III, a supercomputer which, by a series of complicated projections and predictions regarding future events, influences the course of developments in an attempt to postpone the inevitable War between the two factions, which MAC III is certain will occur, when the opposing side run out of resources.

Longyear, however, has taken what could have been a simple, albeit engaging plot, and given it endless depth through considerations of psychology, morality, religion, determinism, and fate. Add to this truncated prose that mirror very well the workings of a fractured mind and he has created a narrative that is as timeless as the question at the heart of the novel itself: why?

Book Review: Sharp Objects, by Gillian Flynn

Due to the recent success of Flynn’s Gone Girl, many people are now coming to her earlier offerings – Sharp Objects, and Dark Places – having already read her runaway bestseller. As a result, this book is underrated by many, as they inevitably compare it to Gone Girl and find it lacking. To some extent, this is understandable, as there is no doubt that Flynn’s writing ability has naturally progressed since she wrote her first novel, and while Sharp Objects has an outstanding emotional plot of its own, the mystery is not on par with the brilliance of Gone Girl.

It is much like reading Her Fearful Symmetry after having fallen in love with The Time Traveller’s Wife; the style is there, but the plot is lacking that ineffable quality that made Niffenegger’s debut so utterly delectable.

Unlike Her Fearful Symmetry, which genuinely is a literary travesty when compared to its predecessor, Sharp Objects holds its own and should be afforded the credit it deserves. It does not have a plot line as riveting and unpredictable as Gone Girl, yet it is not the plot for which the book should be praised, but the characters who populate a small town in Missouri named Wind Gap. The are all utterly, and without exception, the one thing that fiction writers tend to shy away from as much as possible:

Ugly.

Yet they are not ugly in a physical sense, but in a psychological sense, and ugly to such an alarming degree that there is not a single redeeming feature, in any anyone from this town. It is a town of hostile, judgemental, hypocritical, shallow mind people.

It is to this town that Camille Parker, the novel’s narrator, must return, and in Camille herself, we find the ugliest character of all. Her damage however is not entirely her own doing, but a result of circumstance, as we begin to discover as she returns to her family home. With an adored sister who died when Camille was 13, an incomprehensibly abominable mother, a step-father who never acknowledges her, and a disturbing half-sister she does not know, it is no wonder Camille is reticent about her return. Her editor however insists upon it, and so she finds herself reporting on what he believes to be the beginnings of a serial killing spree, and the killer is targeting children.

This book is not an easy read. The prose is well written, although not quite yet developed to Flynn’s later flawless standard, and the pace is good, but the subject matter quite simply makes you squirm. That is, however, the intention. This book was not written to be enjoyed. It is about some deeply serious psychology, and the ways in which mental illness affects not only the people who suffer from a condition, but those around them. Camille, we discover early on, is a cutter (hence the title). Yet Flynn is not simply portraying this aspect of her character as it has so often been seen in the past – an almost childish cry for attention, or a result of extreme depression – she has truly explored the root causes of Camille’s condition and fully demonstrated just how destructive it is to every aspect of her life. Further, Camille not only cuts, but cuts words. She has literally covered almost every inch of herself with words gouged into her own flesh, by her own hand. This happens in people who suffer from psychotic decomposition, and have a level of intelligence that focuses their attention and energy on words and writing as a means of coping.

Flynn has certainly taken this condition, as well as aspects of the crimes Camille is investigating, to the absolute extremes. At times this makes the plot somewhat less than plausible, however she has done so for a reason. The violence is not gratuitous; the abhorrent behaviour of most of the characters is not there for ‘shock value’, or even for the sake of entertainment. Even Camille is purposefully described in the ugliest way possible, but again this is not done as a deliberate attempt to make the reader dislike her.

This is a book about damage. The damage mental illness does to a person, the damage the mentally ill can do to those around them if their conditions go untreated and they go without help, and the damage that normal, everyday people do to each other in the course of living their normal, everyday lives. This is the sort of book that shows you a few unpleasant home truths, as you see yourself reflected in the occasional action and realise how it looks to other people. This is the sort of story that lets you inside the head of a person who, due their outer ‘ugliness’ you would likely never befriend, would perhaps even defriend, but once you catch a glimpse of the reasons for Camille’s ugliness, you no longer see them as ugly, but simply different. You empathise. You want other characters to empathise too and like her, help her.

