I'm not sure why no one reads Margaret Mahy because she's brilliant. Okay, fine, I do know why -- she wrote years and years ago, there are no ebook editions of her novels, and you don't see them in bookstores either (used paperbacks you can order online seem to be the only option, really), and with all those new, exciting, and more relevant releases...!
But God, I'm sure that if more people read her books now, they too would wonder why others aren't. For me, they're near perfect because they have it all: gorgeous, lyrical writing that is self-aware enough that it never becomes too purple, sharp, brilliant dialogue, fascinating relationships, chaotic families, the sense of something magical, growing up described more honestly than you'd expect, for something published two decades ago, and so on and so on and so on. The love interests, who are, of course, handsome, smart, charming, and yet almost made fun of for all the cliches that the author -- and the characters themselves -- are perfectly aware of. Consider this book's love interest, Sorry, who photographs birds, reads harlequins, has a poster of a naked woman on his wall, is a school prefect, stammers when things get serious, and considers himself the best thing since sliced bread, or, the other half of the time, the worst. And then tell me, how the hell am I supposed to swoon over today's heros like Kaz Brekker (sorry, first guy that came to my mind) when they're cliches treated seriously, not given that hilarious nuance that actually makes you want them to be real and ask you out on a date or something?
I mean,
"Isn't your mother home?" he said. "You have got a mother, haven't you? You don't run this place alone."
"She's out!"
"Good enough! I'll be normal then, not charming," said Sorry. "I've a good line for charming mothers, but I'd rather not. Come on, Chant! Take a risk! Invite me in!"
And then, n pages later, he will stammer and -- I don't know. I guess, to me, Mahy's characters are a perfect balance between fantasy and reality, with the brilliant personalities that make reading her books escapism and enough faults to make you groan in frustration, because they're such boys. It's wonderful.
Anyway, I liked this less than Mahy's Tricksters, which was more magical realism than pure fantasy (and I prefer magical realism) and seemed more nuanced, but I loved this one too. Only, I felt like the first half was a solid beginning and the second half a solid ending, without a middle anywhere. Still, Mahy is something else and I'll continue ordering paperbacks of her books, expecting to fall in love, hoping they never disappoint me.