So, I re-read The Scorpio Races recently, because I love it with a love that is pure and fire-y and demands frequent fuel. Or something (don’t know where I was going with that metaphor). Anyway, one of the things I love about it is how Puck sees Sean as this silent character, while during Sean’s narration, there are all kinds of lovely little poetic moments. Like this:
Corr’s not at all tired form the gallop the night before, and Puck’s horse is fresh and hot in the wind. We circle and tag, gallop and skirmish. I pull ahead until Corr is distracted and then PUck is suddenly beside us, her dun mare’s ears pricked and clever. We match stride for stride, not racing, just running for the sake of it.
As the sun shines low and red across the water, I wade into the ocean. The water is still high and brown and murky with the memory of the storm, so if there’s something below it, I won’t know it. But that’s part of this, the not knowing. The surrender to the possibilities beneath the surface. It wasn’t the ocean that killed my father, in the end. The water is so cold that my feet go numb almost at once. I stretch my arms out to either side of me and close my eyes. I listen to the sound of water hitting water. The raucous cries of the terns and the guillemots in the rocks of the shore, the piercing, hoarse questions of the gulls above me. I smell seaweed and fish and the dusky scent of the nesting birds onshore. Salt coats my lips, crusts my eyelashes. I feel the cold press against my body. The sand shifts and sucks out from under my feet in the tide. I’m perfectly still. The sun is red behind my eyelids. The ocean will not shift me and the cold will not take me.
I’m so glad this book got the Printz Honor, you guys. Totally deserved.