Widely considered to be the Harry Potter book with the weakest storyline, The Chamber of Secrets does a good job of fleshing out the wizarding world. That, and little else. Somehow, it always leaves me speechless. Not because I’m awestruck, but because I have nothing to say about it. It is, without a doubt, my least favourite instalment.
The most noteworthy thing about this book is the sheer amount of things it introduces—objects, characters, and phenomena that either become recurring aspects of the series or that play a vastly more significant role in the sequels. The prime example is Tom Riddle’s diary. In this book, it is a curious magical object, insidious for sure, but seemingly not terribly important in the grand scheme of things. In fact, it won’t be until the sixth book that we learn the true import of this artefact. Similarly, The Chamber of Secrets introduces the Polyjuice Potion, a crutch heroes and villains alike will heavily rely on throughout the run of the series.
This novel also gives us new characters, most notably Dobby, Lockhart, and Lucius Malfoy. Lockhart is a gem of a character. This incompetent, limelight-hogging idiot reminds me a bit of Dragon Ball’s Mister Satan, though the world champ is far less sinister and far more helpful than the new DADA professor. Obsessed with his reputation, Lockhart is so blunderingly inept it’s almost charming. It really makes you wonder why Dumbledore would cheat hundreds of students out of a useful education by hiring this conman.
Speaking of Dumbledore, this book, much like the first one, requires you to suspend all the disbelief you can spare. You cannot go into it and expect to enjoy it if you’re constantly questioning why the grownups are so woefully inept. A jinxed Bludger has it in for Harry and seemingly won’t stop until it’s broken every bone in his body? The entire Hogwarts faculty: guess I’ll just watch and do nothing, then.
Though this is far from my favourite Harry Potter, I’ve got to give credit where it is due. While the fifth book is the one that properly explores Harry’s identity crisis, this one sows the seeds of his unease. This element adds greatly to Harry’s personality and characterisation, elevating him from the slightly generic archetypal hero he was in the first novel.
The entire school thinks he’s Slytherin’s heir, the one responsible for all the attacks. Harry doesn’t believe it, of course, except… There’s that teensy-weensy issue of Parseltongue to consider. So, maybe he really is who people claim he is?
It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.
Another important theme this book addresses is bigotry and discrimination against Muggle-born students. In theory, everyone’s equal. Yet, in practice, we see there’s a hierarchy in the wizarding world that’s far more complex than simply Pure-bloods and everyone else.
There are people like the Weasleys who, while boasting impeccable pedigree, are considered traitors by many elitists for their total indifference to blood status. There are Squibs, like Filch, who feel inherently inferior to wizards and witches for their lack of magical abilities. Filch even appears to fall prey to a scam, a correspondence course promising to awaken his dormant skills. Then there’s Neville. Between his low self-esteem and his poor magic, Neville considers himself little better than a Squib and spends a good chunk of his second year afraid he’ll be the Basilisk’s next victim.
No discussion of magical Pure-blood supremacy would be complete without mentioning Hermione and the Malfoy family. This novel introduces us to the aristocratic, toffee-nosed Lucius Malfoy. It becomes clear in this book, and will only continue being even more relevant in the subsequent ones, just how much Lucius’s influence and sense of superiority have shaped his son’s outlook. The closest thing the Muggle world has to calling someone a Mudblood to their face would be hurling ethnic slurs at them.
The Harry Potter books are predominantly presented from Harry’s perspective, so we never really see the full extent of Hermione’s anguish. Nevertheless, it stands to reason it’s there. Hermione probably doesn’t consider herself less than deserving of her skills and education, but it still makes you wonder why she works so hard. Some of it, undoubtedly, stems from her being a diligent, conscientious person with a thirst for knowledge and a fondness for academia.
That said, like all Muggle-born students, she is at a disadvantage in the wizarding society, having learned only at eleven it even existed. Maybe Hermione subconsciously thinks she has to earn her place in the magical world, which only serves to further fuel her desire to learn as much about it as humanly possible.
There are many sets of criteria you can use to divide the Harry Potter books into smaller chunks. I myself use plenty. You could argue the final novel is so distinct it merits a category unto its own. Nor would it be inaccurate to split the series in two between Goblet and Order, what with the first part occurring before Voldemort’s return and the second after he’s regained power.
For now, I’ll stick to just one of the many categorisations, based on how this series evolves over time. More specifically, by dividing the books into three, mostly distinct phases.
Phase I encompasses the first two books, Phase II belongs to the middle three books, and Phase III to the last two. Phase I is the introductory stage that lays the groundwork. Phase III is the cataclysmic fight for survival. Phase II expands the in-universe, establishes new characters, and ties the other two phases together by gradually upping the stakes and pushing the narrative into darker territories.
I’ll elaborate more on Phases II and III when we get there. With The Chamber of Secrets, we’ve reached the end of Phase I, so I reckon now’s as good a time as any to discuss it.
