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| 1250283639
| 9781250283634
| 1250283639
| 4.01
| 1,069
| Apr 16, 2024
| Apr 16, 2024
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really liked it
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Space is so cool, and I love reading books that explain how we learn the stuff we know about space. That’s exactly what Dr. Lisa Kaltenegger delivers
Space is so cool, and I love reading books that explain how we learn the stuff we know about space. That’s exactly what Dr. Lisa Kaltenegger delivers in Alien Earths. This is the story of how we look for exoplanets—worlds orbiting stars other than our own Sun—and specifically, how we might determine whether those exoplanets can support life similar life on Earth. Along the way we learn, as Kaltenegger did, so much more about life on Earth, its possible origins, and what makes our great blue marble so special. I received a review copy from NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press. Kaltenegger takes us through the steps required to understand the science she does. She starts with essential questions, like the conditions required for a planet to be habitable, to the very concept of “what is life?� She explains some of the basics of merely locating exoplanets, but what this book provides in more detail is the trickier project of ascertaining those planets� habitability. For this, Kaltenegger dives into the science of simulations and describes how she and her interdisciplinary team built physical labs to test and simulate different phenomena. These phenomena are often coincident with life, and by understanding how they occur and what signs—like spectra—they give, Kaltenegger and her team could build computer simulations to help them understand how planets like Earth might appear to a telescope dozens if not hundreds of light-years away. Kaltenegger herself is interesting. An astrophysicist and engineer, she brings a unique perspective that is only enhanced by her natural appreciation for the contributions of other branches of science. Her work requires knowledge of geology and geochemistry, of physics and mathematics and computational methods, of environmental science. I admire her willingness to collaborate and cooperate, and one of the most consistent themes to emerge from Alien Earths is the importance of science as a collaborative effort. The writing and storytelling are serviceable—Kaltenegger tries her best to weave some of her personal life throughout the book, a way of creating a human connection to this cosmic story. It’s neat, and I especially hope that younger women and girls who read this are inspired by her story. However, if you are looking for a gripping narrative to go with your pop science, you won’t find it here: Alien Earths is much more descriptive and expository. That’s not a bad thing! Indeed, my favourite thing about this book is just how enthusiastic Kaltenegger is about life her on Earth! Whether we’re talking the extremophiles who live around the smoke-stack like vents on the ocean floor to the tardigrades all the way to extinct megafauna and everything in between, Kaltenegger is here for it. Her enthusiasm is infectious and demonstrates how important this science is: by looking for life out there, we better understand the story of life here. I’m a smart cookie, yet frankly, I’m not sure I could ever be an astronomer or astrophysicist. It is miraculous to me that someone can stare at data coming in from a telescope, at the wobbling of a blurry little point of light or spectral lines, etc., and conclude, “Planet.� Let alone the follow-up conclusion of “could be Earth-like!� Like, wow. Honestly, the things that scientists can do these days—not just with our technology but with our sheer imaginative design of experiments � it’s staggering. And humbling. Alien Earths is more than informative; it is a reminder of the value of science, collaboration, and deep thought. It is a love letter to life here on Earth in all its diversity, and it’s a thoughtful exploration of the question we’ve been asking since we could ask questions: are we alone? Originally posted on . ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Mar 19, 2025
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Mar 23, 2025
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Apr 10, 2025
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Hardcover
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| 195753737X
| 9781957537375
| 195753737X
| 4.23
| 116
| unknown
| Feb 02, 2023
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liked it
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Somehow I’ve never heard of the “weird west� subgenre and now it’s everywhere on my book social feed. So it goes. It’s not my usual niche, but Melinda
Somehow I’ve never heard of the “weird west� subgenre and now it’s everywhere on my book social feed. So it goes. It’s not my usual niche, but Melinda West: Monster Gunslinger, by K.C. Grifant, looked interesting enough to branch out. I received a review copy via NetGalley. The eponymous Melinda West is, as the title suggests, a monster gunslinger. That is, she is a gunslinger who kills monsters, not a monster who slings a gun. Her partner Lance is also her partner in life. The two of them have just about saved up enough to retire when something happens that forces them to take on one last job going up against an enemy craftier and more dangerous than they have ever dealt with. The stakes? Nothing short of the souls of Lance and Melinda and Lance’s friend. Since this ’t my usual haunt, it’s hard for me to compare this to other entries within the weird west. I’ve certainly read a few other entries in this, though none jumps out at me. Rather, I’ll just look at this through the lens of other paranormal fantasy stories. Let’s consider the world Grifant builds here, the characters we’re supposed to cheer for, and the success of the plot overall. Melinda lives on a frontier known as the Edge, some kind of anomaly that spits out monsters. Most of the monsters are nuisances more than anything, yet some are very dangerous—that’s how she and Lance have made their money. Beyond this and some magic, however, the vibe is more western than fantasy, with frontier towns and gunslinger showdowns and train battles. Not my style, but probably great for other readers! Melinda and Lance are pretty good main characters, although Lance DZ’t get much development in this book. Instead, Grifant focuses mostly on Melinda and her stubborn nature. This works really well as the moral centre of the book: at each turn, the antagonist offers Melinda a chance to surrender, and her refusal is what powers us into the next phase of the plot. The plot overall is � fine. I really like Grifant’s writing style and how she balances exposition with suspense, slowly unspooling the mystery of the enemy behind everything. It kept me reading! However, I also wouldn’t describe the plot as all that complex. Melinda West: Monster Gunslinger is perfectly fine fare. I already have the sequel, so I will read that soon, and it might make the series grow on me—that is often the case with these kinds of genre works. Even if it is DZ’t, I would still recommend this book to people who already like this genre. Originally posted on . ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Mar 17, 2025
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Mar 18, 2025
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Apr 05, 2025
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Paperback
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| 1443451606
| 9781443451604
| 1443451606
| 3.69
| 1,087
| Sep 10, 2024
| Sep 10, 2024
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really liked it
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Mmm, mmm, mmm. Heather O’Neill can serve it. As I reflected in my review of
When We Lost Our Heads
, her skill as a writer has only deepened and ma
Mmm, mmm, mmm. Heather O’Neill can serve it. As I reflected in my review of
When We Lost Our Heads
, her skill as a writer has only deepened and matured since its precocious and sublime debut almost two decades ago. The Capital of Dreams wasn’t as revelatory or enchanting for me, yet it was still a fascinating work of storytelling. Sofia is a fourteen-year-old girl living in the Capital of Elysia, a fictional European country in a state of war against an Enemy in a thinly veiled WWII analogue. She finds herself lost in the Elysian countryside, a talking goose her only companion. The two of them wander as Sofia seeks out the mysterious Black Market. She hopes to recover her mother’s manuscript, which her mother dispatched to safety along with Sofia, only for Sofia to lose it in the ensuing chaos. Despite not having the warmest relationship with her mother, Sofia clings to the hope that she can somehow find the manuscript at the Black Market and then return triumphant to the Capital. Of course, that ’t how it works. Once again I find myself reading a book that feels strangely appropriate for our current political climate. The Enemy are portrayed as fascist aggressors (although, to be fair, more of that feels inferred from the book’s parallels to real-world history than actually stated in the text). The book’s secondary conflict is Sofia and her mother versus the Enemy’s patriarchal oppression of Elysian culture, particularly their openness to sex. Part of Sofia’s journey is, in some ways, her sexual awakening and coming of age. Through various encounters with boys around her age, a slightly older girl she once knew, and other characters, Sofia is exposed to different ideas about relationships and values. In many ways, this book reminded me of The Curse of Pietro Houdini , which also features a child as a protagonist. Substitute Pietro for the smart-talking goose, and it’s basically the same story! OK, not really. Still, the mood is similar. Both O’Neill and Miller manage to capture the bizarre normalcy of civilian life under an occupying force. Even as Sofia wanders from place to place, she is never safe, yet there are few moments where she is in actual danger. Rather, it’s the omnipresent threat of danger, and her own relative powerlessness, that adds tension to the story. Meanwhile, O’Neill uses this setting to ponder girlhood, womanhood, motherhood, and the narratives we create about these states of being. Clara and Sofia’s relationship is so rocky because Clara didn’t want a child. I love the complexity with which O’Neill draws these characters: there are moments where Clara expresses genuine love for her daughter as well as moments that are chilling, borderline cruel. All of this is filtered through the limited third-person perspective of Sofia’s memories, usually relayed through Sofia’s mouth to the goose, so of course, we don’t get an unbiased view of Clara. Nevertheless, O’Neill’s illustration is very much her classic characterization of a parent–child relationship where neither quite seems to have a hang on what is going on. Similarly, the rest of the characters we meet along the way bear O’Neill’s trademark stamp of archetype and allegory. From the philosophical goose sidekick to the two boys Sofia meets early on to Celeste and, of course, Sofia’s final meet-cute with her very own manic pixie dreamgirl � all of these characters exist really just to help Sofia develop. In the end, O’Neill tells us that Sofia has to be brave enough to step into the new future ahead instead of clinging to what she left behind—mother, manuscript—a bittersweet message of optimism through gritted teeth. I won’t say that I loved The Capital of Dreams as much as some of O’Neill’s previous works, especially When We Lost Our Heads. This was an enjoyable read, one I might revisit one day but not any time soon, and one I highly recommend for fans of O’Neill or dreamy literary fiction in general. While I’m not sure it really says anything new or bombastic, it has a journeyman feel to its craft that is sure to satisfy your literary craving. Originally posted on . ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Mar 13, 2025
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Mar 16, 2025
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Apr 02, 2025
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Hardcover
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| 151791910X
| 9781517919108
| 151791910X
| 4.67
| 6
| Mar 25, 2025
| Mar 25, 2025
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it was amazing
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Most of you probably know already: Star Trek is my first science-fiction love. Before Stargate, before Buffy, before even Supergirl, I grew up in the
