Book Notes: The People of Sparks

A week or so ago I finished reading The People of Sparks, which is the Second Book of Ember, a series that began with The City of Ember, which I mention here, here, and here. Obviously, the first book was interesting enough to merit reading the second, and once again, I was fairly pleasantly surprised. It was not as good as the first, but avoided the didacticism I feared in a book about rebuilding civilization after an apocalypse, particularly one written post-9/11. However, a couple of features of the book merit a brief mention.

Towards the end of The People of Sparks, I had a revelation, as I did at the end of The City of Ember. However, while The City of Ember evoked Plato, The People of Sparks evoked no less illustrious an author than Dr. Seuss. Now, I love Dr. Seuss, but was surprised when, likely by no conscious design of the author, I considered the moment when the people from two competing cities were, to their own eyes and to each other, indistinguishable, and thought, "The Star-Bellied Sneetches"! This moment in the book, the moment of resolution, was rather simplistic. We are building to a crisis that could result in war. One or two individuals are trying to provoke the war (or at least failing to see a solution other than violence) while one or two are trying to prevent the war. In the tense moment before the violence--or perhaps in the tense moment after the onset of violence--a disaster occurs that threatens to destroy the livelihood of one group. This presents the perfect opportunity for a "joining together," spurred by the bravery of one individual.

Now, the actions involved were noble, but it does beg the question, which, ideally, should be considered by the reader--what would have happened had the disaster not occurred? Likely violence. So does this mean that it requires a disaster for the proactive individual to take the step--doing good instead of evil, or at least avoiding doing evil--that is necessary for the prevention of violence? This strikes me as a bit of the Deus Ex Machina. I would have liked to see the people work things out without near-divine intervention (or pure chance, which frequently substitutes for the divine).

Another rather surprising element of the book, in retrospect, is the almost complete lack of heterosexual pairings--there are no traditional families! Well, O.K., there's one. But we do not feel this to be the norm. Admittedly, there are displaced persons (better not to call them refugees) who have to create alternate living arrangements for the sake of space, but among these, there are many young people who are mentioned independent of any parental figures (not wholly unknown in children's fiction). The "families" are generally single-parent. The main characters have a father on the one hand (an entirely male family of two), and a foster-mother and a sister on the other hand (an entirely female family of three). These alternative families existed in the first book, but events at the end of the second book throw them into sharp relief.

One alternative family arrangement consists of a single doctor and her neglected orphan nephew. Our heroine, her sister, and their guardian move in with the doctor and her nephew. There is another nephew, a "roamer," who is the apple of his little brother's eye. When he arrives with a female "partner" (in roaming), things begin to go awry. However, the "partner" considers him unfit for companionship, which, indeed, he is--but he didn't have to be. This was a creative choice on the part of the author. So this non-traditional female escaping from her home city, a failing city, joins forces with our own heroine, and befriends her. So far, so good. Eventually, this large, soft-spoken female joins with the other large, soft-spoken female--the former greenhouse keeper--to become her apprentice and learn about growing plants.

At nearly every turn, heterosexual unions--or close heterosexual friendships--are avoided. There is even a teeny-bopper who falls in love with the most charming male present, usually a sweet-talking con-man or rabble-rouser, who clearly signals the dangers of charismatic men and unchecked heterosexual attraction (not a bad message, and one that can also be found in Louisa May Alcott). The notable example is the hero and heroine, who remain (wonderfully, in my opinion) good friends with no hint of a pre-adolescent romance.

In contrast to the other books intended for this age range, which are largely over-sexual, this can be seen as a significant improvement. However, the lack of viable heterosexual couples remains troubling, particularly for a civilization that is trying to rebuild itself. In the declining City of Ember, where dysfunction would have been understandable, there is nevertheless more of a "feeling" of family unity. I suppose we are to surmise that the hope of the future rests with the pre-adolescent generation, which is fitting for a pre-adolescent book with post-adolescent appeal.