Despite often addressing death and danger, the first two books are the most fairytalelike of the bunch. They’re far more innocent and lighthearted and place a greater emphasis on children’s whimsical pursuits. Phase I sows the seeds of later conflicts without drawing our attention away from current happenings. It dedicates quite a bit of time to worldbuilding and introduces us to a, frankly, staggering number of colourful characters.
The conflicts and goals are decidedly kiddish, e.g. dealing with bullies, studying, outperforming pupils from other houses, etc. While the ensuing novels end on a note of grief or sombre reflection, the first two are about who wins the House Cup. Naturally, some of these aspects will remain relevant throughout the series, but it’s undeniable that the books take on a much more serious tone. Considering all the deaths and losses waiting just around the corner, a mental picture of the Gryffindors celebrating their end-of-the-year victory seems bittersweet, almost inane.
The movies seem to adhere to this evolutionary path, as well. The first two are your quintessential Christmas movies, family-friendly and almost obscenely saccharine. They’re bright and colourful, featuring a playful score. From the third movie onwards, the series takes on a steadily darker tone, with the colours becoming duller and the mood bleaker.
So, while The Chamber of Secrets may be my least favourite book, I think there’s still much to enjoy here. Besides, it’s never a bad idea to revisit the building blocks. Turning them over in our hands helps us discover the good elements that will eventually shape better narratives.
According to Goodreads, I’ve read this book once. Yeah, sure, let’s go with that. Truth is, I’ve no idea how many times I’ve read The Philosopher’s Stone. It will forever remain one of the great mysteries of my life.
At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that, according to Goodreads, I’ve read 93 books in 2023 (and the year is not even up yet) and 564 books overall. Each and every one of them I owe to The Philosopher’s Stone. This is the book that turned me into a lifelong reader and fundamentally shaped my and my brother’s childhoods.
I wonder, has there ever been a kid who read this novel and then didn’t spend weeks obsessing over the received post? I remember pestering my parents to check if any new envelopes arrived basically every day. I remember them smirking as they watched their eight-year-old sift through bills. “It’s all just stupid bills!”, I complained. “Yeah, imagine that”, was the acerbic response.
Perhaps adults reading this book can resist the urge, but kids? We were obsessed with the idea of receiving a letter informing us of our latent magical powers. I’m now thirty and, to be completely honest, it still kind of breaks my heart I never received that letter. All these years later, my inner child still hasn’t got over it.
Frankly, I could sit here and dedicate thousands of words to nostalgia alone, but there’s a review to be written here, so I suppose I should get on with that.
The plot needs no introducing. This is as famous as a story gets. A young boy abused by his aunt, uncle, and cousin discovers he’s a wizard. He goes to a magical boarding school where he makes friends and learns to harness his abilities. He is famous worldwide as the survivor of an unsurvivable evil wizard who orphaned him. Before the school year is up, he comes face to face with said wizard and manages to survive the ordeal once more.
I don’t remember who it was that said orphans make the best children’s book protagonists, but I agree with them wholeheartedly. Literary orphans enjoy unprecedented freedom and little if any supervision by authority figures. They freely move from one place to another as they explore the world around them. Gokū is a self-sufficient feral child. Peter Pan zips around without a care in the world. Pippi drops out of school to go make crepes on the kitchen floor.
Yet, they also bring a haunting quality to the narrative. For all their unsupervised, devil-may-care fun times, they are, for the most part, keenly aware of the void in their life. They know they’re not like other children. This quality helps make them more than just self-insert vessels for the reader.
In this introductory book especially, despite what I’ve just written, Harry acts as our eyes and ears. It is through him that we learn how this magical world operates, what its rules are, and how wizards and witches live. Unlike Ron, who was born into this world, and Hermione, who comes to Hogwarts bursting with newly-acquired knowledge, Harry is the quintessential fish out of water. He has no idea how to get to the train platform or where to buy a cauldron.
What Harry does know is injustice. Injustice plays an important role in all seven books. While the first novel doesn’t explore this theme too much, it’s certainly there. Life isn’t fair may as well be one of the chief thesis statements of this series. Even though Harry will come to enjoy an enormous amount of privilege and favouritism, his beginnings are humble.
Harry is little better than a servant to his relatives. They make no attempt to hide their antagonism to him. Harry is forced to wear oversized hand-me-downs and sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. He is made perfectly aware of his place in the hierarchy. He knows he’s an unwanted burden. Then he suddenly discovers he’s special, wealthy, and respected. Despite that, Harry never forgets what it’s like to be the boy under the stairs.
While Harry, Ron, and Hermione aren’t particularly fleshed out in this instalment, I hesitate to call them caricatures. I reckon “archetypes” suits them better. Though they develop into more nuanced and distinctive characters in subsequent books, all of them retain some of their archetypal traits. Harry is the hero, righteous and recklessly brave. Ron is the right-hand man ally. Hermione is the planner, the knowledgeable and resourceful one. And Dumbledore, of course, is the sage mentor.
Speaking of Dumbledore, I was surprised by just how little we see of him in this first novel. I’ve grown so used to him always being around that I’ve completely forgotten how small a part he plays here.