Most of you probably know already: Star Trek is my first science-fiction love. Before Stargate, before Buffy, before even Supergirl, I grew up in the nineties watching the bright primary colours of TOS on a 13-inch CRT TV. I eschewed for a long time the muted, overly polished sequel series—the simplicity of the 1960s original made more sense to my kid brain. Yet I eventually succumbed (DS9 is my favourite, though TNG is an easier rewatch), and I was hooked. My first online community when I joined the internet at fourteen was a Star Trek roleplaying community. So any time I get to read an academic book about Trek, I will do so. Late Star Trek is such a book: a work of primary criticism, grounded in reference to primary and secondary sources, that explores the era of “Nu Trek,� starting with the connective tissue of Enterprise and going all the way through the Kelvinverse movies into Discovery, Strange New Worlds, Picard, Lower Decks, and Prodigy. It’s forthright and honest and insightful, and it’s exactly the kind of analysis I love reading about science fiction. I received an eARC from NetGalley and the University of Minnesota Press in exchange for a review. Adam Kotsko is—and I say this as the utmost compliment—a huge nerd. Like, he spends time in the introduction explaining how he rose to the rank of Commander in r/DaystromInstitute because of how much time he has spent in the trenches there. Respect. It’s not a competition, but because it is relevant I want to highlight how Kotsko has clearly spent more time in the world of tie-in media—especially the novels and comics—than I have. (Though, nary a mention of any of the tie-in video games except for Star Trek: Online. Hath thou no respect for Star Trek Voyager: Elite Force or Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: The Fallen, Adam???) Indeed, one of the tensions Kotsko explores here is how the revival of Star Trek’s Prime timeline beginning with DISCO but felt more deeply with PIC overwrote the “Beta canon� of the novelverse and how the novelverse itself reacted to that by trying to deal with this in-universe (god, I love science fiction writers so much). More broadly, however, Late Star Trek encapsulates, as its subtitle implies, the ways in which the weight of the franchise has changed how people write and produce Trek in this era. Although canon and continuity are one dimension Kotsko analyzes, they aren’t his primary focus. Instead, he examines how cultural shifts—in values but also in more mundane things like the nature of the television industry and capitalism—have placed different constraints on modern Trek producers. While TOS might have suffered from increasingly constrictive budgets and flagging support from its network, it was unburdened by the expectations of fifty years of franchise. In this way, Kotsko argues that what he calls “late Star Trek� can measure its successes and failures not only by how its stories are received by fans (new and old alike) but by how well its multiplicity of series has weathered the ups and downs of a streaming era marked as much by corporate cynicism as by corporate greed. Early on, Kotsko makes an interesting claim that gave me pause (emphasis mine):
At first I was like, “Nah,� but then I pondered, nay, I ruminated, upon this proposition and eventually had to concede Kotsko has a point. As he argues, pretty much every installment of the franchise post-ENT has, in one way or another, foregrounded our twenty-first-century obsession with terrorism. And I think this observation is as fascinating as it is true simply because it’s not one that I have really seen before in my perusal of Trek commentary. Late Star Trek goes on to analyze each aspect of the modern franchise. It begins with a post mortem of the much-panned ENT. Kotsko is more sympathetic to this series than I am—I always have at least once Trek series rewatch on the go, and it has never been ENT! Nevertheless, I see his point. From there, he examines the novelverse that took off during the dark times between ENT and DISCO, and he also devotes a chapter to the Kelvinverse movies. Then he gives DISCO and PIC their own chapters, respectively, before a single chapter looking at the “minor triumphs� of Lower Decks, Prodigy, and Strange New Worlds. The book is pretty much up to date on all new Trek stories, though Kotsko notes his coverage of season 5 of DISCO is lighter because the book went to press just as this final season was airing. I’m glad for this, particularly given how the reveal about Crewman Daniels from ENT in the finale of DISCO corroborates Kotsko’s argument that one of DISCO’s primary legacies will be the way it cemented ENT into the Trek canon in a way that ENT itself could not have achieved were it still the final Trek television property. The only thing it really can’t comment on is the critical and commercial failure of Section 31, though given Kotsko’s critique of the over-reliance on this shadowy organization in the book (I concur, btw), I can guess what he might have to say about it. This method of organization works great, and Kotsko’s writing is similarly fluent and easy to follow. Though academic and well-supported by references to various scholars, fan writers, and the primary texts themselves, Late Star Trek reads more like fan commentary than a dense academic text, and that’s all to the good. Basically, if you like reading hot takes on clickbait-heavy pop culture sites, Late Star Trek is exactly that—just much longer and with fewer ads. I was pleased by how much I agreed with Kotsko despite notable points of disagreement too. For example, his critique of DISCO writing itself out of Trek canon (almost) with its constant, insecure need to reinvent itself culminating its flight into the timeline’s far future matches a lot of my feelings about this series. On the other hand, he is far more forgiving of the first season than I am—I famously back when it premiered, though my stance and culminated in on the series. Similarly, Kotsko echoes some of , and though I did not write about it, I seem to be in the minority of fans who share Kotsko’s view that the third season’s fan service was, shall we say, cringey, and might be one of the weakest Trek seasons of this entire era. All of this is to say, there is plenty in this book to think about, agree with, or disagree with. This is a book written by an avid fan for avid fans. It is a labour of love that pulls no punches when it dissects the quality of various series� storytelling even as, overall, it clearly stakes a position that the current era of Trek is a good thing. Indeed, as I have said before, it blows my mind we live in a world where there is more new Trek broadcasting these days than at any other point in the franchise’s history. However, too often the criticism of newer Trek has been simplistic: this or that series is garbage; this or that series if for “real fans� versus the “new fans� or “fake fans� or whatever gatekeeping nonsense has seized a small yet vocal minority of the fandom. In reality, criticism needs nuance. No series—not even ENT!—is without its redemptive qualities. Similarly, being a fan of the franchise does not mean one must hold one’s tongue in criticizing any or all of the new series. Late Star Trek boldly goes forward with this mindset, and the result is a rewarding read for any Star Trek fan. Originally posted on . ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Mar 06, 2025
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Mar 08, 2025
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Mar 23, 2025
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Paperback
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| 0316572519
| 9780316572514
| 0316572519
| 3.80
| 878
| Mar 18, 2025
| Mar 18, 2025
|
liked it
|
A few weekends ago, I discovered the first season of Halo was on Netflix and virtually binged it. It was better than I expected—for my expectations we
A few weekends ago, I discovered the first season of Halo was on Netflix and virtually binged it. It was better than I expected—for my expectations were low—and exactly what I craved: something visually stimulating, with a clear story, yet ultimately not all that � meaningful, I guess? “Mid� is probably the right term all the kids are using these days. Anyway, The Third Rule of Time Travel is just like that. Like the Halo series, its production values are too high to be called “pulp”—this is a book that takes itself seriously both as science fiction and literature—yet its execution is decidedly mid. That’s no shade to Philip Fracassi, who has clearly taken the time (pun intended) to craft a fun little time travel story. I received an eARC from NetGalley and Orbit in return for a review. Beth Darlow is a physicist carrying on the project she began with her late husband, Colson: a time machine. So far, the machine can send a traveller mentally into their own past for ninety seconds. Still grieving and under pressure to deliver something marketable, Beth subjects herself to the stress of reliving some of her worst moments in her life. Then, things start going wrong. We love to see a woman in STEM as the protagonist! The Third Rule of Time Travel also reminds me of Boss Level on Netflix, a time-loop movie. Both have about the same level of character depth, especially when it comes to their villains. Both have the protagonist somewhat motivated by the death of their significant other, who is a physicist working on a time machine of sorts. Yet Boss Level unapologetically embraces trite action-hero tropes with a fridged damsel and a buff, macho male protagonist. In contrast, Fracassi here has killed off the husband, and Beth is every bit the physicist and hero this book needs. Now, Beth is a little spiky and seems to have traits of a male author trying to write his breast. Lots of emphasis on Beth’s maternal drive, her Power of Love for Isabel overcoming some of the worst shenanigans of the book. Similarly, constant allusion to how Beth is isolated at work, the only woman in STEM there apparently, and she has to keep her temper under control lest she be seen as a hotheaded and irrational lady scientist by all the men! It’s not subtle at all and feels very much like a man trying to telegraph, far too loudly, “Look, women readers, I too have empathy for your struggle against patriarchy.� Thanks, I guess? I assure you, however: I mock out of love. The Third Rule of Time Travel has a lot to recommend it. Although I won’t go so far as to describe any of its time-travel mechanics as original or particularly mind-bendy, Fracassi overall makes use of some interesting ideas. The debriefing mechanic in particular is one that, once explained in the story, initially sounds really impossible but is actually based on fairly simple ideas about light cones and worldlines. I don’t know, I’ve read quite a few literary time-travel novels that are apathetic to how their time travel actually works, so it’s nice to see one that at least pretends to care. Other than that, this book follows much the same arc as most of those novels: main character can travel through time; main character discovers time travel kind of sucks and is really dangerous; main character deals with fallout of time travel, usually by seeking to undo damage; main character discovers the real family is the family she had at home all along. If you’ve read The Time Traveler’s Wife or Oona Out of Order or watched About Time or any such movies with pretensions to Big Ideas But Make It Timey-Wimey, then you get the vibe. However, Fracassi also can’t resist shoehorning in a thriller subplot with delightfully cartoonish characters. I kept laughing every time the evil boss shows up because he’s so transparently inconsistent and exists solely to make Beth’s life worse. The climax of the novel feels very forced and awkward as the story contorts itself from psychological thriller into action thriller, almost s if its own timeline is being rewritten. This culminates in a classic kind of resolution for this type of science-fiction-by-association: the What the Bleep Do We Know?–style syncretic speculation that it’s all connected, man, and if we could slip the bonds of our linear temporal existence we would, like, see the time knife. The moment between Beth and Colson is meant to be incredibly emotional, a fulfillment of hundreds of pages leading up to it � and yet. So here’s the bottom line: this book is fine. I came to it off of DNFing a different book that was dull. So yes, I’m critical of The Third Rule of Time Travel’s overall quality as a story. Yet I’ll happily share that I devoured this book in a single day over about two sittings. Like that first season of Halo, this book is flashy and easy on the eyes and aspires to be more than it is. That DZ’t mean it succeeds. But it’s fun to watch it try. Originally posted on . ...more |
Notes are private!
