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tachyondecay's reviews
2030 reviews
Archenemies by Marissa Meyer
adventurous
inspiring
tense
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.0
Hot on the heels of my ecstatic review of Renegades, I bring you the sequel! Which I didn’t realize was the second in a trilogy (I thought it was a duology for some reason), but it shows. Archenemies is peak middle book syndrome. Aside from that, however, it’s basically what it says on the tin, and I’m not mad about it. Marissa Meyer continues to unspool this story of superpowered prodigies, divided loyalties, and dangerous obsessions.
Spoilers for the first book but not for this one!
Nova continues her life as a double agent within the Renegades: Insomnia to them, Nightmare to her Anarchist found family. Her goal? Retrieve Ace Anarchy’s helmet, once believed destroyed but now under lock and key in the Renegade Tower. As pieces fall into place that bring Nova closer to this goal, an unfortunate wrinkle develops: she is actually having feelings for Adrian. Gross! Seriously though—this is actually a cute, slow-burn romance that this aromantic gal has few issues with.
Everything I liked about Renegades is still present in Archenemies. We learn a little more about Max’s power and how the senior Renegades have chosen to deploy it. The Renegade leadership continues to walk the line between well-meaning and overbearing in the decisions it makes for “the greater good.” While their slow march towards more overtly fascist leadership feels obvious to me, I reminded myself this is a young-adult novel. From that perspective, I think Meyer is doing a good job exploring the way grey morality and conflicting loyalties can cause people to rationalize doing terrible things, whether it’s for the greater good or simply to right what they perceive as a wrong against a loved one.
In this respect, Nova’s role as a conflicted protagonist is crucial. She remains incredibly sympathetic because we understand her motives—moreover, she retains a sense of right and wrong the other Anarchists don’t seem to have preserved. Her interactions with Max, Oscar, Ruby, and Adrian always underscore this, setting her at odds with the Anarchists more than once, even as she strives to fulfill her mission on behalf of her uncle.
I enjoyed seeing the relationships among side characters, such as Oscar and Ruby’s romance, develop slightly here. I would have liked to see Nova develop more friendships beyond Adrian or the group dynamic within her team. Give me some female friendship between Nova and Ruby. Give me some competitive bonding moments between Nova and Oscar. Something.
However, the book is tightly edited and still quite long (and felt like it dragged in places), so I suppose such scenes, even if they were written, might have been cut.
Archenemies quite artfully raises the stakes of the previous book and continues to plunge Nova—and by extension, the reader—deeper into moral conflict. Yet something about it didn’t satisfy me as much as the first book. I labelled it “second book syndrome” in my intro, and I think I’m right. Or to be more precise, this book raises the stakes but doesn’t really elevate the world Meyer built for us in Renegades. We still haven’t seen or heard much of anything beyond Gatlon City. Though there are new threats now to prodigies, we haven’t explored Nova’s powers much more than we did in the first book. So as a sequel and a novel, Archenemies is serviceable. As a work of superhero drama, it’s missing out on some of the super stuff. Meyer doesn’t push that dimension forward as much as I’d like (but maybe that’s just me).
Entirely recommended if you liked the first book, but I am glad I started with the first book!
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Spoilers for the first book but not for this one!
Nova continues her life as a double agent within the Renegades: Insomnia to them, Nightmare to her Anarchist found family. Her goal? Retrieve Ace Anarchy’s helmet, once believed destroyed but now under lock and key in the Renegade Tower. As pieces fall into place that bring Nova closer to this goal, an unfortunate wrinkle develops: she is actually having feelings for Adrian. Gross! Seriously though—this is actually a cute, slow-burn romance that this aromantic gal has few issues with.
Everything I liked about Renegades is still present in Archenemies. We learn a little more about Max’s power and how the senior Renegades have chosen to deploy it. The Renegade leadership continues to walk the line between well-meaning and overbearing in the decisions it makes for “the greater good.” While their slow march towards more overtly fascist leadership feels obvious to me, I reminded myself this is a young-adult novel. From that perspective, I think Meyer is doing a good job exploring the way grey morality and conflicting loyalties can cause people to rationalize doing terrible things, whether it’s for the greater good or simply to right what they perceive as a wrong against a loved one.
In this respect, Nova’s role as a conflicted protagonist is crucial. She remains incredibly sympathetic because we understand her motives—moreover, she retains a sense of right and wrong the other Anarchists don’t seem to have preserved. Her interactions with Max, Oscar, Ruby, and Adrian always underscore this, setting her at odds with the Anarchists more than once, even as she strives to fulfill her mission on behalf of her uncle.
I enjoyed seeing the relationships among side characters, such as Oscar and Ruby’s romance, develop slightly here. I would have liked to see Nova develop more friendships beyond Adrian or the group dynamic within her team. Give me some female friendship between Nova and Ruby. Give me some competitive bonding moments between Nova and Oscar. Something.
However, the book is tightly edited and still quite long (and felt like it dragged in places), so I suppose such scenes, even if they were written, might have been cut.