If I went poking holes in the plot, we’d be here for weeks. Why are Dumbledore and the rest of the faculty so incompetent? Why is an invaluable object protected by security measures eleven-year-olds can crack? Why doesn’t Dumbledore stop the match the second it becomes clear Harry’s broom is jinxed? Why do pupils have detention somewhere they could be killed? Well, simply put, there’d be no book, let alone a children’s book, if the grownups weren’t so woefully inept. Enjoying this tale does require a good dose of suspended disbelief.
Baffling inconsistencies and plotholes aside, it is genuinely incredible to see how many pivotal features The Philosopher’s Stone establishes. Some won’t be pertinent until the following novel, others not until much, much later. I think this book is a good example of short- and long-term structuring. It introduces objects, places, themes, and characters that are justifiably included in this self-contained narrative, but that also have a larger role in the overall series.
Case in point, the wishes mentioned in The Mirror of Erised chapter. This is the most lighthearted of the seven books, mostly dealing with children’s adventures in wizardry and their growing friendships. Yet this chapter scratches beneath the surface to remind us of the fundamental lack in Harry’s life.
As much as Molly Weasley and Harry’s numerous father figures try to lessen the hollowness of that void, no one ever truly replaces Lily and James. This being a magical world full of things Harry thought impossible, you almost expect the injustice of his parents’ deaths to somehow be reversed. Harry certainly thinks so when he first discovers the mirror. But he quickly learns that there are some things even magic cannot fix. Harry has been robbed of a happy, stable childhood with loving parents, and there isn’t a spell in the world that can undo his loss.
In On Reading Harry Potter in 2023, I mentioned how afraid I was that the author’s distressing posts would ruin Harry Potter for me. I know of many people who can no longer enjoy it and, prior to embarking on this latest reread of the series, I realised I’d been mentally preparing myself for that outcome. What would happen if I ended up unable to enjoy these books, too? Especially this first one, the one that made me into a reader, the one I have so many fond memories of.
It turned out I’m one of the lucky ones. While reading this first novel, I completely forgot someone had to have written it. The story sucked me in immediately. I was no longer sitting on the couch, holding a paperback. I was there, immersed in all the details—the chessboard, Hagrid’s hut, the Dursleys’ ridiculous gifts, the midnight duel, Ollivanders…
It’s easy to see why. The book explicitly champions diversity, empathy, and acceptance. The social outcasts are Muggle-born, forgetful, unskilful, clumsy, poor… Yet Hogwarts welcomes them all. A diverse Hogwarts is consistently shown to be a better Hogwarts. Maybe it isn’t as diverse as we’d like it to be in our old age, but at least we absorbed those positive messages of inclusivity when we first read the book as young’uns.
In this review, I’ve tried to distance myself from both this recent bitterness and my longstanding fondness for this series. I’ve tried to examine this book on its own merits. While not plagued by some of the pacing issues subsequent books have, its storyline still feels a bit rushed. The writing is conventional, the characters aren’t terribly developed, and the central mystery practically requires you to overlook glaring inconsistencies. This isn’t a perfect novel, but it is still one bloody satisfying narrative.
I’m aware a lot of my praise stems from nostalgia. If this were any other book, I’d give it the three stars I think it deserves and call it a day. However, as much as I’ve tried to disentangle it from my childhood memories, I find I can’t do that, not entirely. I don’t consider that fourth star a freebie, but rather an ode to my childhood.
Despite some of the issues I’ve mentioned, The Philosopher’s Stone has enough charm to make you reach for the sequel. It is a flawed, yet compelling introduction to the wizarding world.
Sooo, apparently, I live under a rock. Scratch that—I live under a rock inside a cave atop a steep summit. Or, at least, I used to until some eight months ago when I learned that JKR nurses transphobic opinions. I know what you’re thinking—Big whoop, everyone knows that.
It may sound odd, but I honestly had no idea, because… Well, I do kind of live under a rock. I’m not on Twitter or Tumblr or TikTok or whatever the hell is popular nowadays. I don’t go looking for memes. I hardly ever venture to the comments section of the YT videos I watch. The only big app I use is Instagram, and months can go by between my logging in. Even when I do log in, I don’t scroll, but head straight for the profiles I’m interested in visiting.
Being a relative online recluse has both its pros and cons. One of the pros is being shielded from the ugliness of the world. Another is the reduced risk of feeling overwhelmed. And both are greatly appreciated by this chronic overthinker with C-PTSD and major trust issues.
There are cons, naturally, and plenty of them. To name just one recurring example from my undergrad days—getting ready for class, putting my trainers on, walking over to the Uni building, only to find it closed and empty. There is only one bewildered porter there who asks me, “What are you doing here? Don’t you know there are no classes today because [blank]? It’s all over the news.” So, I totally get how something like this could happen, since similar things have quite literally been happening to me for years.
If you want to know what a man’s like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals.
