Fiction by C.J. Spataro, reviewed by Hannah Kroonblawd
MORE STRANGE THAN TRUE (Sagging Meniscus Press)
A few years ago, I worked as an usher for the Illinois Shakespeare Festival, a repertory company that performs in an open-air theatre all summer long. A Midsummer Night’s Dream was onstage that season, and, one night after another, I heard Lysander tell Hermia that “the course of true love never did run smooth.”
Reading C.J. Spataro’s debut novel More Strange Than True, published in 2024 by Sagging Meniscus Press, is a bit like watching a play unfold on a warm summer night. There is a bit of magic and a bit of romance and a bit of longing, each in their turn, as contemporary characters find their lives convoluted by the faeries of Shakespeare’s magical comedy. The first epigraph of More Strange Than True comes from Act 5 of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, including a key to the novel’s title: “More strange than true: I never may believe / these antique fables, nor these fairy toys” (5.1.2-3). The second epigraph contains lines from Yeats’s “The Song of Wandering Aengus,” lines that describe the infinite pull of love across time and space. The fantasy of eros—its imaginative properties, its perpetual yearning—provides clear direction for the reader as Spataro’s novel begins.
The opening chapter pitches us directly into thirty-something, Philadelphia-dwelling Jewell Jamieson’s worst day. Just after her father’s memorial service, Jewell’s boyfriend dumps her via text message. Consolation comes first from her friends, Melody and Bobby, but the bigger source of comfort is Oberon, Jewell’s poodle. Oberon is a happy, eager-to-please dog who loves going to the dog park and cuddling with Jewell on the couch. At the end of the worst day, Jewell falls asleep repeating lines from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, wishing that someone loved her the way Oberon does.
The first surprise of the novel comes next—if not in plot, then in setting. Chapter Three pivots us into the throne room of Alfheim, where Titania, Queen of the faeries, hears the summons of Jewell’s wish. Along with her sisters Iolanthe and Ondine, Titania travels from faerie Realm to Jewell’s bedroom, where she answers Jewell’s call: Oberon is transformed from poodle to man. Two mistakes occur during the spell, however—instead of forgetting his past life, Oberon still remembers what it was to be Jewell’s pet. And Titania, with one glance at Oberon, determines that he is not meant for Jewell but rather for her.
From here, the story’s fate and fortune unfolds. Jewell, at first incredulous, must navigate life with a man trying to reconcile his past form with his present, along with its magical implications. Having returned to the Realm of faeries, Titania must decide if she will let Oberon remain in the human world or, instead, follow the unexpected compulsion to bring him back to her own. The lines dividing faerie Realm from human are not as stark as they first appear, and magic and time throw Titania’s and Jewell’s respective searches for love into disarray.
What works particularly well in Spataro’s characterization of Jewell is her desire for relationship; as the novel progresses, it becomes more and more evident that love and companionship are two different entities, and the decisions that Jewell makes reflect the push and pull between freedom and commitment. While the overall premise is fantastically out of the ordinary, Jewell herself is a fairly average twenty-first century thirty-something: working a job that’s just a job, wondering if this existence, day in and day out, will continue for the rest of her life. Oberon’s transformation and the ensuing events upend her life, as might happen to anyone on any ordinary day given an unexpected encounter. Titania, though a faerie and not limited by the same temporal bounds, is asking herself similar questions about the future, albeit regarding a lifetime that extends a bit further into eternity.
The novel reads like Spataro had fun writing it; humor and joy are apparent throughout the book. From the faeries realizing that Oberon is neutered to the appearance of the mischievous faery Puck, there is a lilting playfulness to the story’s twists and turns. As the novel balances between Jewell and Titania’s perspectives, Oberon remains elusive and less compelling than the two women. As I read, I wondered how the story might shift were we allowed a glimpse into Oberon’s thoughts. His wants and motivations remain uncertain, although this does add to the conflict of Jewell and Titania’s dual influence. When someone is defined only by those that surround him, what kind of person can they become? Ultimately, this becomes the central question that Jewell must answer—for herself, for Oberon, and for the magic that surrounds them.
Love, identity, destiny—these themes extend well beyond Shakespeare’s time and into our own. More Strange Than True approaches them with both lighthearted narrative and existential wonder. This is the kind of book best read in the sunshine or a warm pool of lamplight, a book you might pick up to read in a single afternoon or evening. Spending a few hours with Jewell, Oberon, and Titania brought me back to my own encounters with Shakespeare’s faeries and reminded me of the way storytelling can infuse an ordinary existence with just a little bit of its own magic.
Hannah Kroonblawd is an assistant professor of English at Concordia University, Nebraska. A graduate of the MFA program at Oregon State University and the PhD program at Illinois State University, her poetry and fiction can be found in various literary magazines. Her chapbook, The Leafcutters, the Minor Saints was published by Press 254 in 2021.
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