Archenemies quite artfully raises the stakes of the previous book and continues to plunge Nova—and by extension, the reader—deeper into moral conflict. Yet something about it didn’t satisfy me as much as the first book. I labelled it “second book syndrome” in my intro, and I think I’m right. Or to be more precise, this book raises the stakes but doesn’t really elevate the world Meyer built for us in Renegades. We still haven’t seen or heard much of anything beyond Gatlon City. Though there are new threats now to prodigies, we haven’t explored Nova’s powers much more than we did in the first book. So as a sequel and a novel, Archenemies is serviceable. As a work of superhero drama, it’s missing out on some of the super stuff. Meyer doesn’t push that dimension forward as much as I’d like (but maybe that’s just me).
Entirely recommended if you liked the first book, but I am glad I started with the first book!
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
The Glass Hotel by Emily St. John Mandel
mysterious
reflective
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.0
When I try to explain why I read Emily St. John Mandel’s books, I don’t ever have a cogent explanation. “She’s Canadian,” I mumble, as if I am somehow bound by CRTC Cancon requirements. “She never writes two novels the same,” I grasp at straws of justification. Why do I feel the need to justify? Probably because her novels straddle genre with an uncomfortable liminality: science fiction but not science fiction, fantasy but not fantasy. The Glass Hotel was science fiction, I thought, but turned out to be fantasy, except not.
Summarizing this book is a challenge. The jacket copy doesn’t do the plot justice. The plot doesn’t do the plot justice. Mandel spins this tale in a spiralling, telescopic way: each chapter follows a different character, many of them new or one-offs. We start with Paul, see a traumatic incident from his university days, and then leave him behind, only meeting him briefly again as a minor character before he comes back for another POV chapter near the end. Vincent, Paul’s half-sister, is nominally the novel’s main character, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call her a protagonist. While the book returns to her more often than most, it is also content to spin her off while chasing other subplots.
Arguably the central story here is that of a banal antagonist, Jonathan Alkaitis, whose Ponzi scheme’s collapse forms the core event around which everything else revolves. Mandel seems interested in our relationship with money: the need for it to survive, the want for it to flourish, the unease we feel when we have too little or too much, the ways others prey upon us. Alkaitis is portrayed as a perfectly ordinary, nice guy, who just happens to be defrauding his investors—including a family friend who expects to live off her investment as retirement income. He knows when the scheme collapses she will be destitute; yet he keeps going. Sociopathic? No, not really. Alkaitis is more like a personification of the indeterminate apathy of a generation of money-making men disconnected from what makes money.
Really, The Glass Hotel might be best viewed as a series of vignettes following several people: Vincent, Paul, Alkaitis, Olivia, Walter, et al. Mandel keeps the “camera” tight on the individual, the third-person perspective so limited it almost squeezes everyone and everything out of frame, an intense character study. I think what kept me reading is simply that her writing is so … focused. Precise. It’s not even that it’s lush or particularly skillful in a rhetorical or linguistic sense; nevertheless, the craft is visible.
And, despite myself and my basic dislike of novels that turn out not really to be novels, I liked this book. I enjoyed spending time with Alkaitis and his Ponzi scheme (what can I say, I love scammers). I enjoyed the harried assistant, ignorant of what she was assisting. The stuff with Vincent on the ship and her disappearance was a bit meh. Paul was just odd. But there were a lot of points in this book where I found myself chuckling, turning the page because I was really invested—not so much in what happened next, I guess, but rather in how Mandel was going to switch things up on me.
So I don’t want to give The Glass Hotel a bad review or rating, for it is a good book. It’s just weird (in a good way). It defies description, and by that I mean, Mandel set out to tell a story her way, without much caring about the conventions of a linear narrative or how we tend to cast a novel. I hesitate to call it experimental—it didn’t frustrate me the way a lot of experimental stuff does. Call it a small departure. Someone shooting in black-and-white in the era of colour. Read it for the characters, for the vignettes, for the scrutiny of human emotion—just don’t expect a single plot or character who ties it all together. Don’t expect a bow on top.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Summarizing this book is a challenge. The jacket copy doesn’t do the plot justice. The plot doesn’t do the plot justice. Mandel spins this tale in a spiralling, telescopic way: each chapter follows a different character, many of them new or one-offs. We start with Paul, see a traumatic incident from his university days, and then leave him behind, only meeting him briefly again as a minor character before he comes back for another POV chapter near the end. Vincent, Paul’s half-sister, is nominally the novel’s main character, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call her a protagonist. While the book returns to her more often than most, it is also content to spin her off while chasing other subplots.
Arguably the central story here is that of a banal antagonist, Jonathan Alkaitis, whose Ponzi scheme’s collapse forms the core event around which everything else revolves. Mandel seems interested in our relationship with money: the need for it to survive, the want for it to flourish, the unease we feel when we have too little or too much, the ways others prey upon us. Alkaitis is portrayed as a perfectly ordinary, nice guy, who just happens to be defrauding his investors—including a family friend who expects to live off her investment as retirement income. He knows when the scheme collapses she will be destitute; yet he keeps going. Sociopathic? No, not really. Alkaitis is more like a personification of the indeterminate apathy of a generation of money-making men disconnected from what makes money.