I’ve spent several months catching up on everything, and I regret not venturing to the online world and not being more inquisitive sooner. Mainly because, that way, the shock of the realisation would’ve been gradual and, perhaps, easier to adjust to, one screenshotted tweet at a time.
This way, it just feels like one massive onslaught, like a tidal wave that creeps up on you out of nowhere and then consumes you all at once. Even though it’s been months since I started catching up on JKR’s harmful doctrine, the shock has still not abated.
Honestly, I think I’m still in the denial phase. As in, I keep waiting for all this to turn out to be a huge misunderstanding or for JKR to realise what she’s doing and apologise. However, now that I know all this has been happening for years, the chances of something like that happening are probably slim to none.
I’m not as devastated as other people, for several reasons:
I’m cis, so I’m not the target of this discrimination, though I’d be lying if I said I don’t feel hurt and betrayed. And if I feel this hurt and betrayed as a cis person, I can only imagine how trans people feel.
I’m not in the habit of deifying celebrities. I don’t consider them to be these inaccessible paragons of virtue. Maybe it’s got something to do with being European. For us, celebrities aren’t sequestered to Beverly Hills or Scottish castles. There are no “Omigod, omigod!” moments because they live among us. We see them in the elevator and the supermarket all the time. Therefore, if and when they stuff up, the experience is far different for us in Europe. We don’t see it as a star goddess’s fall from grace.
I’m estranged from several of my family members. That is NOT a decision one makes lightly. Most people cannot even fathom the amount of abuse that needs to take place for a person to choose family estrangement. Once you’ve been betrayed by your nearest and dearest… Well, next to something like that, the words of an out-of-touch gazillionaire I’ve never even met don’t pack nearly as strong a punch.
I don’t understand how JKR even arrived at these misguided conclusions. She always came across as decent and kind. She created unforgettable characters who felt like family. The Harry Potter series is teeming with quotes that exude warmth and empathy. She was the very epitome of anti-Othering. When I looked at her, I saw a caring maternal figure, à la Molly Weasley.
And I find it so sad because when I look at her now, I see Serena Joy. I see someone who is, knowingly or otherwise, being used by the powers that be because she is a useful asset to their agenda. In a figurative sense, she is the Wife helping usher in an era of restricted rights for Handmaids, Marthas, and all the rest. All but the biggest of the bigwigs, that is. And once she helps limit the rights of groups weaker than the one she belongs to and stops being useful, similar restrictions may come to apply to her as well.
Transphobia is one of the last socially permissible hatreds, so I can see how ignorant, misinformed, or undereducated people from all walks of life could jump on the hate bandwagon. But a smart, worldly, well-read woman like JKR? How did that happen?! The UK is currently experiencing one of its worst cost-of-living crises in decades. There’s a world of good someone with JKR’s influence and wealth could do to help out her fellow citizens, yet she chose to focus on harming instead of helping?
This ideology is harmful not only to the trans, but also the cis community. Every community, really. Does JKR even realise how deeply misogynistic it is? Does she realise how insulting it is to men? How little faith in her fellow humans it betrays? How could such an obviously intelligent person have been deluded into thinking her tweets and essays are in any way contributing to a better and safer world?
And why the obsession with uteruses and reproduction? Why such panic over the perceived extinction of cis women? Why such sex-negative comments that devalue female sexuality? A friend suggested it may be because she’s past the menstruating and childbearing age, and thus feels a panicky need to hold onto the highest symbols of womanhood as regarded by the patriarchy, to shield them like a dragon guards its treasure, at the cost of denying others the I-am-a-woman club badge.
And here I thought I was a complex, intelligent human being with eclectic interests, hobbies, and beliefs… But, nope. Turns out I’m just “a producer of large gametes”.
I don’t know where all this fear and prejudice stem from. At the end of the day, the reason isn’t all that important either. What interests me far more is what we’re to do with her now. Deliberately misgender her and refer to her as “sir” online? Protest? Plant a double agent in her inner circle to meticulously destroy her influence from the inside over a long period of years?
Personally, I reckon the best course of action would be to forget her, let her fade into obscurity, and stop reacting to every single thing she posts online. That said, I’m not trans, so it’s not my place to make proposals on behalf of the entire world.
Which all brings me to the reason I’m writing this today.
Part 2: The Art
The day I learned about JKR’s sentiments was the day I decided it was high time I reread Harry Potter. I’d missed it. Had been missing it. It had been a long while since the last time I read it. And I couldn’t wait to dive back into it.
So, I went to the website of my local library to check if there were any available copies. And that was when I saw someone’s comment denouncing JKR as a bigot. The comment surprised me because, up until that point, JKR used to live in my mind fossilised as the kind of person I remember her being in the mid-2000s.
That comment led me to YT, YT led me to screenshots, diatribes, essays, and people freaking out all over the WWW. Which led to my finding out the woman I used to admire so much had turned hateful.
That was several months ago. In my efforts to catch up on everything, I put Harry Potter on the backburner. The urge to read it was still there, but it was no longer unaccompanied. There were now also shame and guilt for looking forward to reading it.