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2
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Mar 06, 2025
not set
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Mar 06, 2025
not set
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Mar 23, 2025
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Paperback
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| 1645661881
| 9781645661887
| 1645661881
| 3.68
| 1,498
| Mar 04, 2025
| Mar 04, 2025
|
liked it
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What would you do if someone stole your heart? Literally, actually took it from your body but you didn’t die? Because hearts power their magic. Such a
What would you do if someone stole your heart? Literally, actually took it from your body but you didn’t die? Because hearts power their magic. Such a perfect premise for a story, and Andrea Eames explores it well in A Harvest of Hearts. I received an eARC from NetGalley and Erewhon Books in return for a review. Foss is a simple country girl, daughter of the village butcher. Then one day, a sorcerer comes and snags her heart. She journeys to the city to look for him and demand it back, ending up as his housekeeper, where she unravels the mysteries of this kingdom and the sorceresses who keep harvesting hearts. The truth is darker and bleaker than you probably want to know, yet to Foss, it is literally about her life. Let me start with some criticism. A Harvest of Hearts is too long. This would work a lot better as a novella. It has a fairy tale quality and reminds me of The Wizard of Oz (and actually some of Baum’s less well-known sequels to that original story). However, the characterization and pacing leaves a lot to be desired. Eames’s writing style is exposition-heavy at the start, which is not my jam at the moment. It was hard for me to get into the story, stay interested, and care a lot about the stakes. Even as those stakes became higher, I felt like I was only caring about Foss because she’s the protagonist and what’s happening to her is objectively bad, versus, you know, actually being interested in the story. Part of that might be because the actual plot feels fairly predictable. I had figured out who the king was, what was going on with Sylvester, the whole backstory of the kingdom, from about � oh, I don’t know by the time Foss got to the city? Nothing at all about this book surprised me. While I don’t object to that on principle, I expect the execution to be correspondingly astounding, and that’s not happening here. On the other hand, I finished it. There’s sweet moments. Foss and Sylvester’s relationship truly grows from nothing and deepens into something real and special. And then there’s Cornelius—oh, Cornelius! I would die for Cornelius. He’s excellent. He is everything a talking cat should be. A Harvest of Hearts stands out because of its original premise and the chemistry of the two main characters. Eames has the storybook aesthetic for worldbuilding down, albeit in a way that is heavier on exposition than I would like. This is a fun yet weighty story with a lot to recommend it. That being said, it wasn’t quite for me. Originally posted on . ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Feb 13, 2025
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Mar 02, 2025
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Mar 13, 2025
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Hardcover
| ||||||||||||||
| 0756418445
| 9780756418441
| 0756418445
| 4.18
| 480
| unknown
| Mar 04, 2025
|
liked it
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A couple years ago, I read
Dragonfall
, and I was lukewarm on picking up the sequel. When I had the opportunity for an eARC via NetGalley, however,
A couple years ago, I read
Dragonfall
, and I was lukewarm on picking up the sequel. When I had the opportunity for an eARC via NetGalley, however, I decided to give it a shot. I’m pleased to report Emberclaw is a strong conclusion to this duology (more of these, by the way). L.R. Lam improves on the first entry, and while I still don’t think I am quite their ideal reader, I definitely enjoyed this dragon tale. Spoilers for the first book but not this one. Arcady and Everen are (were?) joined by magic. One human, one dragon. With Everen exiled back to Vere Celene, Arcady is left to pick up the pieces of their con game: they want to infiltrate magic school and figure out who framed their ancestor. But there’s another dragon in Loc, and he’s hellbent on manipulating events to get Everen back here. So while Arcady tries to conceal their identity and lie low, this dragon’s handpicked assassin, Soren, cozies up to them and is ready to strike. Basically, what makes this book so delicious is the way Lam has given everyone overlapping yet oft-conflicting motivations and desires. Arcady and Everen have a natural spark of attraction, yet they are different species and have different loyalties. Magnus similarly has his own motives—which initially don’t seem all that bad, and it’s just his methods that are objectionable, though this changes as the book goes on and his true depravity becomes clear. Soren really just wants to be loved. Sorry, girl. This book feels like it’s more Arcady and Soren’s than Everen’s, which I am not sorry about. He’s kind of boring. I don’t think that is Lam’s fault—I’m just not a fan of his personality. In contrast, Arcady feels a lot more dynamic, and Soren’s tragic face turn story arc is beautiful. Whereas the first book was a heist plot, this one is your typical quest trope: Arcady and Soren are competing in a wizards cup kind of competition to get tuition and prove they are magical badasses. It’s not nearly that straightforward, of course, but it is a good enough framework for Lam to use to build the overall story. In the end, like the first book, Emberclaw didn’t wow me. I think Lam is one of those fantasy authors whose stories or writing style just aren’t for me—no shade on their ability as a writer, just not my cup of tea. If you love dragons or just want a complex fantasy story with a tiny bit of spice/romance and a lot of betrayal, then you should check out this duology. Originally posted on . ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Feb 18, 2025
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Feb 23, 2025
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Mar 13, 2025
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Hardcover
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| 1250276624
| 9781250276629
| 1250276624
| 4.34
| 628
| unknown
| Sep 19, 2023
|
really liked it
|
This was a tougher read than I expected. I was about to write “not being a sports girlie myself� but stopped because I do play sports now—but I only g
This was a tougher read than I expected. I was about to write “not being a sports girlie myself� but stopped because I do play sports now—but I only got into that last summer, and it’s recreational, co-ed, and very inclusive. Anyway, I wasn’t expecting Fair Play to hit me as hard as it did considering it’s about transgender issues. Katie Barnes covers the debates around the inclusion of trans people in sports with sensitivity and dedication. What I most value about this book is something many other reviewers seem to have disliked: an emphasis on feelings over facts. Barnes is a sports journalist by trade and a former participant in women’s sports. They are also nonbinary. They use all these experiences to shape Fair Play, which ultimately revolves around the question of how to include gender-nonconforming and -expansive athletes in sports segregated by sex/gender. The book starts with a brief history of sex segregation in sports and some of the controversies over inclusion of women in men’s sports, etc., before quickly focusing on the last twenty years and how the question of trans people’s participation has been politicized as trans people ourselves have become more visible. The book is organized like a series of case studies; each chapter covers either a specific athlete who became a flashpoint for controversy or a related topic. At the end, Barnes offers up their own views, as well as an epilogue that gives the most up-to-date status of gender policies at the time the book went to press. Fair Play focuses almost exclusively on American sports and politics, venturing into international territory only insofar as it starts mentioning the Olympics or international sports bodies. Barnes covers South African runner Caster Semenya, for example, as a notable controversy over differences in sex development in athletes. This is an exception in a book that otherwise focuses on high school and college sports. As a Canadian, it mostly got me wondering about trans inclusion policies in my country (I know some premiers have taken up the transphobia from our neighbour to the south and started talking about restrictive policies). Nevertheless, this information is useful given how much influence domestic American policies still have on the global athletic scene. Similarly, it’s important to note that even though this book is less than two years old, parts of it are already out of date. The second Trump administration has, in its first month at the date I am writing this review, already taken a hard aim at transgender participation in society, including sports. Barnes anticipates this in their epilogue, which is literally subtitled, “The March Toward Restriction.� They and trans advocacy organizations knew what was coming even though it wasn’t a forgone conclusion at the time that Trump would be reelected. As it is, most of Fair Play is relevant as an informative chronology and analysis of “how we got to here.� The rawness of connecting this book’s coverage to what is currently in the news is one reason why I found this to be a tougher read than I expected. I mistakenly assumed my privilege as a white, well-educated trans woman living in a tiny corner of northern Ontario would insulate me from feeling some kind of way about the trans kids whose athletic aspirations are being crushed, or the trans athletes who are having to choose between being their authentic selves or staying in the closet to participate in the sport they love. Oops. Guess I am not so hard-hearted after all. And this is why, unlike some reviewers, I am so pleased Barnes chooses to focus on storytelling over statistics. That is to say, we know from extensive research that facts are not as effective at changing people’s minds. You say you want data—you really don’t. As Barnes notes, there is a dearth of data on trans people in sports and how sex-linked hormones like testosterone affect the performance of trans people who are taking hormone therapy. Few people have chosen to do the research; fewer still have received funding; for some reason, there aren’t enough trans athletes to study sometimes (funny how that works, huh?). I saw one reviewer insist transphobes would somehow drop their objections to the inclusion of trans people in women’s sports if only there were more data to back up the idea we aren’t a threat � and I am here to tell you, definitively, that won’t happen. Transphobic people are not transphobic because they lack data. They are transphobic because they don’t see trans people as authentic, and no amount of facts will change that. For the record, I think it’s great that Barnes parlays with the facts as much as possible, if only to belie the moral panic. It is very important to repeat how few openly trans athletes are playing sports in high school and college right now, let alone at a professional level, and how none is dominating their sport in the way transphobes claim. The idea that any sports, including women’s sports, is under threat by the inclusion of trans people is categorically false by any metric. That being said, I deeply believe this is a situation where feelings matter over facts, and to that end I appreciate the tack Fair Play takes. Over and over, Barnes says, “I am going to give you all the details from the beginning.� They cut through the sound bites most of us probably heard about Semenya or Thomas or Yearwood. They relate everything, chronologically, and illuminate their audience about the more obscure collegiate or international rules we might not be aware of if we don’t follow sports. To say this humanizes these athletes is, um, depressing but also very accurate. And that is what we need. The chapter that stuck most with me is Chapter 8: “The Breakup in Women’s Sports,� wherein Barnes discusses women’s sports activists Pat Griffin, Donna Lopiano, Felice Duffy, Doriane Coleman, and Nancy Hogshead-Makar. All these cis women (some queer) meeting to talk about trans participation in sports without trans people in the room, a fact Barnes notes, even as they laud some of these women for their role in blazing a trail for women’s and girls� sports in the latter half of the twentieth century. This is the fundamental tension at the heart of the debate over trans people in sports: sex segregation in sports is rooted in misogyny, yet simply eliminating it would eliminate opportunities for women and girls, and no one wants that. So these activists are, in some dimensions, doing important work. Yet some of them are also incredibly transphobic. (Two things can be true!) Barnes quotes Griffin, who says, “I think, fundamenally, [Lopiano, Coleman, and Hogshead-Makar] don’t see transgender women as women�. I think they see them as men.� Indeed, not a day after reading that chapter, I saw someone sharing a screenshot from a recent New York Times article wherein Coleman says, of Trump’s newest executive orders, that they are “both wrong on the substance and understandably scary for trans people.� In other words, while Coleman is literally getting what she wants (trans women banned from women’s sports), she worries it’s coming across as mean. Because she wants her bigotry to feel more palatable. I don’t know. Barnes is so much more professional in this book than I think I could be in their shoes. They are trying really hard to extend grace to the Colemans of the world to whom they feel a debt of gratitude for carving out women’s sports. I get it. I want to agree with Barnes that this is a nuanced issue, one where policies need to be flexible yet realistic. I definitely agree with them that neither they nor I have enough expertise to opine on what kinds of hormonal level restrictions (if any) should exist at elite levels. However, over and over, as I read this book, I couldn’t shake the one unmistakable feeling rising within me, which is simply that the majority of people who oppose the inclusion of trans women in women’s sports do so because they see us as men. Full stop. No amount of hormone therapy, of testosterone reduction, of living as our authentic gender for any period of time, will ever change that for them. That is why Fair Play rightly focuses on the personal stories of trans athletes. Because the majority of Americans reading this book are doing so in a climate where they have been misled about the dangers trans people pose to society. They have been conditioned not to see us as human. So as much as I hate it, the stories humanizing us are the way to go right now. Trans people belong in sport. Trans women deserve to participate in women’s sports. The idea of sex-segregated sports deserves reexamination and perhaps revision in a way that still acknowledges the effects of patriarchy on sports participation. At the same time, none of this can happen as long as trans people are forced to fight merely for survival. Fair Play is a comprehensive and careful look at gender policies in sports in the US. Beyond that, however, it touches a nerve—it did for me as a trans woman, but I hope it does so for cis readers too. Barnes reminds us that participation in sport, especially for children, should not be about winning or losing. Sport is a fundamental human experience, and we need to keep it that way. Originally posted on . ...more |
Notes are private!
