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461 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2012
"You're in two halves at present," Clennan went on. "Often thought so. Come together, Moril, and there's no knowing what you might do."The Broken Lands begins like Moril: in fragmented pieces. There's a piece that reads as a tribute to New York City, and a piece about a young boy making a living as a card shark in Coney Island, and a piece about a young girl who creates fireworks. They all have individual charms, but they don't come together well. They bump against each other. They jostle for space.
"If there was only one way to read a book," Burns said with a little smile, "any book in the world - if there was only one way to read and understand it, what would be the point of reading that book?"And then there's the ending. Which manages to be about surviving a war and living in a broken world and understanding humanity, all while being overt but without being preachy. It almost reads as a fantasy trial, which funnily enough feels entirely fitting for a post-Civil War generation:
"I do not understand country."There's a degree of clear-sightedness coupled with empathy there that makes the entire scene sing with truth.
"It's what we all thought we were fighting for on the killing fields."
..."So pain and anger - this is acceptable if done for this thing that is country?"
..."Nobody's saying that... Only that there is something we thought was worth fighting for, maybe the only thing both sides could agree on."
"After a parade... when all that's left is confetti in the streets, everyone goes back to work. Somebody unhitches the horses, somebody sweeps up, and little by little, garbage starts to pile up in its usual places."(I've seen Times Square after New Year's. If you haven't, be glad of that.)
"Never expect the world to make sense before breakfast, kid."Words to live by.