Was I allowed to read it, want it, enjoy it? Would reading it be considered insensitive? Should I just quickly and quietly reread the series, without telling people or sharing my thoughts on the story? Should I even post a review on my blog or leave a rating on Goodreads? What if I believe some of the instalments deserve five stars? Would rating them as five-star reads contribute to the wider circulation of a fundamentally flawed ideology?
Don’t let the Muggles get you down.
I’m far from the only person grappling with this. I’ve read and watched and listened to so many great dissertations by people wrestling with this same dilemma, cis and trans alike. And, there doesn’t seem to be one correct answer.
I’ve heard every argument under the sun, from outright disowning everything HP-related to consuming it with certain concessions and conditions to moving on as if JKR didn’t exist. What do we do when the creators of formative literature that means so much to us fail to live up to the expectations they themselves laid down in their narratives by way of righteous characters?
There’s also the issue of money to consider. Nothing we do in either direction is going to make JKR either significantly wealthier or significantly less wealthy. We don’t have the financial leverage to change her mind.
And even if JKR wasn’t so unfathomably wealthy and we somehow managed to put a major dent in her net worth, would that even fix the problem? Would it magically render her voice less loud or less important? I’m afraid not. I’m afraid bigots everywhere would just prop her up as the shining example of a martyr bullied into penury for daring to express her “concerns”.
Similarly, most of us don’t have enough of a social clout to make a difference. I know there have been and continue to be people on Twitter trying to reason with her, educate her, and point out to her that her posts are inaccurate and damaging. That doesn’t seem to be working either so, aside from collectively trying to forget her and force her into irrelevance, I’m out of ideas.
That’s why it’s taken me months to decide whether to even reread Harry Potter. I keep waiting for JKR to see the error of her ways and take back her statements, because it would somewhat remove the stigma of reading and enjoying Harry Potter. It’s taken me all this time to finally allow myself to check out The Philosopher’s Stone from the library.
Now, I haven’t actually begun reading the first book yet. I checked it out a few days ago and, like all library books, it’s still in the obligatory freezer quarantine. But I keep thinking about the moment I’ll open the paperback and read the first few chapters. For all my sincere intention to separate the art from the artist, it is at this point still only in theory, an untested hypothesis. Will I actually be able to enjoy it as I once have?
There’s something JKR said at the London premiere of the last Harry Potter movie years ago, something that encapsulates this franchise for me, and is enough to bring tears to my eyes even all these years later, despite her being the one saying it. She said that whether you came back by page or the big screen, Hogwarts would always be there to welcome you home.
For the first time, I fear that might not be true. When I start reading, will Hogwarts welcome me home? Or will it feel like a cold, alien, exclusionary place? The funny thing is, the answer’s in the books—Hogwarts always seems to welcome Muggle-born kids, half-giants, and anyone else who doesn’t fit the Aryan wizards’ definition of who a valuable person is. Heck, three of the school’s founders outright fought the fourth over his exclusionary policies!
We are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided.
So, I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s difficult to see such a chasm between the textual and paratextual messages. It’s difficult to accept they both come from the same person. Yep, looks like I’m definitely still in the denial phase.
Every time I think I’ve processed and accepted JKR’s new tenets, a voice in the back of my head emerges to say that surely she’ll see reason one of these days and apologise. If not today, surely it’ll happen tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then surely a week from now. Right? Right?
On some level, I’m afraid I’ve written hundreds of words here because I subconsciously want to have my cake and eat it too. I’m afraid this is all just a longwinded exercise in hypocrisy, a hollow attempt to justify my desire to read these books yet again. I’m asking myself if it’s possible to enjoy Harry Potter and still think of myself as an ally.
A few months back, I read an anthology of erotic fairytales titled The Dark Forest. In my review, I wrote that I’d skipped the final novella solely because it was written by Addison Cain, an author whose practices I find unethical. Yet, I’m willing to dive back into Harry Potter? How is this not hypocritical?
The way I see it, the reason I’m willing to read one and not the other… Well, there’re actually two reasons:
I’d learned of Cain’s practices before I read any of her works, before I got the chance to fall in love with them. The same cannot be said for the most formative series of my life that literally turned me into a lifelong reader.
Cain writes Omegaverse erotica. I can get Omegaverse erotica on every corner. But Hogwarts? No, I can’t get Hogwarts just anywhere.
Hogwarts means something. It means home, and pumpkin juice, and moving staircases, and obnoxious portraits, and magical winter holidays. Same as for many people, Hogwarts is deeply personal for me.
When the first book came out, I was not a reader. It turned me into one. I owe Philosopher’s Stone the 500+ books I’ve read since.
When the first book came out, I couldn’t afford to buy it, and there were no copies in any of the local libraries. In fact, the first HP book my parents could afford to buy me was The Deathly Hallows, right around the time it came out. But there was a neighbour on the first storey who could afford to buy all the books. After he read it, he’d pass it along to the people living on the second storey, who’d pass it to those on the third, and so on. By the time it got to me… Well, I was on the twelfth and final one, so it was like the reverse Platform.
