He was tall and lean,
In his eye was a glean,
He carried himself with confidence.
His hair was like brass,
Upper was his class,
And he wore his looks with a pretense.
Alone he could stand,
A refined gentleman,
But that was before battles intense.
He is emaciated and gaunt,
In his eye are many haunts, more…
Flawless beauty, incessant partying, and constant fun; it seems like the ideal dream life and everyone’s greatest desire. This gripping sequel to Uglies, by Scott Westerfeld, makes one think otherwise. In this thrilling futuristic science fiction novel, Westerfeld uncovers the unpleasant truth that comes with such a “perfect” life, and questions the value of superficial perfection.
Tally Youngblood, the protagonist, is a stunningly beautiful, newly transformed “Pretty”. She has deep, vulnerable eyes and soft, full lips, with Olympian strong muscles and unbreakable ceramic teeth. This is the result of an operation which transforms her from an unattractive, commonplace teenager into a superficially perfect adult. Tally is courageous—a natural leader—and somehow manages to constantly run into, and escape from, trouble. Her boyfriend, Zane, is the only one who seems to understand her. He is slightly exotic-looking compared to the other Pretties, with extremer features than those of others, and hair dyed blue from calligraphy ink. Zane is a risk taker, a trouble-maker, and a rebel, who is not afraid to follow what he believes in, no matter what the cost might be. One of Tally’s closest friends is Shay, who is carefree and light headed—until she remembers a certain betrayal from Ugly days and becomes cold and insensitive. In the midst of this perfect life, however, is a secret, mysterious police society known as Special Circumstances, which keeps a close eye on the Pretty community and keeps a curb on the intelligence and independence of its members. This organization is headed by the clear minded antagonist, Dr. Cable. Her beauty is fierce and cruel, intended to intimidate those in custody. Her build is for speed and strength, with lightning-quick reflexes. “Humanity is a cancer”, she believes, and makes sure to stop it from multiplying into something unmanageable. more…
His true name was unknown. But the people called him Zephyr, after the milieu of the area surrounding the humble tent cabin in which he lived. He resided at the outskirts of the village, in which the oasis gave way to the unforgiving desert. The last few date palms shielded his house, winnowing away the cruelest of sandy desert winds, allowing only refreshing zephyrs to pass through the long fronds of the date palms
He looked like no other. In his eyes was the sapphire iridescence of stars, his beard a long, white, and wispy cloud. His crinkled skin glowed with the youth of the moon. The people wondered how his eyes could sparkle so, how his skin could emanate with such an aura. How could he still feel such passion for life after he had watched his eldest, closest comrades become diseased and desiccated? After he had observed each of his children return to the metamorphic sands before his blue-beacon eyes? The people wondered how he lived unphased through trauma and grief. Wondered how he could stand living with more memories than perceivable. more…
The air was full and damp, and smelled cloying like yellowed grass and wilting flowers. Bulbous sheets of cotton romped about the sky, plump and blue grey, and nearly ready to rid themselves of their burden. A humid, warm wind was fickle and strong about the air, swaying hard one way then suddenly charging in the opposite direction. It whistled in anger and confusion, tearing at the turf and trying to bend rigid trees. The clouds thrashed against one another, the sound of their clashes booming as thunder for many miles. They spat lightning and flame in their feud, but the rain did not fall quite yet. The clouds swelled, they battered themselves, and they could barely contain the troubled water they had to carry. Yet they moved across ground without letting a single drop down to quench the parched savannah.
It was a dark night—the night of the crescent moon. Shafts of moonlight were scattered haphazardly, trickling through branches and dappling the green covered area of the pasture. A slight, chilling breeze spread through every now and then, and a rustle of swaying grass and cracking, dried leaves would resound portentously. In the middle of it all stood the valiant Friesian, noble and erect, his long crimped hair swaying silently with the breeze. He was the night sky, the volatile wind. His black ears perked attentively to the noises of the darkness. Whenever he heard anything slightly questionable, he broke his peaceful air and stormed down the pasture with pounding hooves, uprooting grass, bucking, jumping violently until he reached the nine foot fence. Then he kicked and butted and slashed at the barricade, trying to break through, trying to escape. Frightened whinnies from other horses would implore him to stop, and the battered Friesian would lie down in defeat, only to try again a few minutes later.
Elizabella-Mercedes was an enigma to everyone who had set their eyes on her countenance. She had flawless features, yet they did not seem to match together. Her hair was a deep chestnut brown, and yellow hairs of spun gold were scattered about her pate, which added a shiny gleam to her hair. Her doe eyes were a pale, milky green without a touch of hazel. She had a long, slender nose and a full, pristine, ruby red mouth. But her face as a whole was not pleasant to look at. It was as if someone had taken the most beautiful parts out of different puzzles and tried to force them together—the end result simply did not dovetail into anything that made sense. Everyone who saw Elizabella-Mercedes puzzled over her. Why was it that she wasn’t gorgeous?
