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kris_mccracken's reviews
2529 reviews
Hell Divers by Nicholas Sansbury Smith
1.0
Nicholas Sansbury Smith's "Hell Divers" doesn't just strain credulity, it straps it to a helium balloon, sets it adrift, and fires pot-shots at it from the deck of an improbably large airship. It's the sort of book that demands you turn your brain off entirely, then berates you for asking why it smells like burnt rubber and desperation.
Let's start with the premise: a post-apocalyptic future where humanity clings to survival aboard massive, helium-powered airships. Helium. As though science didn't already pack its bags and leave the moment we hit chapter one. Never mind that helium leaks faster than a politician's promises or that 200 years of radiation should've melted any salvageable scrap into molten sludge; here, supplies are just lying around, waiting to be pilfered by diving squads with names like disgruntled wrestlers. "Hell Divers" wants grit, but it's the kind you brush off your jeans after sitting in the sandpit too long.
Then there's the class system. We're expected to believe that 560 people - basically a crowded pub - have split themselves into upstairs elites and downstairs rabble. Half of them don't even seem to know each other. In a society this small, I'd expect intricate gossip networks and blood feuds over borrowed cutlery, not rigid hierarchies. But no, the book commits to its dystopian cosplay like an overzealous extra in "Mad Max" and barrels forward without so much as a nod to logic.
The characters? Imagine a roll-call of clichés so threadbare they practically disintegrate on the page. Xavier, our protagonist, spends most of the novel channelling the emotional depth of a puddle, pausing only to recall that time he cheated on his dying wife. This, apparently, qualifies him as complex. Meanwhile, the women exist solely to orbit his masculinity, occasionally breaking into conversations about how damaged but brilliant he is. The Bechdel test doesn't just fail here; it's set on fire, pissed on, trampled, only to be set on fire again.
Even the action sequences, which should at least offer bombastic thrills, feel like watching someone set fireworks off in a bin. Explosions abound, bodies drop faster than sense, and yet none of it carries weight. That could be because the book can't decide if it wants gritty realism or comic-book absurdity. The result is a tonal mess where bullets are deadly right up until the hero dodges them with the grace of a drunk uncle avoiding karaoke.
And the science. Oh, the science. "Hell Divers" treats physics with the reverence of a cat pushing a glass off a table. Massive helium balloons keeping entire cities afloat? Check. Radiation-proof supplies just waiting to be scavenged after two centuries of rot? Sure. A society held together by chewing gum, spite, and sheer narrative willpower? Absolutely. But it's not sci-fi if the science is held together with duct tape and wishful thinking, and here, it's less grounded theory and more helium-fuelled bullshit parade.
By the time the book grinds to its cliffhanger ending, I wasn't reaching for the sequel. I was considering a lobotomy. "Hell Divers" has all the hallmarks of a fever dream: lurid, chaotic, and riddled with half-formed ideas. It's not without entertainment value, but like a radioactive crater, it's best admired from a safe distance. One-and-a-half stars—one for audacity and half for reminding me why helium balloons belong at birthday parties, not in survival plans.
⭐
Let's start with the premise: a post-apocalyptic future where humanity clings to survival aboard massive, helium-powered airships. Helium. As though science didn't already pack its bags and leave the moment we hit chapter one. Never mind that helium leaks faster than a politician's promises or that 200 years of radiation should've melted any salvageable scrap into molten sludge; here, supplies are just lying around, waiting to be pilfered by diving squads with names like disgruntled wrestlers. "Hell Divers" wants grit, but it's the kind you brush off your jeans after sitting in the sandpit too long.
Then there's the class system. We're expected to believe that 560 people - basically a crowded pub - have split themselves into upstairs elites and downstairs rabble. Half of them don't even seem to know each other. In a society this small, I'd expect intricate gossip networks and blood feuds over borrowed cutlery, not rigid hierarchies. But no, the book commits to its dystopian cosplay like an overzealous extra in "Mad Max" and barrels forward without so much as a nod to logic.
The characters? Imagine a roll-call of clichés so threadbare they practically disintegrate on the page. Xavier, our protagonist, spends most of the novel channelling the emotional depth of a puddle, pausing only to recall that time he cheated on his dying wife. This, apparently, qualifies him as complex. Meanwhile, the women exist solely to orbit his masculinity, occasionally breaking into conversations about how damaged but brilliant he is. The Bechdel test doesn't just fail here; it's set on fire, pissed on, trampled, only to be set on fire again.