When the first book came out, my autistic younger brother was not having a good time. His ADHD was really taking a toll on him, his hyperactivity exhausting the shite out of him every single day. When it finally ebbed enough for him to be able to enjoy more sedentary hobbies, I introduced him to The Philosopher’s Stone. It was one of the first books he read and the first book we read together, kicking off a longstanding tradition of us reading together before bed.
When the first book came out, I was too young to know whether I wanted to have children, too young to even think about it. But I still vividly remember thinking that if I ended up having children, I’d definitely read Harry Potter to them at bedtime.
We all have stories like this, intensely personal memories of the time when we first fell in love with this tale and just how bloody much it meant and continues to mean to us. Memories of getting all warm and fuzzy just hearing the Christmassy soundtrack. Of watching and rewatching the movies a million times over, saying the lines aloud along with the characters.
I am part of that lucky generation that was the same age as Harry, Ron, and Hermione, one of the ones who got to age and grow up alongside them. Shit, just writing all this, remembering that magical time, has me bawling all over the bloody keyboard.
Separating the art from the artist is a thorny issue to tackle. Some say it’s impossible. Others believe it’s the only proper way to engage with fiction. I believe… Truth be told, I have no idea. For now, at least, I reckon it should be approached on a case-by-case basis.
In this particular case, I personally don’t see the art and the artist as being one and the same. While the artist may be selective about who’s worthy of their empathy, the art isn’t. The art has consistently emphasised the importance of friendship, loyalty, unity, and acceptance. It taught us to choose what’s right over what’s easy while our age was still in the single digits. It taught us that a diverse Hogwarts is a better Hogwarts. That there’s both light and dark inside us, but that what matters is which we choose to act on.
I can’t tell anyone what to do. No matter what you decide to do with Harry Potter, I respect it. I’m just telling you what I’m going to do with it. Read it, cherish it, cry with it, laugh with it, and a million things besides. But the one thing I won’t do with Harry Potter is let JKR take it from me. It’s mine. It’s yours. It’s ours to do with whatever we want.
Noah has had a crush on Lauren for ages. However, she is his best friend’s younger sister, so Noah places her on the never-ever-ever list. One night, fleeing from a fiasco of a blind date, Lauren stumbles upon a bar Noah frequents. After copious amounts of alcohol, they end up having sex. In the morning, the now sober Lauren decides the one-night stand was a huge mistake, shows Noah the door, and resolves never to speak of the fling again.
A month later, Lauren finds out she’s pregnant. She and Noah decide to work on their relationship and try to form a family before the kid arrives. True to his bad-boy nature, Noah manages to screw up a few times, his bottled-up emotions resulting in him getting so drunk he can barely stand. The first time it happens, Lauren forgives him. The second time it happens, she breaks up with him.
As expected, our lovebirds eventually find their way back to each other and welcome their daughter into the world as a family. In the epilogue, we find out that despite the unplanned pregnancy, Lauren has achieved her dream of becoming a vet, is happily married to Noah, and expecting their second daughter.
But that’s what I want. Not an actual prince, but someone who treats me like a princess. And by that I mean someone who loves and respects me, someone romantic and reliable, who would go through hell and back to fight for my heart. Because I’d do the same for them. I want an epic love, one that can stand the test of time and a villain or two, and come out stronger in the end.
So, this is a fairly straightforward, even slightly trite, love story. Romance books that feature these well-worn elements and tropes are typically rather bad, yet I keep reading them all the same for some reason. Am I a closeted sucker for a-good-girl-meets-a-bad-boy-with-a-heart-of-gold narratives? Perhaps. After all, it’s hard to resist a bad boy who’s a good man.
On the face of it, First Comes Love is identical to thousands of other books with similar plotlines. The crucial difference lies in how the central relationship is approached. Namely, most good-girl-bad-boy stories are far too unrealistic, especially in the way they handle the latter half of the duo. The standard feature is the bad boy changing his wild ways for the good girl who’s “different”, whatever the hell that means. As if there aren’t a million good girls out there who are “different”.
One of the things this book gets right—and which so many others fail at—is realising that no one can change another person. That person has to want to change and then do so of their own volition. And that doesn’t just go for bad boys. There’s a whole world out there, full of people actively working on trying to change their partners, down to the minute detail. You can’t change anyone, but someone can change for you really ought to be a line memorised worldwide by every person who wants to be in a relationship.
We’ve been dating for about a month now and I cut him off after several minutes into a makeout session, like a teenager afraid of getting caught by her parents. He hasn’t complained too much, and never once pushed me. Actually, every time he begrudgingly moves off me, I feel deeper for him.
That’s not to say this novel is a paragon of a realistic relationship. Things would’ve gone down significantly differently for Lauren had Noah not already been harbouring a secret crush on her for years. Your average “bad boy” would’ve split the second she revealed their one-night stand had resulted in pregnancy. Noah stays because he’s practically been begging the universe for a chance to actually be with Lauren.