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Feb 10, 2025
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Feb 16, 2025
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Mar 10, 2025
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Hardcover
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| 1250341086
| 9781250341082
| 1250341086
| 4.21
| 3,580
| Mar 04, 2025
| Mar 04, 2025
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it was amazing
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Every so often I read a story that reminds me why I love stories and why I love reading in particular. Film and television are great—I watch a lot of
Every so often I read a story that reminds me why I love stories and why I love reading in particular. Film and television are great—I watch a lot of both—yet there’s something about the collaboration of imagination between writer and reader that makes a book absolutely magical for its ability to transport the reader elsewhere. I read the eARC of The River Has Roots curled up on my couch on a Sunday afternoon, curled up on my couch under a blanket. It’s not a long novella. Yet I was present for every moment of it, and when it was finished, I immediately emailed my local bookshop to preorder a hardcover edition—I hear it has fancy illustrations! Amal El-Mohtar has written something exquisitely beautiful here, and I won’t stop singing its praises. At its heart, The River Has Roots is a faerie tale, a cautionary tale. It’s a feminist one, for it is not only a cautionary tale about the vicious avarice of men but also about how sisterhood and solidarity can stand up against patriarchal pressures to conform. It’s a story steeped in story, succumbing to sadness only to lift us up back into grace and, ultimately, hope. I’m not usually one for extensive exposition at the beginning, yet I didn’t even mind it here. The narrator’s introductions to Esther and Ysabel, to Thistleford and the Professors, to the very concept of Faerie and the eponymous river that wends its way through title and book alike � as I said above, El-Mohtar’s descriptions captivated me and transported me to this place. I love how the actual setting is incredibly ambiguous: it’s vaguely English, of course, but not in any identifiable way, and in this way it remains true to the powerful ambiguity of faerie tales. What’s unambiguous is the love between Esther and Ysabel, which is the driving force of the entire novella. The way Esther transcends what she experiences purely because of her love for her sister is beautiful. El-Mohtar reminds us that sometimes bad things happen to people who don’t deserve it—and sometimes we bear costs we ourselves did not incur. Yet at the end of the day, we always have choices. Ours is not to control completely our fates but rather to make the most of what we are given, and Esther displays that admirably here. She takes her turn of tragedy and instead of turning inwards or despairing instead resolves only to go on as she did before: by loving Ysabel and staying true to her promise. The anxiety between the sisters really hit me. I could see myself in both Esther and Ysabel. I have been the one who clings on to a friend, demanding we’ll be together forever, even though they can’t possibly promise me that. I have been the one who finds myself discovering new levels to my life, never quite outgrowing or abandoning those around me yet certainly � changing the way I relate to them. In traditional faerie tales, the characters are archetypes, and it is their static nature that makes them suitable vessels. Despite this story’s short length, El-Mohtar allows the Hawthorn sisters to change and learn, and it ultimately deepens the bond between them. In contrast, the romance between Esther and Rin feels like a perfunctory item at best, but as an aromantic person that’s how all romance feels for me. I’m actually grateful that romance takes a secondary role to sisterhood and friendship in this story. Indeed, Esther and Rin’s entire attraction is so unconventional and removed from the physical and the material, and I appreciate that so much. Whether or not El-Mohtar had these considerations in mind when writing, what she’s done here is tell a love story that DZ’t make me, as an aroace person, feel erased or unimportant. I might not express my affection for someone in the same way Rin does for Esther; however, I can identify with the intense significance they place on Esther’s existence. I can project my own feelings of love on Rin and Esther’s love in a way seldom available to me in more conventional stories, and this was an unexpected and beautiful bonus. Likewise, I was surprised by my visceral reaction to Samuel’s sudden and explosive violence against a woman who dares defy him. I don’t know if it’s the setting or whatnot but it reminded me of Tess of the D’Urbervilles. We are so desensitized to violence against women that even though I saw his actions coming, I was still shocked by the cold and calculating brutality of it. And of course as the river changes course and takes Esther on to her next chapter, as Rin searches for her madly and finds her only to realize they have to let her make an impossible choice � I found myself crying. Crying for Esther, but more broadly, for what men so often do to women, and the choices they force us into making. As the title implies, connection to the land is also an incredibly important theme herein. It’s the land and water that save Esther. The magic of the land, singing to the land, is what sustains the Professors and blesses Thistleford. Samuel is a villain not just for his misogyny but for his settler-colonial attitude towards the land, viewing it only as something to be tamed and parcelled up and bought and sold and divided again for profit. He is everything the traditional European folktales championed, and El-Mohtar subverts that here cleverly and creatively. It’s all these threads that make The River Has Roots so beautiful. The way El-Mohtar embraces the aesthetics of European folklore while breaking out of its tropes in favour of a cornucopia of postcolonial and feminist ideas from across different cultures. The playfulness of the prose. The promises built into each page, finally delivered at the climax and into the conclusion. The openness and fluidity of this narrative, its characters, its ideas. I really hesitate to throw around words like “perfect� in my reviews. It feels hyperbolic and suggests a kind of absolute kind of reception that no story can hope to achieve. All literature has flaws or readers it won’t reach, and that is OK. But � damn. The River Has Roots is as close to perfect a story as I think I have read in a long while. It’s easily in the running for one of the best stories I’ll read in 2025, and we aren’t even a quarter into the year! If anything I have said in this review resonates remotely with you, then do yourself a favour and run—don’t walk—to a copy of this in your library or local bookshop. It is sublime and beautiful, and it might destroy you, but it will restore you as well. Originally posted on . ...more |
Notes are private!
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Feb 16, 2025
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Feb 16, 2025
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Mar 06, 2025
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Hardcover
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| ALOK
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| 0593094654
| 9780593094655
| 0593094654
| 4.48
| 12,565
| Jun 02, 2020
| Jun 02, 2020
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liked it
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I picked this up on a whim at my local indie bookshop. It’s a trim and cute little volume, definitely pocket-sized (and yes, many of my dresses have p
I picked this up on a whim at my local indie bookshop. It’s a trim and cute little volume, definitely pocket-sized (and yes, many of my dresses have pockets). Beyond the Gender Binary is an essay about exactly that: what does it mean to be nonbinary? Furthermore, how can our society itself move beyond the idea of binary gender? Alok Vaid-Menon relates some anecdotes from their own life while passionately breaking down the myths, stereotypes, and common nonstarter arguments against a more expansive and inclusive approach to gender. Many people labour under the misconception that moving our society in a less binary direction means everyone needs to ditch gender and become nonbinary. I say this because I thought that way once, long long ago. I had to take a dreary sociology course in first-year university, and the professor had us read The Left Hand of Darkness and discuss (in an online forum) whether gender was necessary in our society. I passionately argued, as far as I can recall, that eliminating gender was not as desirable as eliminating gender roles and stereotypes. Maybe eighteen-year-old Kara deep down sensed that strong internal gender identity that even then was yearning to tell her she was actually a woman, I don’t know. I just remember bristling at the thought of a blanket agender society. This is not, of course, what Vaid-Menon or any gender activist is arguing! They address this in Beyond the Gender Binary, as does pretty much every nonbinary, agender, or genderqueer person who has a conversation with ignorant schlubs like myself. Rather, Vaid-Menon points out how dismantling the gender binary involves challenging our assumptions about what gender means and how we have baked it into everything from conversation to cooking to clothes. At sixty-five A5-size pages, this essay is not a long or difficult read. It’s not really meant for trans people or even cis people who are relatively aware of the current state of this discourse. The target audience is likely cis people who are curious but who have also heard a lot of misinformation, or who want to arm themselves with a little more knowledge. Vaid-Menon DZ’t go into detail while debunking any of these myths, however, so if you are looking for facts, statistics, or a more thorough explanation, you’ll want to read further. Ultimately, this is the kind of essay that probably works better as a digital artifact to be shared in inboxes and on feeds. Nevertheless, the print edition is still cute, and the words are still full of conviction and power. Originally posted on . ...more |
Notes are private!