Camille’s childhood shaped her whole life: her personality, her flaws, her damage, can all be traced back to events she had no control over, and actions that were not her own. She is a product of damaged people, and as such cannot be blamed for her damage. To some extent, you even grow to forgive her for actions that would otherwise be incomprehensible. She is not without fault, but she is suddenly understandable.

She is also tragic, and by the end you are rooting for her in a way you wouldn’t have thought possible. You end up outraged on her behalf at what people have done, and continue to do to her, and ultimately at the fact that the one character you thought all along was one of the good ones, turns away from her when they see the ugliness she tries so hard to hide. You come away indignant that they couldn’t see past her physical flaws, empathise with her experiences, understand her as you have come to understand her, and find a way to help her. To love her.

The plot may not be scintillating, in places it is downright predictable, the prose might not be perfect, the characters may be inordinately unpleasant, and the topic may be brutal, but the story is brave. It is a subject that many skirt and most will baulk at; Flynn however has explored it to its outer reaches and reveals not only the ugly truth of it, but also the depth to which most people remain ignorant of that truth.

Book Review: Her Fearful Symmetry, by Audrey Niffenegger

Few novels have proven to be as disappointing as this one.

The Time Traveller’s Wife was a wonderful read; not perfect, but still very enjoyable, beautifully written, and with a very unique premise. Her Fearful Symmetry held the expectation of more. The title alone is evocative. William Blake wrote The Tyger about light, and dark, and how one cannot be without the other: good cannot exist without evil. The ‘fearful symmetry’ is a reference to this, while the central characters of the novel – Julia and Valentina – are ‘mirror twins’. Add to this the setting in the shadow of High Gate Cemetery and the possibilities were astonishing. The woman who wrote The Time Traveller’s Wife must surely do wonders with this concept.

Or not.

Billed as ‘a delicious and deadly ghost story about love, loss and identity’, Her Fearful Symmetry fails on every single count bar one – it involves a ghost. The central ‘romance’ in the novel is between Robert and Elspeth, who dies in the first line of the book, and it is her ghost who provides the majority of the rather ill-conceived plot. Robert grieves, as anyone would, however his grief is hindered by the revelation that Elspeth’s ghost is still present. He then forms a tentative relationship with one of the twins – Valentina, or ‘Mouse’ as her sister Julia calls her – although this is more due to her resemblance to Elspeth than anything else.

There is little true love in this book. The most resounding ‘love story’ in fact revolves around two minor characters living in the house next to the cemetery. Martin and Marijke are hopelessly in love, however Martin has some serious mental health issues, which have proven impossible for Marijke to live with any longer. She leaves him, not because she no longer loves him, but because she loves him enough to understand her absence is the only thing which might convince him to help himself, and get better. She issues an ultimatum: she will take him back, if he is able to leave the house, and follow her to Amsterdam. This element of the plot is genuinely interesting, and when Julia becomes friends with Martin, takes on an entirely different aspect which could have been truly spectacular. It is actually Julia’s attempts to help Martin, and her love for Valentina, which are the most touching elements of the story, while Julia’s pain over events ultimately prove to be the truest emotions in the whole novel.

The notion of identity is never explored in any depth. There is a poorly constructed plot line concerning Julia and Valentina, in which Julia is supposedly the dominant and bossy twin, and Valentina follows her lead, does as she’s told, and fiercely resents Julia for it. The old adage of ‘show don’t tell’ applies here, for while we are told a few times that Valentina feels smothered by her sister and desperate to get away from her, we never truly feel that is the case. While we can sympathise with the ‘Mouse’, she has ample opportunity to assert her independence and never takes advantage. Her attempts to display her own identity, and fight Julia, are limited and badly written, the result of which being that later plot developments, which hinge on Valentina’s supposed desire for independence, simply do not work; the reader never feels Valentina’s desperation, and so her extreme actions are unbelievable, since they lack motivation.

