Full disclosure: I first learned of the existence of WRG when my sister texted me of a very kind review left for one of my own books, with the additional information that the reviewer "had a blog." Naturally curious, I read the review (which was of the sort to hearten the most discouraged, or gratify the most blasé writer), and, impressed by the quality of prose, immediately investigated the aforementioned blog. I was not surprised to discover that WRG wrote books as well as "web logs," but only that her chosen genre appeared to be YA fantasy and sci-fi. This intrigued me on two levels: 1. My preferred "end-of-week fiction binge" is usually fantasy or low-tech sci-fi, and I have regularly to seek out new authors, as increasing numbers crash and burn on the altar of All Things Clichéd and Politically Correct; and 2. Fantasy/sci-fi aficionados do not naturally spring to mind as a likely audience for my own books, which contain nary an elf or spaceship, but instead fall into a category subset in which they may be the only entries, namely, "historical works–mostly epistolary–with very little plot, but replete with antique words, punctuation and mores." What form, I wondered, would fantasy take, when created by a mind capable of embracing and understanding such an obscure classification? Lady of Dreams happened to be on sale at the time, and so became my official introduction to that mind.
I've debated for some weeks whether to write this review. On one side was the uneasy feeling that there must hover over the act the faint, distasteful shadow of reciprocity–for though her own was entirely spontaneous, the same really could not be said of mine; on the other side were the arguments that all reviewers must acquire knowledge of their objects by some means or other, and that, no matter how predisposed in her favor I might be, if I thought Lady of Dreams dreadful or even mediocre, nothing could induce me publicly to state otherwise, and a baffled and tactful silence would have been my only recourse. In the end, obviously, emotions were suppressed by solid arguments, rather as the cheering guinea pigs were suppressed in Lewis Carroll's account of the trial of the Knave of Hearts: and, like any bagged and sat-upon rodent, they continue to wriggle in protest, just a bit.
What, then, is my opinion of Lady of Dreams? In a word, I think it is original; in two words, charming and well-written. Moreover, it has the distinction of being one of only a handful of books which, embodying various elements which I generally dislike and actively avoid, yet manage to surmount all my prejudices and find a permanent place in my library. (Elizabeth Moon's The Speed of Dark is another.) In this instance, my antipathies were fourfold: Asian-themed fantasy, nebulous magic systems, chronological imprecision, and narratives in which dreams of any sort play a prominent role. In short, pretty much everything about it should have had me sighing in disappointment and thumbing the delete button–and yet, each time I took it up I found myself lured into continuing. (Unlike many reviewers, whom I envy, I seldom have time to read anything in one sitting.) This can be attributed to nothing save the talent and ingenuity of the author, and if any readers should happen to be less hidebound than myself, or even to entertain decided preferences for the elements listed, then Lady of Dreams should be even more to their taste. For myself, I have, as can be seen, allotted it four stars–but this is because the star chart does not allow half measures, and in my estimation three stars belong to "pleasant" books my brain has marked for almost immediate oblivion; and only Jane Austen receives five.