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Feb 08, 2025
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Feb 08, 2025
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Mar 02, 2025
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Paperback
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| 1668034905
| 9781668034903
| 1668034905
| 4.26
| 1,813
| Jun 01, 1979
| May 14, 2024
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it was amazing
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Ursula K. Le Guin is the GOAT. I think the only one who rivals her in my esteem of science fiction and fantasy authors is Octavia Butler. I say this n
Ursula K. Le Guin is the GOAT. I think the only one who rivals her in my esteem of science fiction and fantasy authors is Octavia Butler. I say this not to claim to be an expert on either author or even that I like their work beyond any other SFF author � but those two gals just � have something. So naturally, when I heard that The Language of the Night had been revised and reissued with a new introduction, etc., I jumped on it. This is a collection of essays by Le Guin from the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s. Some first appeared in print form; others are transcripts, edited by Le Guin or another, of talks she has given at various events. A couple even have annotations or updates presented as footnotes or even side-by-side! Professor Susan Wood has organized the essays thematically and provided a brief introduction to each theme: “Le Guin Introduces Le Guin� (cute), “On Fantasy and Science Fiction,� “The Book Is What Is Real,� “Telling the Truth,� and “Pushing at the Limits.� It is a book packed with introductions. This new edition has an introduction by Ken Liu, followed by a preface written by Le Guin in 1989 for the ten-year-anniversary edition, followed by the original introduction by Wood. Then you have Wood’s mini intros before each theme. Plus, several of the essays are themselves introductions Le Guin wrote to some of her novels! As a result, The Language of the Night takes on a fun, nesting-doll-esque atmosphere. I love the title to this collection, and I think it’s very appropriate. One thing that shines above all else? Le Guin’s love for, passion about, the SFF genres. Like, this should come as no surprise to anyone remotely familiar with her—but it is one thing to read her books versus hearing her talk about the art and craft of writing SFF. She travels through the genre with such purpose and poise, acknowledging the tension between commercial and artistic endeavours. SFF has historically been a genre of pulp, and writing it a craft rather than an art. Le Guin has no time for this, however; indeed, it is notable how deliberately she avoids engaging with literary fiction as an appreciable genre. To her, SFF is art, should be seen as art, and indeed, SFF authors have a responsibility to take their genre seriously as art. There’s a trace of restrained anger in some of her essays, the tone of a woman very much aware she is one of the few in her field, so used to having to talk to (and be talked at in return) men, yet schooling all of us all the same with her elegant and erudite arguments. This is why Le Guin is the GOAT. She DZ’t let anyone off the hook. Not the readers, not the writers, not the publishers. Certainly not herself. Her constant allusions to Soviet Russia and its science-fiction authors feel almost prescient reading this now in the censorship-heightened atmosphere of 2024/2025. Living through the Cold War, Le Guin understands the stakes for creative freedom and self-expression and the unique way SFF is positioned to deal with these issues. She is happy to critique Tolkien and his contemporaries for their sexism, racism, jingoism, etc., while at the same time hold them up as truly fascinating storytellers. In short, The Language of the Night demonstrates the dexterity I think is typical of Le Guin’s writing. She knows language, and she knows story, and I think it’s the mastery of these two skills in harmony that makes someone stand out as a writer. You might have one or the other and be good, but you need both to be great. And you need a third thing—a kind of ruthless intuition, a sensitivity to the politics of personhood, that Le Guin and Butler both embody in their works in a way that makes them GOATs. I took my time reading this collection, starting it at the end of August 2024 and picking it up and putting it down all throughout the last half year. I have lingered on Le Guin’s language and deliberated on her declarations. I’m not sure I agree with everything she has to say, but I loved hearing her say it. I loved her discussion of how she might have approached gender in The Left Hand of Darkness differently had she written it ten years later—I think when we put certain books from previous eras on a pedestal, we freeze their author in amber and have trouble acknowledging that the author’s views might have changed or their language might have evolved in the years since the book became a classic, and this novel is a fantastic example. To see this cross-section of Le Guin’s thoughts through three decades, hear her acknowledge where her views have changed or which ones have stayed the same, is truly fascinating. Though billed as “essays on writing, science fiction, and fantasy,� one might also call it “essays on writing science fiction and fantasy.� But to be clear, this is not a book that teaches you writing. Nor is it a definitive examination of SFF as a genre or even a particularly opinionated tour of how to write good SFF. (Though, as always, I will forever stan Le Guin for criticizing the more masculine or macho strains of SFF without forever pigeonholing the genre and cynically distancing herself from it like, say, Margaret Atwood, boo.) So if you are coming here hoping for Le Guin’s secrets, I don’t think you’ll find any. Lots of discussion of Frodo and Mrs. Dalloway and Tolkien and Woolf and Solzhenitsyn though! The Language of the Night is the perfect kind of book for a millennial like me. I was born in the year Le Guin wrote her introduction to the ten-year edition. I grew up on flashy nineties science fiction on TV and reading everything from pulpy classics to the more cerebral parts of the genre. I have followed SFF through its modern ups and downs, the trends towards literary fiction and the swing of the pendulum back to doorstopper fantasy now reified into big-budget TV shows by Amazon and the like. What a time to be alive. And a time that never would have come to pass, were it not for Le Guin and her contemporaries. This window is a valuable portal into an era of which I was not a part, and one that I think modern readers would do well to learn about and understand. Originally posted on . ...more |
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Aug 26, 2024
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Feb 08, 2025
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Mar 02, 2025
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Paperback
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| 1803368632
| 9781803368634
| 1803368632
| 3.90
| 231
| unknown
| Feb 25, 2025
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it was ok
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When I found Gareth L. Powell a few years ago, I was excited. More space opera, just as I was starting to bend back towards the subgenre! Yet the two
When I found Gareth L. Powell a few years ago, I was excited. More space opera, just as I was starting to bend back towards the subgenre! Yet the two books I read by him, while they have become fonder memories in my mind, didn’t stay with me the way I thought they might. Future’s Edge seems doomed to repeat this fate, for it has all the makings of an excellent space opera without any of the heat or edge that would make it truly great. Thanks to NetGalley and Titan Books for the eARC. Ursula Morrow is an archaeologist. However, a mishap with a dormant device from an alien species ships her back to Earth. Altered at a genetic level, Ursula endures prodding and poking before finally being released on her own recognizance—only for mysterious, implacable aliens to destroy Earth that very day. Bad luck! Now living on a backwater refugee planet, Ursula tends bar and ponders what the future might hold. Then a man from her past arrives in town claiming she holds the key to humanity’s—nay, sentient life in this arm of the galaxy’s—salvation. Future’s Edge feels like it’s riffing, intentionally or otherwise, on so many other science-fiction stories. Titan A.E.: Earth being destroyed, humanity scattered, ragtag band of misfits looking for a weapon that can turn the tide against a mysterious alien enemy. Revelation Space: the Cutters are basically the Inhibitors. Andromeda, Wayfarers, or any number of ship AI-embodied-as-gynoids stories: Crissy. And yes, fundamentally, most science fiction is a remix of old tropes because nothing is original � yet Future’s Edge feels like that, even more so. Powell even has Ursula hang a lampshade on being the namesake of Ursula K. Le Guin! Whether this annoys or delights you (or, frustratingly, both in my case) is up to your sensibilities. I found this book charming, if somewhat predictable and unsatisfying in the neat and tidy way everything gets wrapped up. There was precisely one moment of devastating emotional attachment me for me (if you read the book, I think it’ll be obvious what I am referring to, but basically it involves one character sacrificing themself for another)—yet I honestly don’t enjoy how the final act alters that sacrifice. If I had to pinpoint a particular highlight of the story, it’s a sequence where Ursula gets to hang out with Crissy’s avatar and they bond. She’s Jack’s ex; Crissy is Jack’s wife, and Powell plays everything exactly the way you would expect—delightful, yet also part of the book’s problem. Put simply, this book is too safe. Powell DZ’t take any risks here with his storytelling. From the Cutters to the mysterious alien weapon at the heart of the book’s climax (the Crucible from Mass Effect anyone?) to Ursula’s own ambivalence about her alien alterations, this is a story steeped in science-fictional tropes yet unmoored from any particularly compelling logic of its own design. It’s paint by numbers. Now, paint by numbers can be satisfying! I really don’t want to damn this book with faint praise, because I think it’s good and well worth your attention if you like space opera with a hint of melodrama. At the same time, I struggle to string together any superlatives about this book. It’s fine, good even. But it’s safe, unassuming, and DZ’t ask you to think too hard about anything. Comfort food? I guess. A tasty snack, yet one that has me looking around for a more substantial meal. Originally posted on . ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Feb 08, 2025
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Feb 09, 2025
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Mar 02, 2025
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Paperback
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| 0063038838
| 9780063038837
| 0063038838
| 3.24
| 9,224
| May 04, 2021
| May 04, 2021
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liked it
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If you have been reading my reviews for a while, you’ll know I keep calling for more books with trans characters where the main focus is not on them c
If you have been reading my reviews for a while, you’ll know I keep calling for more books with trans characters where the main focus is not on them coming out—or even on them being trans. So of course, I was very much interested in Meet Cute Diary, by Emery Lee. With multiple trans and queer characters, this book plays with some common romance tropes—like fake dating—while acknowledging the challenges these tropes, and romance in general, pose for trans people. Though at times uneven and flawed, this is an enjoyable young adult novel with good heart to it. Noah is a teenager just starting his transition. His parents are in the process of uprooting him from everything he knew in Miami, Florida, to move to California for work. So he’s spending the summer in Denver, Colorado, where his brother attends university. Noah runs the Meet Cute Diary blog, where he posts stories ostensibly of meet cutes featuring trans youth. His dark secret? The diary is fake. None of the stories is real, and Noah himself has never been in a relationship! When an anonymous enemy starts exposing the diary’s duplicity, Noah determines the best course of action is to fake-date a cute boy he met in a bookstore. You know, like you do. A lot of the reviews I’ve read pan Meet Cute Diary because Noah is a whiny or unlikeable protagonist. And, hey, I get it. He’s self-centred and is prone to making bad decisions. But he’s also still just a kid! Part of me wonders if we would be this hard on him if he were cis—that is, I think our hunger for more trans representation means we sometimes want all that representation to be “good� not just in terms of quality but in character. I, for one, love that Noah is messy and flawed. Even though I have never been attracted to someone or tried to date, I still see echoes of my youth in Noah’s behaviour. I know what it’s like, for example, to anxiously wonder if my best friend is mad at me because she hasn’t called or texted in days. (Maybe I am just telling on myself as being a bad person? I don’t know!) No, Noah ’t likeable. Would I have liked a more likeable protagonist? Sure. But I think Lee has given us a realistic teenager (who happens to be trans), and I respect that. Meet Cute Diary walks a fine line when it comes to being a book about being transgender. On the one hand, Noah’s transition is still fresh and sharp. He’s sensitive to it. The diary itself is obviously dedicated to trans people. On the other hand, Lee has done eir best to normalize Noah’s status. No one in this book makes a huge deal out of Noah being trans. Brian and Noah’s relationship is incredible, from Brian’s unwavering dedication to his younger brother to the way he is still willing to give Noah shit when Noah deserves it! Similarly, Devin’s questioning, the way e changes personal pronouns a couple of times, is slick and beautiful. There is some great praxis at work here. Honestly, where the book lets me down is simply the fact that I’m not a romance girlie and things like the fake-dating trope just fall flat for me. To Lee’s credit, e tries to avert this trope (no spoilers though). Yet I feel like that complexity is undermined by the trite coincidences that crop up concerning Devin’s identity as well as the resolution and Devin’s destination. I respect the desire to provide, if not an HEA, then the possibility of one—but from the moment the penny dropped on who Devin is, I confess to allowing myself a single eye-roll before turning the page. Meet Cute Diary is equal parts quirky and charming. It can be frustrating—the eponymous diary fades into the background for much of the story despite being built up as a big deal, though I admit I liked the resolution of its subplot. It can also be sweet—as seen with Noah and Brian, or even just with the way Noah navigates his feelings for Devin. Speaking as someone who continues to hold most romance at arm’s length, I respect how Lee tries eir best to use genre tropes while also deconstructing some of their more harmful manifestations. In this way, combined with the trans rep, this novel feels very fresh. Originally posted on . ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Jan 28, 2025