Some aspects are highly unrealistic, others completely believable. Let me elaborate on that. Do I believe all the icky pregnancy and childbirth details? Yes, though that’s probably because if I were to take a pregnancy-related knowledge test, I’d probably score even lower than Noah.
Do I believe a troubled kid from a dysfunctional family to be in love with a single girl basically his entire adult life and then change his destructive ways in under nine months? Do I believe someone can abruptly settle down with a girl who has to deal with all the woes of an unexpected pregnancy? Eh… No? Yes? I mean, I’m not saying it’s completely inconceivable, but it is very, very rare. Yes, love changes people. Kids probably even more so. But still.
I end the call, dread building inside, and I can’t figure out why until I’m putting groceries away at my own place. My life growing up was dysfunctional. Absent mother, no father… I’m worried that if Lauren is reminded of that, her faith in me will go out the window.
Lauren is a young woman I couldn’t help but fall in love with at first sight. On the surface, she is a rather unremarkable girl with ordinary goals and habits. She’s even something of a pushover, given that she regularly allows her friends and family to arrange blind dates for her. If there’s one thing I don’t like about this narrative, it’s the culture Lauren lives in, one that practically dictates every singleton must be paired off as soon as possible. I mean, Lauren is just twenty-two, yet her sister and friends repeatedly mention men she should try dating, as if being single is a fate worse than death.
Lauren is very likable. She shares my passion for animals, my childhood dream of becoming a vet, my love for Disney movies and the fantasy genre, is a somewhat socially awkward, introverted dreamer, and a driven person who seems to successfully walk that fine line between childhood and adulthood. She takes on all the responsibilities adult life carries with it—pays her bills, goes to work, gets on well with other adults, etc.—yet never turns her back on her childlike persona, her idealism, and her belief in dreams coming true.
Lauren is so honest with people, never tries to play any games. The best thing about her is that she stands firmly by her beliefs and never tries to hide who she is. She has fallen head over heels in love with Noah, yet refuses to run into his arms and forgive him for his mistakes the second he says he’s sorry. She doesn’t dumb herself down or try to downplay her obsession with Disney princesses to get him to like her.
I can feel his eyes on me, waiting for me to say something. I want to. I want to tell him it’s okay and he can have a second chance. I want him to hold me, kiss me, tell me he’s sorry and it won’t happen again. But he already said that. And here we are. Again.
Unlike so many women, Lauren isn’t terribly interested in making Noah fall for her. She’s far more interested in seeing whether he’s the type of man she could be with, whether they’re compatible, and whether he could be a good dad to their kid. And all without forcing him to change and be who she wants him to be, unless that’s what he desires as well. In short, Lauren’s just all-around fantastic.
As I already said, I really like this novel. Still, I can’t help imagining an alternate reality where it exists not as a feel-good romance book, but a non-HEA cautionary tale. A reality in which Noah reverts to his old ways and continues with the barfights and the drinking and the womanising.
Consider it an exercise in fancy. I’m imagining Noah dying after he so wisely decides to ride his bike out in the pouring rain. Imagining Lauren being left alone with a baby and the baby’s father either dead or completely unreliable. I’m not saying I wish First Comes Love was that book. But I am saying that’s a book I’d be very interested in reading.
As perfect as Noah has been over the last month, I’m terrified he’s going to revert back to old ways, decide this baby-daddy thing isn’t for him and leave me not just alone but broken hearted.
Anyways, back to the actual reviewing. Typos! Yes, typos everywhere. Typos here and typos there. Typos left and right. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here, for though this is a fun book, the end product is no better than a first draft. It could’ve used some serious revising and restructuring by an experienced copyeditor.
Moving on. Even more so than the romance, I reckon humour is what stands out the most in this book. So many books are marketed and sold to us as “funny”, yet barely manage to make me crack a smile even once in three hundred pages. Then again, I’m notoriously difficult to coax a laugh out of. Yet, this book had me genuinely enjoying myself with its charming characters and their witty banter, seemingly effortlessly so.
I realise that, on some level, we need books like First Come Love, stories that assure us it’s not all dark and bleak. With their feel-good vibes, they restore our faith in humanity and remind us life’s no fun if we spend it expecting the worst and not trusting others.
It’ll be better in the end. Yeah, it’s going to suck and be hard as hell, but I’d rather be a single mom for as long as it takes than be in a relationship that’s full of disappointment and hurt. Ella deserves better than that. She deserves to see her mom happy, to see what a healthy relationship looks like.
Sadly, I’m surrounded by so many miserable relationships and so many selfish people that I find it hard to believe anyone is capable of making enough room in their heart for another person. The horrors of intimacy are strong with this one, I’m afraid. I believe in change, I believe in turning over a new leaf and relinquishing bad habits, just not too often. I don’t want to be made a fool out of. I need to see real, tangible improvements before I can trust a person, any person. I’m proud of Lauren for taking Noah back only after he shows her visible, material proof of changing his destructive behaviour.