Even the action sequences, which should at least offer bombastic thrills, feel like watching someone set fireworks off in a bin. Explosions abound, bodies drop faster than sense, and yet none of it carries weight. That could be because the book can't decide if it wants gritty realism or comic-book absurdity. The result is a tonal mess where bullets are deadly right up until the hero dodges them with the grace of a drunk uncle avoiding karaoke.
And the science. Oh, the science. "Hell Divers" treats physics with the reverence of a cat pushing a glass off a table. Massive helium balloons keeping entire cities afloat? Check. Radiation-proof supplies just waiting to be scavenged after two centuries of rot? Sure. A society held together by chewing gum, spite, and sheer narrative willpower? Absolutely. But it's not sci-fi if the science is held together with duct tape and wishful thinking, and here, it's less grounded theory and more helium-fuelled bullshit parade.
By the time the book grinds to its cliffhanger ending, I wasn't reaching for the sequel. I was considering a lobotomy. "Hell Divers" has all the hallmarks of a fever dream: lurid, chaotic, and riddled with half-formed ideas. It's not without entertainment value, but like a radioactive crater, it's best admired from a safe distance. One-and-a-half stars—one for audacity and half for reminding me why helium balloons belong at birthday parties, not in survival plans.
⭐
Modern Marriage by Filip Vukasin
1.0
Filip Vukasin’s “Modern Marriage” is less a novel and more a Frankenstein’s monster of bad ideas stitched together with botched metaphors and embalmed in its own self-importance. Now, I normally avoid spoilers in reviews, but, y’know, fuck this book.
Let’s start with the premise - a woman spiralling after her husband’s sudden death - because it sounds like it should have emotional heft. Instead, we get a hollow paean to cosmetic surgery that reads like it was funded by a Botox clinic’s marketing department. The book’s underlying message appears to be that physical perfection might just heal emotional devastation, which is as shallow as it is morally repugnant. If you’ve ever wondered whether the beauty industry has gone too far, this book will answer with a resounding, “Not far enough! Scalpel, please!”
And the characters. Jesus H. Christ, the characters! Rachael, the therapist sister-in-law, is so vile that it’s hard to believe she isn’t intended as some Machiavellian villain. Instead, the author appears to think she’s just a straight-talking bestie. This woman is a therapist? A mother? FUCKING HELL. Someone call the Australian Health Practitioner Regulation Agency as well as Child Protection before she prescribes collagen fillers to cure depression.
Then there’s Klara, the main character, whose psychological depth could be measured with a paddle-pop stick. She actually blames her vulva for its failure to manifest a baby and for, apparently, turning her husband gay. It must be quite the vulva. I'm intrigued, was a single woman consulted before this was written? It reads less like insight into a female perspective and more like the deranged ramblings of someone who’s only ever met women through reality TV.
Tomas, meanwhile, is the novel's moral compass. Yes, our moral compass is mostly concerned that Klara isn’t getting enough cosmetic procedures to properly advertise their clinic. Within weeks of her husband’s death, he’s fretting about her face, her weight, and her failure to keep pace with her filler schedule. Is this satire? It’s impossible to tell.
The prose is no saving grace either, slathered in mixed metaphors like a surgeon performing brain surgery with a stethoscope and calling it a heart-to-heart. It’s florid when it needs restraint, plodding when it needs momentum, and occasionally so bad it veers into comedy. But even this grim amusement can’t salvage the sheer ineptitude on display.
Content-wise, what's the word I'm groping for? Disturbing? Exploitative? No, I'll need two: "utterly mishandled". Child pregnancy? Incest? Genital mutilation? They’re all here, flung about like props in a freak show, treated as narrative shortcuts rather than deeply complex issues. It’s as though the author compiled a list of edgy topics and ticked them off one by one, hoping the shock factor would cover for the lack of substance. Spoiler: it doesn’t.
Grief, supposedly the emotional core of the novel, is treated with about as much weight as a rescheduled dentist appointment. Klara’s abortion, which should have carried emotional and thematic resonance, is instead glossed over like an afterthought. Even the fallout from her sister-in-law finding out about it fizzles into nothing, a narrative damp squib.