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Feb 02, 2025
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Mar 02, 2025
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Hardcover
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| 0593083334
| 9780593083338
| 0593083334
| 4.21
| 7,859
| Mar 10, 2020
| Mar 10, 2020
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it was ok
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This was a birthday gift for a friend who is a fierce feminist. She lent me
Men Explain Things to Me
so many years ago, and when I was pondering w
This was a birthday gift for a friend who is a fierce feminist. She lent me
Men Explain Things to Me
so many years ago, and when I was pondering what book to buy her for her birthday, Rebecca Solnit came to mind. I was delighted to discover Solnit had penned a memoir. My friend is in between my age and Solnit’s, and so I am curious to hear her thoughts on Solnit’s reflections of coming of age in the late seventies and how that compares to her youth a couple decades later. As someone who came of age in the 2000s, I was struck, as I often am by memoirs of Solnit’s generation, by the bohemian sense of wanderlust present in these pages. Recollections of My Nonexistence is a memoir only in the loosest sense of the word. If you are looking for something more autobiographical, you’ll be disappointed: Solnit provides only the barest glimpses into the overall chronology of her life here, with little mention of her childhood, teens, or her career at all. She focuses instead on place and space, on relationalities. This is valid, by the way, and not a criticism on my part (we will get to those!), yet something I wanted to point out up front. Much like the book’s title, its chapters are themselves more notable for how much time Solnit spends not talking about herself. Or rather, Solnit meditates on the intersections of art, politics, writing, and feminism—and how her entire life has been spent trying to find voice amid violence:
This passage from an early chapter speaks to me for so many reasons. First and most trivially � as an editor I really want to just reach into that sentence and deconstruct it because, wow, Solnit’s stream-of-consciousness style is a bit painful for me to read. I think that’s a large part why I struggled to embrace this book more despite so appreciating its thesis. Second, this passage speaks to why I personally believe feminism is so important. Despite the gains women have made, despite the freedoms some of us experience (albeit perhaps in limited, uneven ways) � fundamentally, we still live under patriarchy and under the threat of male violence. Our individual social capital has increased, yet our society has not actually fundamentally changed—if anything, the successes wrought by the capitalist arm of late-second- and third-wave feminism mean that we more often blame women (i.e., through slut shaming or victim blaming) when men silence them. So, Solnit’s words resonate deeply within me, despite being a trans woman thirty years her junior: women’s self-expression remains curtailed, limited, and always at threat. Solnit connects this idea in an interesting way to her embodiment as a woman, the way she moves through the world. She alludes to her book on walking (which I haven’t read), essentially comparing her challenges with walking solo as a woman to being a woman writer—in both pursuits, her autonomy is curtailed not by law or even culture but by the omnipresent spectre of violence against women, whether it’s physical violence or misogyny disguised as critique. The final chapter of the book, written prior to the COVID-19 pandemic, connects dots that were apparent even back then. Reading it in 2025, it’s tempting to call Solnit prescient when it comes to the rise of authoritarianism in the US—but I think it’s more the case that she’s simply reading the writing on the wall. She has seen this play out before, with Reagan and AIDS, with Bush and Iraq, and she’s less sounding an alarm as saying, “Here we go again.� There is a fatigue in her words, and while she is not defeated nor discouraged, she is frustrated that so little actual progress seems to have been made. I’m frustrated too! I’d give this book a higher rating but for some things that made it less enjoyable. As I mentioned earlier, Solnit’s prose is lyrical and extemporaneous in a way that DZ’t work for me. Additionally, as much as I agree with what she says here, I also don’t feel like I learned all that much. The insights I sought didn’t materialize. Solnit is an incredibly powerful writer, quite skilled at getting her message across—but it didn’t feel like a message I hadn’t heard before. Recollections of My Nonexistence has its interesting moments. In particular, I think most women will be recognize in Solnit’s experiences some of their own confrontations with our society’s misogyny and hostility towards women. At the same time, it DZ’t deliver the kind of wisdom I was hoping for. Maybe that’s on me and my expectations though. Originally posted on . ...more |
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Jan 13, 2025
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Jan 31, 2025
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Feb 16, 2025
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Hardcover
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| 0316580821
| 9780316580823
| 0316580821
| 3.85
| 475
| Jan 28, 2025
| Jan 28, 2025
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liked it
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One of the unwritten fantasy novels in rattling around in my brain involves a society where people without magic face discrimination and fear. It’s no
One of the unwritten fantasy novels in rattling around in my brain involves a society where people without magic face discrimination and fear. It’s not an original idea, definitely been done before, and it will be done again. So to see Annabel Campbell use this trope in The Outcast Mage is both reassuring and enjoyable! Part bildungsroman, part political thriller, Campbell’s debut ’t pitch perfect—but it’s got some good moves. Thanks to publisher Orbit and NetGalley for the eARC. Naila is a mage in training—except she might not be. A mage, that is. She might be a “hollow,� a pejorative term for someone who ’t a mage. In Amoria, the city of her birth, mages and non-mages live in tenuous detente—one that a hawkish mage is threatening to upset. Naila is almost expelled from wizard school, but Haelius—a hollow-born wizard, and Amoria’s most powerful mage in generations—intervenes and undertakes to teach her personally. As Naila struggles to learn even the most basic magic, sinister events conspire to discredit Haelius, cast Naila out of Amoria, and destabilize not just the city’s political structure but its physical structure as well. This city of glass just might shatter. The world of The Outcast Mage is exciting and lush. I love the dynamics Campbell has created, with mages versus non-mages, and of course within the ranks of the mages we have the mage-born and the hollow-born. Beyond Amoria are hints of a vaster world full of kingdoms and empires on the up or down. Campbell expertly finds that balance between essential exposition and avoiding too much infodumping. As a result, I was pretty hooked on the magic system, the lore—all that worldbuilding. Alas, I was less invested in the characters. Naila is � fine. Haelius is � fine. Larinne is � fine? The conflicts are pretty good—I enjoy the gradual teacher–student trust building between Haelius and Naila, as well as Larinne’s conflict with her sister. Ultimately, however, I just had a hard time getting excited by any of these characters� journeys. Even Naila, who arguably has the most growth in the story and eventually sets off on a very epic quest of sorts, never fully embodies the kind of protagonist I need. It ’t about action per se—all these characters have a decent amount of agency and the ability to make grievous mistakes. But it is about impact. None of the characters ever does something that makes me go, “Whoa!� and notice their growth. Aspects of the plot of The Outcast Mage feel super timely for 2025. This is a story about rising fascism, complete with secret police and brownshirt thugs and politicians like Larinne who have to wrestle with the temptation to comply in advance. Sound familiar? I couldn’t help but project a lot of my anxieties onto this book and feel vaguely uplifted by the motifs of resistance Campbell infuses into each page. This is a book that champions mutual aid, resistance in many forms, and the need for intersectional and intergeneration allies. Yet the story just takes forever to get going. Not only was I impatient for the penny to finally drop on Naila’s magic sitch (which is totally on me), but I needed the political situation to develop more rapidly than it did. The minutiae, the endless scenes going back and forth between different settings as we learn about how much people hate Naila or Haelius or whatever � I don’t know. There’s a rock-and-roll arrangement of this story that punches up the pacing while keeping the essential melody, and I would love to hear it. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I have a hefty respect for The Outcast Mage. This is a great debut novel: Campbell is clearly both a creative storyteller and an ambitious one. Yet I’m not waiting on the edge of my seat for the sequel the way I’d like to be. Hey, that was how I felt with Tasha Suri’s The Jasmine Throne and here we are three years later with me proclaiming its trilogy conclusion as one of the best fantasy novels I read in 2024. So maybe The Outcast Mage is on a similar trajectory? Only time will tell. For now, this is a novel with both flaws and flair, and I’ll leave it up to you to decide which facets are which. Originally posted on . ...more |
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Jan 23, 2025
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Jan 27, 2025
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Feb 16, 2025
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Paperback
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| B0B2XW4TXD
| 4.44
| 9
| unknown
| Jun 04, 2022
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liked it
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Ambiguous antiheroes and antivillains are always my jam. Give me a book from the point of view of the bad guy. Give me a repentant antagonist—hell, gi
Ambiguous antiheroes and antivillains are always my jam. Give me a book from the point of view of the bad guy. Give me a repentant antagonist—hell, give me an unrepentant one. Memoir of a Mad Scientist is exactly what it says on the tin, albeit with a tongue-in-cheek, slightly absurdist twist. Erin Z. Anderson has crafted a tale that gets you thinking about where to draw lines. How far is it OK to go in the name of science when lives are on the line? How do you reconcile a life of privilege with the growing awareness of its cost for others? Although it didn’t electrify me in the telling, this book nevertheless got me thinking and feeling in all the right ways. I received a copy of this book in exchange for a review. Dr. Jarian Voss is a mad scientist. Well, not quite, but the next closest thing. Raised on a farm, he’s worked his entire life for the Coalition. They saved the planet. Now he does science for them. But the research institute where he’s sheltered from the inequities of everyday Coalition existence starts to feel like a less-than-gilded cage as security steps up, his bosses keep getting replaced, and now he’s been assigned to a high-pressure cybernetic experiment with a subject who � maybe consented. Wait, is Voss the baddie? This is the essential question at the heart of Memoir of a Mad Scientist. Or rather, one might say the question is: once you know you’re a baddie, what do you do about it? Voss is arguably a ; he has the best of intentions but his morality shades towards amoral—or at the very least, he keeps his head down and thinks his science can be apolitical. As the story unfolds, it quickly becomes evident that this is not the case, and he has to take sides and make hard choices. I read this at the very start of the year, after Donald Trump had been reelected president of the nation to the south of mine but before his inauguration. Now, writing this review the weekend he kicked off a trade war with my country, I am thinking a lot about resistance versus collaboration. This novel hits, for that is exactly the choice Voss has to make, again and again and again. Anderson demonstrates with chilling accuracy just how easy it is to sell your soul by saying you’ll give in just this one time because then next time you’ll be in a better position to resist. (You won’t.) Voss is an interesting protagonist because I definitely don’t like him—he’s so cringe—but I still sympathize with him and at the very least appreciate his growth. Probably the part that’s hardest for me to swallow is his naivety, yet I suppose that is part of his privilege, the cosseted way he’s been raised and coddled as a member of the intelligentsia. I admire Anderson’s choice to write a main character who ’t a squeaky-clean hero but rather someone with a laundry list of flaws, for like it or not, all of us are probably somewhat closer to Voss than we are to any of the Nazi-punching heroes in our comics. In a book full of cyborgs and space lasers, Jarian Voss grounds us as the most realistic element. Indeed, Memoir of a Mad Scientist is a book that walks the line between surrealism and realism with grace. The title alone should say enough, but if you need to look further, consider Voss’s relationship with his boss, who is stressed out and overworked. He could be a caricature, but Anderson humanizes him, has him level just so slightly with Voss, and then of course later in the novel Voss gets a little more � perspective, shall we say? Similarly, Voss’s ambivalent relationship with the rebels showcases how often the novel veers into surrealist set pieces: cloak-and-dagger dead drops and pseudonyms, allies who could also be enemies and vice versa. Anderson’s writing style didn’t always work for me, and there were times I was frustrated with how simplistically the characters and their relationships seemed to be developed and telegraphed. Some of that I’ll chalk up to the surreal atmosphere, as described above—some of these characters are more archetype than actual person. Reading this book felt, at times, a bit like watching a stage play with actors who are overeager, or a movie that knows it’s a little over the top—it’s not a bad experience, but it’s one I have to be in mood to seek out. Finally, the resolution was a bit rushed—after feeling like it took forever to get to the climax—and morally uncomplicated. While I can appreciate the scenario Anderson constructs and the message it sends, I wanted to see more from Voss and his allies. I wanted some reckoning, wanted to see some deeper moral calculus at work. All in all, I was neither blown away nor disappointed by this one. It’s a solid story sadly resonant with the mood of our current times, with a protagonist in whom you will hate seeing the less heroic parts of yourself. Memoir of a Mad Scientist reminds us that the baddies don’t always twirl moustaches and laugh maniacally—sometimes they’re us, going along with it, so as not to rock the boat or bite the hand that feeds. This is what science fiction is for. Originally posted on . ...more |
