Since I moved a couple of weeks ago, I’ve had a very hard time getting into a book. I have at least a half dozen books on my night table that I’m about 3 chapters into, and haven’t been able to go any further. It’s frustrating because I know I will enjoy these books once I get past the third or fourth chapter, but just to push myself past that point… ah, it’s hard.

So, I went on an adventure to get myself a brand new library card in a brand new city, and oh what a wonderful thing that resulted in! Because I picked up The Stolen Child, and it was one of those books where I was hooked from the first few sentences:

Don’t call me a fairy. We don’t like to be called fairies anymore. Once upon a time, fairy was a perfectly acceptable catchall for a variety of creatures, but now it has taken on too many associations.

The Stolen Child is about changelings. Hobgoblins.

Little Henry Day runs away when he’s seven years old, and is snatched up by hobgoblins; one of the troupe of hobgoblins becomes Henry, with none of his family the wiser about it. This book tells the stories of both Henry’s. The original Henry becomes Anyday, and his story is about remembering who he was before he became a hobgoblin. The other Henry’s story is about trying to forget about being a hobgoblin, but trying to discover who he was before he became a hobgoblin. Hum. Any similarities here?

This was one of the better contemporary “grown-up” books I’ve read in a while. The narration was really good, and it was a little surprising to me that this is Donohue’s first novel. I’m interested to see what else he comes up with in the future.

It’s delightful how two books that show almost the exact opposite opinions on a subject, two books that evoke completely opposite emotions and reactions, can both be so wonderful. The whole time I was reading this book, I was thinking about Peter Pan. In Peter Pan, the thought of eternal childhood seems like an adventure, something we all (okay, maybe just me) wish we could have, and I always am left with a feeling of pure joy when reading about their happenings. In this book, the hobgoblins are stuck in almost permanent childhood until they become a changeling and switch with another young child. (I say almost, because while their bodies stay the same age, their spirits and souls still tend to age.) And yet, I felt no joy, but just strong pity throughout the whole thing. These hobgoblins WANT to be grown up, but can’t do anything to change the long wait they have to face.

It’s unusual for me to love reading a book so much that just made me want to cry out of sympathy for the characters a good portion of the time, but love it I did.