In this story, there are two protagonists: thirty-year-old Andrew and twelve-year-old Aidan. The first chapter focuses exclusively on Andrew, and I was initially taken aback to find myself reading about a middle-aged academic rather than the middle school student I had been expecting. While I found his University existence and desire for independence easy to relate to on a personal level, I questioned his prominence in what is clearly a piece of young adult literature. But as I continued reading, Aidan’s arrival in Chapter Two having restored my equilibrium, it became clear that the characters of Aidan and Andrew are meant to function together. That they are meant to be juxtaposed is evidenced by the fact that the two look remarkably similar, both use their glasses to do magic, and are later revealed to be relatives. But more importantly, it is through Aidan that Andrew is able to reclaim specific memories about his childhood that he “had made himself forget…because he had decided that magic was not an adult thing to know” (204). It is only when Aidan sneaks out of the house to meet Groil that Andrew remembers that he had done the exact same thing when he was a boy staying at his grandfather’s house. While these revelations are integral to the plot (Andrew must assemble the memories of his grandfather’s magic lessons piecemeal before he is able to harness the power of the enchanted glass), they have much larger thematic significance in that they refute the notion put forth by such works as Peter Pan and The Chronicles of Narnia that one must needs “grow out” of magic. Peter Pan himself so fears this eventuality that he refuses to grow up at all, and when C.S. Lewis’ characters reach a certain age, they lose the ability to travel to Narnia. Diana Wynne Jones rejects this idea, suggesting instead that it is only the demands of society that keep us from retaining the magic of our childhood. Just as Andrew is able to remember and harness his magic by finding himself in Aidan, one need only try to see themselves in the words or actions of a child to reclaim some of the magic of childhood. And that, I think, is a beautiful idea.
One of the most interesting concepts in this novel is that most of the characters have what are called counterparts. Counterparts are magical beings who are similar in appearance to humans who live in the village. Some counterparts are similar in terms of personality, as well. For example, Groil, a giant who eats all of the prohibitively large produce, is the counterpart of Shaun, a slow but sturdy young man with a flair for fixing things. Neither Shaun nor Groil is particularly bright, and they get along wonderfully. However, Tarquin, a loyal ally, has for a counterpart the Puck, who is undeniably a villain. I find this disparity intriguing. Counterparts are not simply reflections or foils, but vague distortions of character that reveal aspects of their personalities that may not be otherwise apparent. There is no dichotomy of good and evil—the line is blurred. What does it say about Stashe, who ends up marrying Andrew, that her counterpart attempts to seduce him? Though one is good and the other bad, both share the same attraction to Andrew and are therefore more similar than Stashe would like to admit. Shaun and Groil accentuate one another. Shaun seems gentle, but is it possible that he too, like Groil, is capable of (at least metaphorically) eating people? For an assignment, I would have the students create their own magical counterparts, drawing a picture and determining which of their hidden personality traits their counterparts reveal about them.
In the novel, the character Stashe (Andrew’s eventual love interest) uses the results of horse races printed in the newspaper to predict the future. Naturally, even the most ridiculous names prove relevant to the development of the plot. I liked trying to guess how names like “Dogdays” and “Heavy Queen” were going to fit into the story, and I feel that this creative, entertaining, and humorous device lends itself to a lesson on foreshadowing—how it can be used to pique the reader’s interest and heighten the tension of the piece. In addition, the concept of fortune-telling brings with it the issue of fate. Is it inner strength that renders Andrew powerful enough to drive out Mr. Brown, or is it fate? Is man master of his own destiny? Is the name “Heavy Queen” vague enough to refer to, say, a chess match rather than an overweight counterpart disguised as a social worker? Is fate but another one of man’s inventions, twisted to the whim of his interpretation? I think that we would have quite enough material for a rather rousing class discussion. Also, a fun in-class writing assignment would be to get a set of actual racing results from a newspaper and then have the students write stories guided by the names of the selected horses, allowing them to put their new knowledge of foreshadowing to practical use.
While Enchanted Glass does not displace Howl’s Moving Castle on my list of favorite Diana Wynne Jones novels, I found this book enjoyable in the extreme. It would not be my first choice for use in the classroom, but it is certainly worth the read, particularly for those who enjoy Jones’ other work: it has the same delightfully outlandish characters, magically ridiculous circumstance, and charming wit and humor. The ending (which I refuse to divulge), particularly the final grand reveal about Aidan’s parentage, takes much of the tension and significance out of the plot, and I felt a bit cheated because the resolution seemed so effortless. This book also features the world’s fastest and most random marriage proposal, which is so abrupt that I laughed aloud when reading it. Ultimately, I quite liked this book and would recommend it to anyone seeking magic, adventure, the power of family, and, above all, a happy ending.
Jones, Diana Wynne. Enchanted Glass. New York, NY: Greenwillow, 2010. Print.
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