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1
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Jan 2025
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Jan 08, 2025
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Feb 08, 2025
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Kindle Edition
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| 0886776287
| 9780886776282
| 0886776287
| 3.87
| 5,598
| Dec 01, 1994
| Dec 01, 1994
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really liked it
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Tanya Huff is an author who deserves, in my opinion, far more hype than she seems to receive. First, she’s Canadian (represent!), she’s queer (represe
Tanya Huff is an author who deserves, in my opinion, far more hype than she seems to receive. First, she’s Canadian (represent!), she’s queer (represent!), and she writes fantasy novels that are unapologetically queer and even sometimes unapologetically Canadian (re-pruh-sent!). I often describe her as an author I like but don’t love in the sense that I’ve seldom given her books a glowing review�Sing the Four Quarters is the first time I’ve rated one of her books more than three stars. Nevertheless, I respect her writing and her game. Sing the Four Quarters takes place in the Kingdom of Shkoder, an unassuming place that just wants to mind its business, if it weren’t for those mean, nasty Cemandians breathing their expansionist breaths down their mountain pass. Annice is a bard, kind of a singing wizard, if you will. She was also a princess, but when her dad died and she joined up with the bards, her brother—now king—made her forswear her title, you know, like you do. Now she walks around the country, carrying tales, observing, and reporting back. But when she accidentally gets pregnant (another no-no, according to her brother the king) and the father ends up accused of treason, Annice needs to act fast. Based on past experiences with Huff—I’ve liked her contemporary fantasy more than her secondary-world fantasy—I was nervous about reading Sing the Four Quarters. I picked it up from my used bookstore as an omnibus edition collected with the sequel, and it has sat on my shelf for a year or so. I was avoiding it. This book is from the nineties, just following The Fire’s Stone , which I had completely forgotten I had read! Nevertheless, my disappointment with what I viewed as clichés (though I suppose they weren’t yet, back when Huff wrote it) must have sunk deep into my bones, and the apprehension I felt twisting in my gut when I looked at this old-school cover stems from that. Let me tell you: I could not have been more wrong. Sing the Four Quarters fucking rocks. I laughed, I cried, I cheered � this is what fantasy should be. Right off in the first chapter, the first twenty pages, two things. First, the main character and a random, male side character she meets along the way both sit down to just � knit. Perfunctory like. Love it. Second, so many people are queer. Annice is bi or pan and living with another woman, and it’s just � there, on the page. Polyamorous too, I guess, given that Annice’s partner reacts not with anger when she learns Annice is pregnant but rather a rueful chuckle of, “This is what you get for sleeping with men!� and that sent me. I, of course, as an ace girlie, don’t see the appeal of sleeping with any gender, but as a sapphic-aligned girlie I am on Stasya’s side for sure. (The two of them and Pjerin form an excellent throuple, though!) Seriously, after recent political events, it’s just such a breath of fresh air to be reading a fantasy novel from the 1995 that’s blatantly queernormative. I know this wasn’t Huff’s first time doing that, nor is she alone among her contemporaries. There’s something about seeing it during a time of backlash against queer people that is incredibly heartening. It ’t “woke� or “diversity� to put queer people into genre fiction in 2025 because people were doing it thirty years ago. This, alone, would have endeared me to Huff forever. Unlike, The Fire’s Stone, however, which apparently didn’t impress me, this story is actually � good? I love the magic system. I thought I wouldn’t—ugh, singing wizards? How trite! How uninteresing! Again, I was just wrong. The bards are cool. The kigh are cool. In particular, I appreciate how Huff DZ’t bother with much exposition. Bards are basically elemental mages, they invoke spirits called kigh that are always mischievous, often mysterious, and so on. It’s an important dimension to the book but not the dimension; at its forefront, Sing the Four Quarters is a book about family, damn it, and Annice is Dominic Toretto. I don’t want to go into spoilers. However, let me say that Huff makes a really significant plot choice early in the book that made me sit up and take notice. Annice basically has to go on the run—she’s committing treason by having this baby, and the baby daddy is also accused of treason for an unrelated thing (what bad luck). Let’s just say that it looks like Huff is setting up the pieces such that some characters will be her enemy. Almost immediately after she does that, however, she goes, “Haha, just kidding,� and those characters figure out it’s all a setup and start trying to help Annice as best they can from a distance. I love this. I hate plots based on shallow misunderstandings and miscommunication, and Huff neatly sidestepping this trope is a joy to see. Annice’s ferocity is also a wonderful trait in a protagonist. I just love how she butts heads with Pjerin when they’re together. How fiercely she loves Stasya. How recalcitrant she is with Theron. She is such a firebrand of a woman, and I want to be her (minus the having-a-kid part). One of my number one complaints in fantasy novels featuring princesses as protagonists, even with female authors, is that the princess gets so little to do, has so little agency. That’s definitely not the case here. The supporting cast is also delightful. Really, the only stinker was Otik, who begins as a semi-credible threat but quickly turns into a cartoonish oaf to be quickly dispatched. I don’t know if this is just a misfire on the part of Huff’s humour (which otherwise is resplendent yet unassuming in this story) or if I’m just reading him as campier than he should be. Either way, it’s not worth thinking that much about. In the backdrop to this family squabble, of course, there is a far wider political plot that threatens the sovereignty of Shkoder. I don’t really care, to be honest. However, Huff does a good job of demonstrating how a single person can manipulate ignorant people into believing basically whatever—does this sound familiar?—and it was satisfying to see the villains of this piece dealt with. At the climax of this story—because Annice is pregnant, and when a main character is pregnant, you know they never go into labour during a lull in the action—I found myself crying genuine tears of concern and joy at the same time. I was actively talking back to the book, cheering on Annice and her allies while also afraid for their survival. Somehow, Huff manages to dial up the tension and the stakes so gradually that I was like a lobster in a pot of water slow to come to a boil. I didn’t notice it was happening until saltwater was trickling down my cheeks even as I laughed at the same time. Fiction should make you feel things. If that is the standard by which I measure books, then Sing the Four Quarters is an excellent book. I love when I’m proved wrong, when a book surprises me as thoroughly and expertly as this one did. Rather than feeling apprehensive about reading the next book, I am now excited. Hell yeah, Tanya Huff. You did good. Originally posted on . ...more |
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Jan 12, 2025
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Jan 15, 2025
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Feb 02, 2025
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Mass Market Paperback
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| 1804544329
| 9781804544327
| 1804544329
| 4.41
| 114
| unknown
| Jan 21, 2025
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it was amazing
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A few years ago, probably during lockdown, I watched the excellent Netflix documentary Black Holes: The Edge of All We Know about the Event Horizon Te
A few years ago, probably during lockdown, I watched the excellent Netflix documentary Black Holes: The Edge of All We Know about the Event Horizon Telescope and the effort to photograph the supermassive black hole at the centre of galaxy M87. Black holes have always captivated me ever since, as a wee lass, science and science fiction came on my radar. How could they not? So even though Marcus Chown is a new-to-me science writer, I was excited to read A Crack in Everything. Thanks to NetGalley and the publisher for the review copy. Chown follows a sensible, largely chronological path in telling the story of black holes. We begin on the front, during the First World War, with Karl Schwarzschild. From there we dance in the footsteps of Einstein, Chandrasekhar, Roy Kerr, and so many others. Chown touches on the theoretical physics and the experimental, on the astronomical and the metaphysical. Each step of the way, he grounds us by reminding us that black holes, mysterious though they may be, are simply one more interesting phenomenon in a cosmos replete with white dwarfs, neutron stars and pulsars, quasars (themselves powered by supermassive black holes), dust clouds, and more. We live in a universe of wonders, and A Crack in Everything showcases and celebrates this. Each chapter has an evocative title and a tantalizing synopsis. The book’s dazzling narrative presentation is anchored in interviews Chown conducted with as many of the people involved as he could reach. This book is particularly timely in that some of them have since passed or will pass soon, given their age, and it’s so valuable to have that oral history of these discoveries from them. I was not prepared for how lush and descriptive Chown’s writing would be. If you have been traumatized by physics textbooks, there’s no equations to be found here. More history than pop science, A Crack in Everything focuses less on the physics explanations and more on the human stories behind them. Though by no means a unique approach, it’s one I am coming to find increasingly valuable. In particular, I appreciate how sensitive Chown is to the need to reverse the erasure of women from STEM history. (If you are curious, Cecilia Payne and Henrietta Leavitt, both important figures in this book, are featured prominently in The Glass Universe .) He introduces us to Louise Webster, one half, along with Paul Murdin, of the duo who linked the X-ray source in Cygnus to a black hole. Feryal Özel and Katie Boumann and others working on the Event Horizon Telescope. And shout-out to Sandra O’Neill, the undergrad student who discovered the second-ever pair of supermassive black holes left over from two galaxies colliding. When it comes to what little actual science is here, I won’t pretend to understand all or even most of it. But I love learning how science is done, and Chown makes that incredibly accessible. This is a beautiful companion to the EHT documentary on Netflix, but the book is so much more than that. From Shwarzschild’s letters from the front to simultaneous discoveries around the world, science is often a story of communication and collaboration. Even as wars rage, scientists collaborate. Even as people are displaced, funding hard to find, scientists collaborate. A Crack in Everything is a great reminder that what we know comes down to the collective efforts of humanity, not just a couple of geniuses who eventually become household names. Black holes are some of the most massive objects in the universe. Some of the biggest objects. And even some of the smallest, I guess, if they are microscopic. Whatever they are, whatever additional secrets these singularities hold � there is no questioning the effect they have on our imagination. For as long as we have been human, and perhaps a good deal longer, our species has looked up at the stars and wondered. That hasn’t changed—just the tools we use to do it. A Crack in Everything is a detailed and beautifully written book telling the story of one of the most enigmatic features of our universe. If you like science and science history, read this book. Originally posted on . ...more |
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Jan 2025
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Jan 07, 2025
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Jan 26, 2025
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Hardcover
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| 1738925978
| 9781738925971
| B0D1H9G1R5
| 4.50
| 6
| Jan 09, 2025
| Jan 09, 2025
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liked it
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Another novella, another threat from the mysterious Fragments that prey upon unprepared travellers in Nerezia. This time, Horace and eir companions ar