And so, with the epilogue ending on a positive note, I really want to believe that Lauren and Noah can continue being happy and in love. Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind a sequel. Now that Lauren’s a veterinarian with two small children, a husband, and ageing dogs, I wouldn’t mind seeing how she and Noah tackle parenthood and day-to-day life.
I’m a psycho who’s seen, erm… More horror movies than I’m willing to admit to my mum. Zombies, gross-out body horror, B-movie schlock, sophisticated psychological terror, silent killers taking out dumb teens… You name it, I love it.
Carrie was actually the first one I watched. I was perhaps ten at the time and home alone. I didn’t know it was a horror movie. How could I? It started so innocently, with a volleyball game. I thought it was a regular teen flick.
Then the menstruation scene came along. Then the crazy Margaret White. Then that creepy St. Sebastian figurine with those godawful eyes. The scenes just kept getting wilder and wilder. Though afraid, I vividly remember not being able to move from the couch. I was terrified, yet transfixed. I wanted to find out what happens to this odd girl at all costs, even if it meant endless nightmares.
Then the climax hit, a veritable outpouring of blood and terror. Carrie’s creepy, unblinking eyes. Margaret standing behind the door like a statue. Carrie’s horror as she realises she’s murdered her own mother. The house caving in on them. That fucking St. Sebastian figurine again. And, finally, the bloody arm springing from the soil.
I was scared shitless.
And I was hooked.
At that moment, though I didn’t know it at the time, I became a lifelong horror movie fan.
But on another, more potent level, the work of horror really is a dance—a moving, rhythmic search. And what it’s looking for is the place where you, the viewer or the reader, live at your most primitive level.
My new interest quickly extended to literature. The local library had a pitiful selection of horror fiction, but I managed to dig up a few of those Goosebumps books. Though I initially loved them and found them very scary, I quickly outgrew them and sought out more terrifying stories. That was when I discovered Stephen King.
Unfortunately, I never broadened my horizons past King, partly because he’s so prolific. Once I discovered I liked his writing, I was far more interested in reading more of his works than I was in finding new authors. As a result, I am not nearly as well-versed in horror lit as I am in horror movies. Oh well, baby steps. One of these days, I will read Rosemary’s Baby and Ghost Story and all the rest.
But, in the meantime… The King of Horror published a retrospective of the horror phenomenon? And there’s a battered old copy in the local library? Hells, yes!
King takes us on a journey that’s partially autobiographical and partially, erm, academic? I don’t know if it’d be accurate to refer to the individual chapters as essays since, on the surface at least, they read more as personal musings. Regardless, King goes on to offer us his thoughts on horror in television, literature, radio, and the big screen.
I’m not going to bore anyone by summarising his opinions on the many artists, trends, and works he mentions. Instead, I’ll just say that this is a chunky book, but a quick read. If you like listening to King’s interviews and public discussions, then you know what I’m talking about. It doesn’t matter whether it’s fiction or nonfiction, a personal anecdote or a live reading of a novella he’s working on—King’s got that unique storytelling style that has you glued to your seat for hours.
Personally, I found the section concerning radio dramas the most poignant one. There’s something so bittersweet about the way King describes that golden age of radio that made me stop and reflect on how I approach reading. In an era when you couldn’t tamper with the playback speed and weren’t distracted by endless media and app notifications, you had to sit down and listen. And pay attention.
Whether you were listening to Orson Welles’s programme or reading a book in silence, when an author said something was yellow, you had to imagine it as yellow. I found all this particularly moving because, in the current information overload age of reduced attention spans and constant phone pings, I’ve begun to notice just how much my imagination muscles are starting to atrophy.
When an author describes a monster emerging from a lake, I only see the monster. Whether it’s because my mind’s wandering and unable to take all the details in or because I’ve set the audiobook speed to too fast for my brain to follow, I fail to notice that the monster is green and bulky, that it has antlers, that the lake it’s emerging from is blue, its surface boiling.
Hence, I’ve decided to give audiobooks a rest for a while—and I’m not even someone who uses them all that often—and to read only when I’m able to actually concentrate and fully immerse myself in a book. I want to be able to visualise everything a writer’s worked so hard to convey, smell the fumes, and hear the rasping sounds.
I know that goes against the grain of the present push to spend every waking hour absorbing knowledge and information, to listen to podcasts and audiobooks while we’re eating, doing dishes, pooping, sleeping… Gods forbid we take a moment to do something that cannot be construed as mindful or productive… It may result in fewer books read, but at least I’ll know my brain wasn’t on autopilot and only intermittently engaged when I’m reading.
I’d really love to see a second volume of Danse Macabre. Firstly, because decades have passed since the book’s publication in the early eighties, with oodles of horror fiction to be covered—new trends, new franchises, new creators. And secondly, because some of King’s observations have aged ridiculously poorly and could use some reassessing. All things considered, I really enjoyed this book.