The other aspect to the plot concerning identity is the fully predictable, badly plotted, and confusingly explained history between Elspeth and her own twin sister, Edwina, mother of Julia and Valentina. The intention here is clear: Elspeth and Edwina, themselves twins, had their own issues when it came to finding their identities. This is then ‘mirrored’ in the ‘mirror twins’, who are supposed to be struggling with identity issues of their own . Again, had it been handled correctly and well written, it could have been an excellent subplot. As it stands, the explanation of it is so convoluted – despite what happened being obvious from the first chapter – that it borders on ridiculous. There is no logic behind the actions of any of the characters involved. They behave irrationally, believing the unbelievable, accepting the unacceptable, and spending lifetimes doing things without motivation. It is a poorly designed plot mechanism intended to draw the reader through the first three quarters of a very uneventful novel with the promise of a ‘big secret’ which, as it turn out, is neither big nor in any way a secret, either to the characters involved or the reader.

Elspeth’s ghost is another wasted element, doing nothing of interest until the very end of the book. In fact, everything of interest happens at the very end of the book, yet the ending is not only rushed, but redundant.

This novel has often been described as ‘Gothic’, yet there is nothing Gothic about it until one scene at the very end which is truly macabre; had the rest of the narrative had this feel to it, the novel would have been spectacular. There are a few random references thrown in as an attempt to create a ‘Gothic’ feel: the twins discuss Steampunk in two lines of dialogue, overheard by another character who doesn’t understand what they’re talking about; Valentina tries and fails to make a black velvet ‘Goth’ dress for herself; and one of the twins remark that Robert would be a ‘Goth’ if he were a teenager.

This does not a Gothic novel make.

There are only three truly Gothic aspects of this novel and all are totally wasted. The ghostly elements could have been turned into so much more. There is a beautiful scene early on, of children playing in the graveyard, and it is obvious even at that point that these children are ghosts. Yet they are not mentioned again until the very end. While Niffeneger clearly did her research on Highgate Cemetery, it is delivered in sections that feel more like lectures than quality fiction. The setting should have created an atmosphere, a feel of the dark, ghostly and ethereal elements the author clearly wanted to portray, yet it does not. It is clinical. Further to this, the Gothic genre is not just about cemeteries and ghosts; it’s about horror, and human nature, the gender roles that underpin society, and the evils that men (and women) do. Only one aspect of the whole novel achieves this, and it is dropped into the plot near the end, executed swiftly, and then rushed so much you could literally miss it.

The ‘twist’ at the end is poorly executed, unfounded, and ultimately unbelievable. Ironically it is not the fantastic elements of the plot that make it unconvincing, but the fact that the previous actions and responses of the characters do not substantiate such a turn of events; you simply cannot believe any of those involved in the final sequence would act the way they do. This undermines the entire novel, leaving you feeling cheated – the wonderful potential implied by the title and premise have been wasted. Had the dynamic between Julia and Valentina been fully realised, the plot unfolded from the very beginning instead of crammed into the end, and the dark aspects of the plot fully drawn, it could have worked. The truly interesting plot elements are rushed through in the last couple of (very short) chapters, while the majority of the book is filled with endless descriptions, almost none of which are relevant to the plot.

The one redeeming feature of the entire novel is that it is written by Niffenegger. That really is the extent of the praise that can be offered. Niffenegger has a way with descriptive prose which is truly unique and a pleasure to read. That is not nearly enough, however, to compensate for the absurdity of the plot developments and flaws in characterisation. Overall, the book reads like a first draft; raw, undeveloped, full of mistakes and plot holes. Had this book been honed, and truly explored to the extent of its potential, with the first half of it cut down to the barest minimum and the last quarter expanded extensively, it might have been good.

Never has a published book more thoroughly demonstrated the benefit of drafting and redrafting a novel, no matter how painful the process might be; never has a book been more in need of a good editor.

Book Review: The Time Traveller’s Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger

The genre of the book is debatable. On one level it is simply a love story, and one could easily be forgiven for filing it away under ‘fiction’. That said, the paradoxical nature of the romantic relationship, which is central to the plot, leaves a question as to whether it should actually be viewed as a work of science fiction. It does not quite fit comfortably into this category either, since the time travel which takes place in the book does not develop as a result of technology or technological advancement, but is rather a speculative matter of biology.