Another novella, another threat from the mysterious Fragments that prey upon unprepared travellers in Nerezia. This time, Horace and eir companions are at sea! Their ocean crossing is a necessary step in their quest to get answers for Aliyah. Stories from the Deep introduces another new form for the Fragments to take: a violent, terrifying kraken. Yet without going into spoilers, all I’ll say is that Claudie Arseneault once again emphasizes the possibility of waking up and not choosing violence. I received a copy of the book in exchange for a review. I will say that, in contrast to the previous three novellas, this one falls flatter for me despite the creature feature. Each adventure thus far has had something very specific for me to point to and say, “Ooh, this was really cool.� Even The Sea Spirit Festival, which like this story DZ’t introduce a new cast member or really advance the overall arc, had an entire new city to explore and an excellent interplay between Horace and Aliyah as the latter takes on the eponymous entity. Beside this, Aliyah’s dealings with the kraken—a sea beast rather than sea spirit—feel like an echo rather than a full-throated reprise. Beyond that, Stories from the Deep continues the overarching narrative of this series. Not only does it further advance our heroes in their travels, of course, but it continues to throw hints our way about the nature of the Fragments. This is the mystery that I, personally, find most intriguing—I like the characters well enough, and I’m looking forward to the next book revealing more of Rumi’s backstory, but really I’m just hooked on learning how the Fragments came to be, and what (if anything) the Archivists have kept back from us (damn inscrutable monks). The nature of the kraken cleaves to Aliyah’s catchphrase of “your story is my story� in a very literal, intense way. I highlighted The Chronicles of Nerezia in my recent , giving it the bespoke “Cozy With a Cuppa� award. Additionally, this series is a perfect example of how to tell an interesting story without violent confrontation. At every turn, Arseneault pits our heroes against formidable foes, putting them into situations that many authors would then escalate into violence. While combat has its place in this world—as the training sessions between Horace and Keza demonstrate—it’s notable that the main conflict in each story is always resolved through more peaceable, congressive ways. Stories from the Deep is no exception, and this is where it truly shines, in my opinion. Aliyah’s compassion and empathy, bolstered by Horace’s determination, Keza’s obstinacy, and Rumi’s ingenuity, becomes a powerful force for good. Whereas meeting force with force often merely reinforces and redoubles the violence of the moment, this group’s ability to absorb force with kindness and cleverness always results in creative and interesting resolutions to their problems. This applies to conflict within the group as well as without: one of my favourite scenes involves Horace slyly manipulating Keza into sharing the same opinion with Aliyah that e just shared, knowing it will have more weight coming from the irascible felnexi. This is not the book to start with if you’ve stumbled across this series. Do yourself a favour and start from the beginning, or at the very least, go one back to The Sea Spirit Festival. This installment is a solid entry that does the heavy lifting of getting the crew from one continent to another. Despite its high stakes, it ’t the most exciting or rewarding of these chronicles—but every so often, you need to take a break and fight a sea monster. Originally posted on . ...more |
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Jan 03, 2025
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Jan 04, 2025
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Jan 18, 2025
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Kindle Edition
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| 0316539732
| 9780316539739
| 0316539732
| 4.27
| 3,564
| Aug 15, 2023
| Aug 15, 2023
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it was amazing
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Nothing like a brilliant conclusion to a story well told. I cried—happy tears and sad—and also cheered out loud a couple of times as I made my way thr
Nothing like a brilliant conclusion to a story well told. I cried—happy tears and sad—and also cheered out loud a couple of times as I made my way through Labyrinth’s Heart. M.A. Carrick successfully sticks the landing, tying up a truly impressive number of loose threads to conclude this story of con artist Ren’s inadvertent quest to save the city of Nadežra. Thus concludes one of the best fantasy trilogies I have ever read. Spoilers for the first two books but not for this one. The Mask of Mirrors introduced us to Ren, aka Arenza, aka Renata. Donning multiple identities like so many cloaks, Ren begins a confidence scheme by posing as a farflung relative of the Traementis, one of the noble houses of Nadežra. Two books later, and Renata is officially a member of House Traementis—and attempting to balance her loyalties to this new family with her connections to her Vraszenian people, despite not knowing her clan, and her pledge to rid the city of the influences of Kaius Rex’s numinat-imbued medallions. After the events of The Liar’s Knot , Ren and her allies feel the pressure to find a way to destroy the medallions as soon as possible. Their corrupting influence only grows stronger. Meanwhile, the Great Dream approaches, as well as the conclusion to a Vraszenian grand cycle—and the Vraszenian rebels longing to free Nadežra of Liganti oversight are growing restless. I’ve said this before and will say it again: more books need to include a “story so far� synopsis like this one does. Well done to the authors and editor! Labyrinth’s Heart brings me such joy because it taps directly into a part of my youth that feels so distant. When I was in my preteens and teens, I would curl up in an armchair in our living room and read doorstopper fantasy for hours on end—we’re talking 600 to 800 pages, even more, Game of Thrones or later Recluce books, that kind of thing. Now in my thirties, I have responsibilities (groan), and such free time feels rarer—and all the more precious. I also love how complex this narrative is. For some people, that’s a dealbreaker—most of the more critical reviews of this trilogy talk about the various names and plots making it too confusing. Hey, I can relate: I have never been able to get into the Malazan books for exactly the same reason. Can I explain why I bounce off those but not this trilogy? Of course not! So, as usual, your mileage may vary. And look, I’m not going to pretend I hold in my head a complete understanding of the cultures, histories, and ideas contained herein. My brain kind of fuzzes out some of it, glossing over it just enough that I get the gist. Sometimes this means I miss subtle details—for example, although she was introduced as such in the previous book, it wasn’t until this book that I picked up on Esmierka (a very minor side character) being a trans woman! That’s neat. (In general, the low-key, queernormative vibe of Rook & Rose has been lovely.) For whatever reason, M.A. Carrick write in such a way that allows me to bob along the surface of the story, periodically diving deeper as and when I desire. The complexity allows for so many interesting, overlapping stories. Pattern, threads, and weaving are all important motifs in this trilogy, and Carrick reify that with the nature of their plots as well. This ’t just about destroying the medallions—it’s also about Vraszenian independence, about Ren learning more about her heritage, about Vargo and Alsius’s relationship, about Grey and Ren getting married � there is just so much going on, and all of it is interesting and complicated. Although Ren is a focal point, there are side characters like Koszar Andrejek who are off plotting their own plots regardless of what Ren decides she’s doing. Then you have the people who barely recognize Ren or her allies because of how big, far-flung, and insular the city can be. As a result, Nadežra truly feels like a living, breathing, London-sized city where our main characters have outsize yet not singular influence. As important as these bigger plots are, however, Labyrinth’s Heart truly shines at the level of individuals and families. Ren’s confidence scheme comes to a head in this book: without going into spoilers, let’s just say her house of cards comes tumbling down in all the ways you might expect. Carrick unspools the ramifications in a realistic, sometimes heartbreaking way. It ’t until the final few acts that we see the rays of hope we all want, and I was able to start cheering again. At the same time, through careful foreshadowing and even more overt dialogue, Carrick makes clear that even if some rifts are healed, others will remain open. Such is the consequence of making choices: Ren cannot be everything to everyone, and some of her identities must slip away if she is ever to have something real with others. Nevertheless, one of the most powerful themes in this trilogy has always been about chosen family mattering as much as one’s family of origin. Not more, mind you—blood relation is still important to both the Vraszenian and the Liganti characters here, albeit in slightly different ways. Yet adoption was always a part of the Liganti nobility’s traditions, and the fluidity of Ren’s sense of belonging to various Vraszenian clans, along with the tradition of knot oaths, underscores how much one’s sense of belonging is far more than just blood. Labyrinth’s Heart is full of endings, yet it is also one, huge beginning. Tanaquis remains a favourite character of mine—what can I say, I identify with character who seeks knowledge almost to the point of destruction! Finally, although there is plenty of room for Carrick to further explore this universe, as far as Ren and Grey and Vargo’s stories go � I am satiated. It’s rare for me to say this. Usually after I finish a series, I beg for more—give me that sequel series. Show me these characters in ten years! I � don’t need that here. Indeed, if I have any criticism of this book, it is just how neatly Carrick wraps up all the threads. Having woven so many throughout the trilogy, the last act of this book is such a careful accounting that it almost feels too tidy by the end. Everything gets wrapped up, sometimes conveniently. I can’t deny, however, that it is satisfying. Labyrinth’s Heart is a showstopping finale and powerhouse fantasy novel. If you like secondary-world fantasy set in a diverse city with powder-keg politics (quite, uh, literally) and a con artist protagonist, then what are you waiting for? Originally posted on . ...more |
Notes are private!
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1
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Dec 27, 2024
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Jan 2025
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Jan 18, 2025
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Paperback
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my rating |
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| 4.01
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really liked it
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Mar 23, 2025
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Apr 10, 2025
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| 4.23
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liked it
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Mar 18, 2025
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Apr 05, 2025
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| 3.69
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really liked it
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Mar 16, 2025
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Apr 02, 2025
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| 4.67
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it was amazing
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Mar 08, 2025
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Mar 23, 2025
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| 3.80
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liked it
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Mar 06, 2025
not set
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Mar 23, 2025
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| 3.68
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liked it
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Mar 02, 2025
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Mar 13, 2025
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| 4.18
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liked it
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Feb 23, 2025
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Mar 13, 2025
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| 4.34
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really liked it
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Feb 16, 2025
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Mar 10, 2025
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| 4.21
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it was amazing
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Feb 16, 2025
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Mar 06, 2025
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| ALOK
*
| 4.48
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liked it
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Feb 08, 2025
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Mar 02, 2025
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| 4.26
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it was amazing
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Feb 08, 2025
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Mar 02, 2025
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| 3.90
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it was ok
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Feb 09, 2025
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Mar 02, 2025
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| 3.24
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liked it
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Feb 02, 2025
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Mar 02, 2025
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| 4.21
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it was ok
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Jan 31, 2025
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Feb 16, 2025
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| 3.85
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liked it
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Jan 27, 2025
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Feb 16, 2025
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| 4.44
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liked it
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Jan 08, 2025
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Feb 08, 2025
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| 3.87
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really liked it
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Jan 15, 2025
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Feb 02, 2025
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| 4.41
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it was amazing
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Jan 07, 2025
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Jan 26, 2025
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| 4.50
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liked it
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Jan 04, 2025
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Jan 18, 2025
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| 4.27
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it was amazing
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Jan 2025
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Jan 18, 2025
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