The ending? It’s not so much a climax as it is the literary equivalent of walking into a glass door. After slogging through the melodrama, the overwrought trauma, and the soap opera theatrics, you’re left staring at the final page in disbelief, wondering why you bothered. It’s not just bad, it’s incoherent, an existential crisis masquerading as fiction.
“Modern Marriage” is a spectacular failure. It’s confused about its own purpose, insensitive in its treatment of heavy topics, and riddled with unlikeable characters who feel less human and more like grotesque caricatures. I'll give it half a star for the sheer audacity of publishing this trainwreck, and even that feels generous.
1/2
Let’s start with the premise - a woman spiralling after her husband’s sudden death - because it sounds like it should have emotional heft. Instead, we get a hollow paean to cosmetic surgery that reads like it was funded by a Botox clinic’s marketing department. The book’s underlying message appears to be that physical perfection might just heal emotional devastation, which is as shallow as it is morally repugnant. If you’ve ever wondered whether the beauty industry has gone too far, this book will answer with a resounding, “Not far enough! Scalpel, please!”
And the characters. Jesus H. Christ, the characters! Rachael, the therapist sister-in-law, is so vile that it’s hard to believe she isn’t intended as some Machiavellian villain. Instead, the author appears to think she’s just a straight-talking bestie. This woman is a therapist? A mother? FUCKING HELL. Someone call the Australian Health Practitioner Regulation Agency as well as Child Protection before she prescribes collagen fillers to cure depression.
Then there’s Klara, the main character, whose psychological depth could be measured with a paddle-pop stick. She actually blames her vulva for its failure to manifest a baby and for, apparently, turning her husband gay. It must be quite the vulva. I'm intrigued, was a single woman consulted before this was written? It reads less like insight into a female perspective and more like the deranged ramblings of someone who’s only ever met women through reality TV.
Tomas, meanwhile, is the novel's moral compass. Yes, our moral compass is mostly concerned that Klara isn’t getting enough cosmetic procedures to properly advertise their clinic. Within weeks of her husband’s death, he’s fretting about her face, her weight, and her failure to keep pace with her filler schedule. Is this satire? It’s impossible to tell.
The prose is no saving grace either, slathered in mixed metaphors like a surgeon performing brain surgery with a stethoscope and calling it a heart-to-heart. It’s florid when it needs restraint, plodding when it needs momentum, and occasionally so bad it veers into comedy. But even this grim amusement can’t salvage the sheer ineptitude on display.
Content-wise, what's the word I'm groping for? Disturbing? Exploitative? No, I'll need two: "utterly mishandled". Child pregnancy? Incest? Genital mutilation? They’re all here, flung about like props in a freak show, treated as narrative shortcuts rather than deeply complex issues. It’s as though the author compiled a list of edgy topics and ticked them off one by one, hoping the shock factor would cover for the lack of substance. Spoiler: it doesn’t.
Grief, supposedly the emotional core of the novel, is treated with about as much weight as a rescheduled dentist appointment. Klara’s abortion, which should have carried emotional and thematic resonance, is instead glossed over like an afterthought. Even the fallout from her sister-in-law finding out about it fizzles into nothing, a narrative damp squib.
The ending? It’s not so much a climax as it is the literary equivalent of walking into a glass door. After slogging through the melodrama, the overwrought trauma, and the soap opera theatrics, you’re left staring at the final page in disbelief, wondering why you bothered. It’s not just bad, it’s incoherent, an existential crisis masquerading as fiction.
“Modern Marriage” is a spectacular failure. It’s confused about its own purpose, insensitive in its treatment of heavy topics, and riddled with unlikeable characters who feel less human and more like grotesque caricatures. I'll give it half a star for the sheer audacity of publishing this trainwreck, and even that feels generous.
1/2
Between Tasmanian tide lines: a field guide by Tasmanian Marine Naturalists Association
5.0
I'm in love with this book. Essential for anyone who enjoys fiddling about in rockpools.
The Art of War by Sun Tzu
4.0
A blast from the past! Written in the 6th century B.C., The Art of War is essentially a combat strategy with additional value in other forms of strategic thinking in competitive contexts. In it, Sun Tzu explores the strategies to engage opponents in order to prevail in difficult situations.
Not so much a treatise on the logistics of warfare, we learn how to succeed by motivating soldiers and leveraging tactical advantages. Having now read it, I get a better sense of why it is regularly used by sports coaches, business executives, and leaders in a host of other contexts.