Henry DeTamble has a genetic condition which sends him hurtling back and forth through time. He has no control over when he shifts and no true control over where and when he goes – although it becomes clear that he usually ends up in proximity to the most important people in his life, including himself.

The novel has a slight edge of fantasy to it as a result, however at its core, it is an exploration of relationships and human nature, with a sidebar in existentialism. On a basic level, it is a tale of love conquering all, yet on a deeper level it explores the impossible nature of love and the contradictory and inherently selfish nature of humanity. Time travel is not the point of the novel, it is the mechanism used to convey the deeper meaning and themes of the novel, and it is very beautifully done.

This book is, in one sense, mind boggling. The entire plot revolves around the fact that, at the age of thirty-six, Henry meets six year old Clare Abshire. In his present, he is married to Clare (by then an adult), and after several meetings with child-Claire eventually tells her that he is the man she will marry when she is older – he knows this, because for him it has already happened. Years later, when Clare is an adult, she runs into the Henry of her present, who at that point has never met her, and tells him all about their numerous encounters. For Henry, these incidents have yet to happen, but for Clare they are an intricate part of her childhood and her entire identity. It’s a classic predestination paradox: Clare would not have been able to tell Henry they were going to get married unless they had already got married, as she wouldn’t have known without Henry telling her. Yet it seems highly doubtful that they ever would have ended up together had Clare not essentially introduced herself as his future wife, and so a question hangs over the entire plot: did Clare and Henry fall in love with each other because they fell in love, or did they fall in love with each other because each had been told by the other that they were – in another time – already in love and married.

For those who enjoy quantum physics, it’s a fun plot, if rather predictable. For those who enjoy a good romance, it’s a good read if, again, a little predictable. The joy of the novel however comes in the eloquence of the writing and the depth of the characters – even minor characters shine in a manner that is unexpected in most novels. The point of view is also compelling. First person narrative has many huge benefits yet it often suffers from a lack of additional perspectives. Not so in this novel, for the point of view alternates between Henry and Clare, yet is always first person. As a result, you come to know both characters extremely well. It takes a great deal of skill to accomplish a believable, multiple point of view, first person narration, as the author must keep the voice for each separate character utterly consistent and completely distinct. Characters do not often come through with enough clarity for the shifts in point of view to be distinguishable, and you are left with the impression that the different characters are all very ‘samey’. That is not the case here, for while there is some initial confusion getting used to skipping back and forth between Henry and Clare – both in terms of point of view and past and presents – once you settle into it, you are left with two beautifully drawn characters who immerse you in their lives, and the deep-seated nature of their love for each other. It is almost as if, by being told that are the loves of each other’s lives, all uncertainty has been removed and they are left to simply love each other in a way that most people could never experience. They have no boundaries, no limits, and no uncertainties. At the same time, one feels that they are severely limited by this knowledge, for Clare never fully explores her life without Henry, as he is the centre of it from the time she is six years old. She spends her whole life waiting to meet him, and once she does she spends her whole life with him, and caught in limbo when he is torn away to other times. Henry on the other hand, skips through life with odd snippets of knowledge of a future he knows will happen, but is often uncertain of when.

The only downfall of the book is the predictability of the plot, for throughout you are longing for them to thwart the inevitable future. You are rooting for Henry to grow a pair and try to change the future he has seen, yet he never does – he know his own fate, and accepts it, despite the pain he knows it will cause those he loves most. It seems it never even occurs to him to try to change or avoid it; like Clare, he spends his life awaiting the moments he is certain will come and, as a result, fails to fully experience the present.

The predictability of the plot, and the lack of twists and turns, is at once a disappointment in an otherwise wonderful read, and the core of the novel itself, which explores concepts of free will and fate. Despite their abiding love for each other, both Henry and Clare suffer greatly as a result of their unconventional romance, and the over-riding question is whether they ever had any choice in the matter, or if the course of their lives (and everyone else’s) is predetermined.

Do any of us truly choose who we fall in love with?