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A review by edgwareviabank
The Falconer by Dana Czapnik
emotional
reflective
medium-paced
4.0
The Falconer reminded me what being 17 and feeling like there's nowhere in the world I'll ever fit in was like.
The main character, Lucy, does things I could only ever dream of growing up (living in and discovering NYC! Seeing Nirvana live!), which only made me love her more. Here and there, I spotted quotes about love, art and sense of self that sounded a lot like I used to: restless, sometimes big-headed, always hopeful behind a front of skepticism and indifference. They made me feel seen, all these years later, in a way people around me growing up rarely did. At the same time, there's no denying Lucy and past me had very different upbringings, and that she, the main character in a novel about a girl who's wise well beyond her years, is a lot more articulate and eloquent. Her experience of coming of age and womanhood matches mine in many ways, but I could never have expressed it as intelligently as she does. At twice her age, now, I have to thank her (and of course the author) for helping me put into words feelings that defined me but I had a hard time explaining even to myself. And all this, ultimately, makes me think that perhaps there are aspects of being a teenager that almost universal: widely felt, and often overlooked despite their lasting impact later in life, because the kind of story Dana Czapnik tells here is often dismissed as "young adult" (as if that was a flaw).
Or maybe not. Maybe I'm still seeing this from inside my own kind of bubble (I may not be as well-off as Lucy, and I'm definitely not American or a New Yorker, but still very much white and Western), and readers who come at it from a different angle might point out differences I'm overlooking. There is a passage in the book that suggests I'm not so wrong: late in the story, when Lucy and her best friend Alexis celebrate the New Year, and share highlights from their year that are wildly different in emotional magnitude and concern but reflect the same kind of longing.
I found some of the passages that establish sense of place rambled a bit too much for my taste, though I'm sure I'd have appreciated them more if I was more familiar with New York City and the continuous changing of its landscape. Other than that, I found the writing almost flawless, with Lucy's reflections and observations carrying the entire book, when the plot itself isn't meant to be particularly complex or layered. I couldn't say this enough: teenage me would have absolutely loved this book. Adult me would like to shove in the hands of every younger woman I know.
The main character, Lucy, does things I could only ever dream of growing up (living in and discovering NYC! Seeing Nirvana live!), which only made me love her more. Here and there, I spotted quotes about love, art and sense of self that sounded a lot like I used to: restless, sometimes big-headed, always hopeful behind a front of skepticism and indifference. They made me feel seen, all these years later, in a way people around me growing up rarely did. At the same time, there's no denying Lucy and past me had very different upbringings, and that she, the main character in a novel about a girl who's wise well beyond her years, is a lot more articulate and eloquent. Her experience of coming of age and womanhood matches mine in many ways, but I could never have expressed it as intelligently as she does. At twice her age, now, I have to thank her (and of course the author) for helping me put into words feelings that defined me but I had a hard time explaining even to myself. And all this, ultimately, makes me think that perhaps there are aspects of being a teenager that almost universal: widely felt, and often overlooked despite their lasting impact later in life, because the kind of story Dana Czapnik tells here is often dismissed as "young adult" (as if that was a flaw).
Or maybe not. Maybe I'm still seeing this from inside my own kind of bubble (I may not be as well-off as Lucy, and I'm definitely not American or a New Yorker, but still very much white and Western), and readers who come at it from a different angle might point out differences I'm overlooking. There is a passage in the book that suggests I'm not so wrong: late in the story, when Lucy and her best friend Alexis celebrate the New Year, and share highlights from their year that are wildly different in emotional magnitude and concern but reflect the same kind of longing.
I found some of the passages that establish sense of place rambled a bit too much for my taste, though I'm sure I'd have appreciated them more if I was more familiar with New York City and the continuous changing of its landscape. Other than that, I found the writing almost flawless, with Lucy's reflections and observations carrying the entire book, when the plot itself isn't meant to be particularly complex or layered. I couldn't say this enough: teenage me would have absolutely loved this book. Adult me would like to shove in the hands of every younger woman I know.