{PDF EPUB} Hexwood by Diana Wynne Jones Hexwood
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Read Ebook {PDF EPUB} Hexwood by Diana Wynne Jones Hexwood. This is, unfortunately, a book with too many good ideas and not enough structure or characterization. I say unfortunately because some of the ideas are great. I can't talk about all of them, since piecing them together is a substantial part of the plot and probably the best part of the book, but there's ancient powerful machinery, a fair bit of fiddling about with time (time travel just isn't the right term), some nice non-linear exposition, a galaxy-spanning empire secretly well-established on Earth, some truly nice mind-link telepathy, and a really fun take on magic. On top of that, though, there's also a bit of an Arthurian, some badly done political intrigue and infighting, dragons, badly handled mind control, angst about a dark past, mythical nature, and robots. You may be seeing what I mean about too many ideas. There's something of an overall structure that allows one to sensibly mash all of this stuff together, but it still feels like a disjointed hodge-podge. Worse, though, is that due to the machine-gun speed at which ideas, plot elements, and bits of background are introduced, the really good ones don't get explored. One is left with an extensive list of things in the "this could have been cool if anything had really been done with it" category. I wish some of this could have been spread out across two or three completely different books so that I could have enjoyed a fully-fleshed version. Characterization is another significant problem. The female main character starts off as quite likeable and enjoyable and unfortunately gets less interesting and less likeable as the story goes on, particularly once her ability to serve as a useful viewpoint character is severely compromised by another one of those good ideas. The other two main characters are just eh; Hume stayed basically a meaningless placeholder throughout the whole book, and while there was some attempt to make Mordion interesting, angst does not a character make. The villains were simply bad. Stupid, stereotyped, ineffectual idiots who were simply willed into positions of power by authorial decree, they rarely felt like any sort of credible threat, or really much more than a constant annoyance. The bits of political intrigue were particularly painful and unbelievable; the rulers of this empire definitely do not live up to their billing or their reputations. I wanted to like this book. There's an amusing SF novel here in the galactic empire and its intriguing technology and secret existence on Earth, and there's a very interesting character story around the mind-link concept here (which I just loved). Unfortunately, Hexwood is neither of those novels, and is mostly just frustrating. Journal. I'm in the UK right now, in the middle of nowhere, working on Monkey, about to go offline for a few days. I came over to do three things: to give the BBC a day to promote Episode Four of the next season of Doctor Who , which I have written; to see Hilary Bevan Jones, a wonderful producer with whom I've been working for years, about a couple of things; and to see Diana Wynne Jones. It was a fun but sometimes frustrating day. She adopted me when I was a 24 year old writer for magazines of dubious respectability, and spent the next 25 years being proud of me as I made art that she liked (and, sometimes, I didn't. She'd tell me what she thought, and her opinions and criticism were brilliant and precise and honest, and if she said "Yee-ees. I thought you made a bit of a mess of that one," then I probably had, so when she really liked something it meant the world to me). As an author she was astonishing. The most astonishing thing was the ease with which she'd do things (which may be the kind of thing that impresses other writers more than it does the public, who take it for granted that all writer are magicians.But those of us who write for a living know how hard it is to do what she did). The honest, often prickly characters, the inspired, often unlikely plots, the jaw-dropping resolutions. (She's a wonderful author to read aloud, by the way, as I discovered when reading her books to my kids. Not only does she read aloud beautifully, but denouments which seemed baffling read alone are obvious and elegantly set up and constructed when read aloud. "Children are much more careful readers than adults," she'd say. "You don't have to repeat everything for children. You do with adults, because they aren't paying full attention.") She dedicated her book Hexwood to me, telling me that it was inspired by something that I'd once said about the interior size of British Woods, and I wrote a doggerel poem to thank her. (Hang on. I bet I can find it. There.) There's a kitten curled up in Kilkenny was given a perfect pot of cream And a princess asleep in a thornwrapped castle who's dreaming a perfect dream There's a dog in Alaska who'll dance with delight on a pile of mastodon bones But I've got a copy of Hexwood (dedicated to me) by Diana Wynne Jones. There's an actress who clutches her oscar (and sobs, with proper impromptu joy), There's a machievellian villain who's hit on a wonderf'lly evil ploy, There's wizards in crystal castles and kings on their golden thrones But I've got a copy of Hexwood -- dedicated -- to me! -- by Diana Wynne Jones. There's a fisherman out on the sea today who just caught the perfect fish, There's a child in Luton who opened a genie-filled bottle, and got a wish, There are people who live in glass houses have managed to outlaw stones, But I've got a copy of Hexwood , dedicated to me, by Diana Wynne Jones. I crop up, in semi-fictionalised form, in a book by Diana -- Deep Secret -- and she told me once that the young Chrestomanci in The Lives of Christopher Chant was sort of based on me too. I'm proud of both of those things, even if it does mean that people who have read Deep Secret sometimes ask whether I really ate two breakfasts while mostly asleep, and I tell them that yes, I did. So. Diana, who smoked (with joy and delight and enthusiasm) got lung cancer. And so each time I would come to the UK, I'd go and have dinner with her and her husband John, and the dinner would be cooked and accompanied by Dave Devereux, who has been helping them, and somewhere in there I would see our mutual friend Tom Abba, as well. Each time, I'd take a few minutes at the end and I'd make sure that I'd said to Diana anything I wanted to be sure that I'd said, because I knew I might not see her again, and unsaid things are the hardest. I'd planned to see her yesterday, Saturday, to go down to Bristol with my daughter Holly. But on Friday morning I got a call from Dave Devereux telling me that it was time and I should come now. I called Hilary Bevan Jones, apologised (she was very understanding, as were the other people I was meant to see), and I went to Bristol. I wrote a letter that night to a friend. I'll quote it here, if you don't mind. She's at a hospice. It's beautiful there, and the staff were wonderful - helpful and nice and you never felt like you were bothering them, as one does at so many institutions. I saw the family outside. They warned me that Diana was very frail and changed. She was on morphine, breathing heavy and hard, as if she was fighting for every breath, and I sat by her bedside. I thought about the phrase "your last breath. " as every breath felt like it could be final. But she kept breathing. I told her you said goodbye. Her hair was whiter and she seemed thinner, but not really changed. but it seemed less like someone was actually there -- as if there was a distance between the person I'd known and the body breathing in the bed. Less of a distance than with a body -- but there was a sense that felt like a certainty that she wasn't going to open her eyes and talk again. This sleep was final, and soon the breathing would stop. I went out and sat in the waiting room with Tom Abba, and we talked about Diana, and we both cried a bit. Then I went back in with Tom and we sat some more. I thought about Dogsbody, which I have to write an introduction to, and wondered what star Diana would be, if she was a star. I said goodbye again. Then I went out, and Mickey, her son, went in and sat with her, and I talked to the family. I met Diana's sisters for the first time, although I had heard much about them. I spent the rest of the day with the family, with John and Diana's sister Isobel and Mickey (with whom I'd shared a room at World Fantasy Con in 1988), and we had a Bristolian Chinese meal, and talked about lots of things.