The secret itself is no great shakes: i. Know yourself. ii. Know your enemy. iii. Only fight when you can win. The translation here is excellent, and despite the gulf in years and cultural context, it remains a thought-provoking, colourful and rather useful book.
If I had to choose a few of Sun Tzu's principles that really stood out to me, I'd have to say the following struck a particular chord:
* Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.
* All warfare is based on deception.
* There is no instance of a country having benefited from a prolonged war.
* The clever combatant looks to the effect of combined energy, and does not require too much from individuals.
* When you surround an army, leave an outlet free.
This is a relatively simple and quick read, but a hugely rewarding one. Highly recommended.
Not so much a treatise on the logistics of warfare, we learn how to succeed by motivating soldiers and leveraging tactical advantages. Having now read it, I get a better sense of why it is regularly used by sports coaches, business executives, and leaders in a host of other contexts.
The secret itself is no great shakes: i. Know yourself. ii. Know your enemy. iii. Only fight when you can win. The translation here is excellent, and despite the gulf in years and cultural context, it remains a thought-provoking, colourful and rather useful book.
If I had to choose a few of Sun Tzu's principles that really stood out to me, I'd have to say the following struck a particular chord:
* Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting.
* All warfare is based on deception.
* There is no instance of a country having benefited from a prolonged war.
* The clever combatant looks to the effect of combined energy, and does not require too much from individuals.
* When you surround an army, leave an outlet free.
This is a relatively simple and quick read, but a hugely rewarding one. Highly recommended.
The Searcher by Tana French
3.0
Tana French’s “The Searcher” is a slow burn whose strength lies in the deliberate pace and creeping darkness that coils around its edges. French’s writing moves like a shadow across the water, subtle and unsettling, drawing you in without fanfare or theatrics.
At its core is Cal, a retired American cop who has traded urban chaos for rural stillness. He’s familiar by design, the world-weary outsider with a good heart and a sharp mind. Cal embodies the genre, and his growing bond with Trey, a tough and secretive local kid, provides the novel’s emotional core.
The Irish countryside seeps into the story, its beauty inseparable from its menace. Violence lurks just beneath the surface, a duality that French captures with precision. She avoids the usual thriller machinery, opting instead for precise prose and measured storytelling. There are no gimmiky twists or melodramatic reveals, just a slow unravelling of lies and loyalties.
Yet, for all its strengths, “The Searcher” feels flawed. The commentary on American policing and race feels tacked on, an afterthought rather than an organic thread. While the story hints at larger themes of justice and redemption, it never fully commits to exploring them, leaving its moral questions half-formed.
Cal himself, though likeable, feels formulaic. An honourable cop with a knack for reading people, there is little to surprise you. Trey fares better, bristling with vulnerability and quiet defiance, yet even this dynamic struggles to break free from familiar beats.
It is gripping but uneven, offering an unexpected meditation on healing justice that does not quite hit as hard as it could. Still, if you’re drawn to characters who wear their flaws like weather-beaten coats, you’ll find plenty to sink into here.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐
At its core is Cal, a retired American cop who has traded urban chaos for rural stillness. He’s familiar by design, the world-weary outsider with a good heart and a sharp mind. Cal embodies the genre, and his growing bond with Trey, a tough and secretive local kid, provides the novel’s emotional core.
The Irish countryside seeps into the story, its beauty inseparable from its menace. Violence lurks just beneath the surface, a duality that French captures with precision. She avoids the usual thriller machinery, opting instead for precise prose and measured storytelling. There are no gimmiky twists or melodramatic reveals, just a slow unravelling of lies and loyalties.
Yet, for all its strengths, “The Searcher” feels flawed. The commentary on American policing and race feels tacked on, an afterthought rather than an organic thread. While the story hints at larger themes of justice and redemption, it never fully commits to exploring them, leaving its moral questions half-formed.
Cal himself, though likeable, feels formulaic. An honourable cop with a knack for reading people, there is little to surprise you. Trey fares better, bristling with vulnerability and quiet defiance, yet even this dynamic struggles to break free from familiar beats.
It is gripping but uneven, offering an unexpected meditation on healing justice that does not quite hit as hard as it could. Still, if you’re drawn to characters who wear their flaws like weather-beaten coats, you’ll find plenty to sink into here.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