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Edgar
is a climber. In a world like Atherton, where cliffs play
monumental roles, this is a good thing. As the best climber
in all of Atherton, Edgar can scale the cliffs separating
Tabletop from the Highlands, just as he can descend the much
more perilous cliffs that divide Tabletop from the Flatlands.
Throughout Patrick Carman's novel, Atherton: The House
of Power, Edgar climbs both literally and figuratively,
although the literal climbing proves to be much more enticing
than the figurative.
What
feels most real about Atherton is its setting: a three-tiered
world that finds its very social fabric ripped to shreds when
the three tiers begin to become one. Perhaps the paucity of
settings in this novel allows Carman to develop each one more
fully than other fantasy novels in which characters quest
across entire faceless continents and through countless faceless
cities. Each of Atherton's three tiers are very small, and
they do not get equal time in the spotlight—the novel
takes place mostly on the middle tier, with various excursions
to the other two—but Carman manages to make the Highlands
and the Flatlands as blissfully real as Tabletop. Even if
the narrator's eye is focused on the goings-on of Tabletop,
readers know that events are unfolding in the Flatlands and
the Highlands, too, whether or not the narrator shows it.
One of
Carman's greatest talents is his ability to integrate description
into the narrative: Description and action happen simultaneously.
However, not every detail about Atherton can fit snuggly into
a narrative, so the final few pages of the novel are data
files, offering scientific tidbits on certain aspects of Atherton
that add yet another layer to the multi-faceted world—a
world that has, in fact, extended beyond the book itself and
into readers' hands and the world wide web.
Unfortunately,
the stellar details of Atherton shadow the people who inhabit
it; the book's setting seems much more fully-developed, more
realistic, more believable than the cast of characters in
the book. Carman's characters as individuals do not fail,
though; on the contrary, the cast of characters fail as a
cast. The characters, though well-developed, seem almost stock.
In fact, most of the so-called 'good guys' appear a bit one-sided.
The antagonists, too, though multitudinous, appear borderline
stereotypical: power-hungry, self-centered, rash men whose
main claim to fame is just a gift of fate rather than any
well-deserved accomplishment. Plus, of the five or so women
in the story, three are simply props. Isabel, though, really
shines: a strong-willed, powerful girl of only nine who will,
inevitably, lead the feminist movement on Atherton when the
right time comes. Aside from Isabel, none of the characters
seems real enough: They never change.
Though
Atherton is marketed as a young adult novel, its appeal
will reach a much broader audience. The beauty of Carman's
novel lies primarily in its entertainment value: its deliciously
detailed setting, its breakneck plot, its heartfelt albeit
static characters. Entertainment of this nature shows no ageism.
The mark of any truly great novel, however, is its ability
to extend beyond mere entertainment, and Atherton engages
its readers on many different tiers. Conservationists will
revel in the ecological overtones, while more specified theorists—post-colonialists,
psychoanalysts, Marxists, feminists, and queer theorists,
whether they be young or old—will find ample innuendos
to titillate their critical apparatuses. Ultimately, Carman
has created an excellent novel that, if given the right marketing,
will not only reach but also please a wide range of demographics.
(July,
2007)
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