There ought to have been a warning label. Something along the lines of: Reading this series may have seriously detrimental effects on your social life, physical well being, and mental stability. The fabulousness contained within may fascinate the reader to such a degree that they will read the entirety of the trilogy in less than two days whilst their life slowly crumbles around them. Only when the reader emerges from the blissful fog of literary captivation will they have any concept of the power of the writing within.
The world that Westerfield has created is disturbingly vivid and even when the pace of the book mercifully slowed for a moment, my innards kept churning away. His books were more than entertaining though. They were deeply powerful, and stirred up all sorts of thoughts and wonderings. They mean something. This isn’t fluff fiction. This isn’t a series that you flick through while sitting on the beach or while in the bathroom. It’s something you find yourself pouring your heart into, caught up swiftly by the main character’s plight.
As an aspiring author I often reflect on what I want to create, and Westerfield typifies my hopes for myself. Entertaining, imagination stirring, and deeply profound. Not an easy task to have set for oneself, and not one I have any realistic hope of accomplishing in my first years of learning and struggle. But Westerfield has achieved that balance perfectly in this series.
I eagerly await the fourth book, ready to be stirred, moved, and entertained all over again.