Really, The Glass Hotel might be best viewed as a series of vignettes following several people: Vincent, Paul, Alkaitis, Olivia, Walter, et al. Mandel keeps the “camera” tight on the individual, the third-person perspective so limited it almost squeezes everyone and everything out of frame, an intense character study. I think what kept me reading is simply that her writing is so … focused. Precise. It’s not even that it’s lush or particularly skillful in a rhetorical or linguistic sense; nevertheless, the craft is visible.
And, despite myself and my basic dislike of novels that turn out not really to be novels, I liked this book. I enjoyed spending time with Alkaitis and his Ponzi scheme (what can I say, I love scammers). I enjoyed the harried assistant, ignorant of what she was assisting. The stuff with Vincent on the ship and her disappearance was a bit meh. Paul was just odd. But there were a lot of points in this book where I found myself chuckling, turning the page because I was really invested—not so much in what happened next, I guess, but rather in how Mandel was going to switch things up on me.
So I don’t want to give The Glass Hotel a bad review or rating, for it is a good book. It’s just weird (in a good way). It defies description, and by that I mean, Mandel set out to tell a story her way, without much caring about the conventions of a linear narrative or how we tend to cast a novel. I hesitate to call it experimental—it didn’t frustrate me the way a lot of experimental stuff does. Call it a small departure. Someone shooting in black-and-white in the era of colour. Read it for the characters, for the vignettes, for the scrutiny of human emotion—just don’t expect a single plot or character who ties it all together. Don’t expect a bow on top.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
You're Safe Here by Leslie Stephens
dark
mysterious
tense
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
1.0
Have you wondered what would happen if we lived in a world where Elizabeth Holmes was actually competent? Or if she somehow managed to fail upwards, like Elon Musk, despite being a woman? You’re Safe Here posits a wealthy female supervillain, a disgruntled coder, and a pregnant girlfriend chasing solitude in lieu of enlightenment. Leslie Stephens looks to draw together the disparate threads of quantified wellness, middle-class yuppie obsession with individualism, and the classic trope of not wanting to talk to one’s partner about important stuff.
Maggie is preggers and decides it’s the best to embark on a six-week jaunt in a WellPod adrift in the Pacific Ocean. Her partner, Noa, is a programmer at the company launching the pods—but she spots a problem and tries to sound an alarm. As their respective storylines unfold, Stephens also dives into their respective backstories, their relationship, and some of the life of Emmett, the enigmatic founder behind it all….
This is a weird book. It straddles the line between thriller and thought experiment, but like so many literary attempts at what is ultimately a form of science fiction, it often falls flat and ends up sounding like so much empty noise. There’s a kind of absurdist fatalism to the story that left me off balance the entire time. On one hand, so many of the twists (such as the identity of Gamma) felt imminently predictable. On the other hand, the plot careens forward without truly stopping to shore up the main characters, their feelings, and indeed their motivations.
When I went into this book, I thought it was more on the horror end of thriller—and that’s on me for that misapprehension, yet I can’t help but feel let down. None of the characters work for me. Maggie and Noa have a terrible relationship, and it’s weird that they don’t know how to act like adults and talk to each other. No one ever comments on the cheating in this book like it’s, you know, wrong. It’s just happening.
Emmett is also a really disappointing villain. Stephens set her up as quite arch, yet in the end her plans are cozily small-E evil in that they really only involve Maggie. The soapy twist that Maggie is Emmett’s daughter separated-at-birth is, as I said, somewhat predictable and also … unfulfilling.
It just feels like Stephens is trying to have her cake and eat it too. If You’re Safe Here is meant to be a serious deconstruction of how individualized wellness tech is dehumanizing us and cutting us off from each other, then the WellPods need to be more overtly sinister than they actually are. All we really get are a few hints—like with Maggie’s disaffected mother. If, on the other hand, this is supposed to be a more intimate portrait of the lengths one might go to reunite their family, I would have wanted a more sympathetic slant on Emmett.
The ending, instead, is a hot mess of mixed up tropes. Noa and Maggie don’t get closure. Emmett gets no comeuppance, and no one ever challenges the WellPods-as-apps-on-steroids metaphor. That is to say—what is the point here?
You’re Safe Here is a perfect example of what happens when you hand someone a lot of tropes as ingredients and say, “Write a compelling novel.” Like cooking, writing is more than just following a recipe. There’s technique. I’m not sure what technique Stephens used here, but it doesn’t work.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Maggie is preggers and decides it’s the best to embark on a six-week jaunt in a WellPod adrift in the Pacific Ocean. Her partner, Noa, is a programmer at the company launching the pods—but she spots a problem and tries to sound an alarm. As their respective storylines unfold, Stephens also dives into their respective backstories, their relationship, and some of the life of Emmett, the enigmatic founder behind it all….
This is a weird book. It straddles the line between thriller and thought experiment, but like so many literary attempts at what is ultimately a form of science fiction, it often falls flat and ends up sounding like so much empty noise. There’s a kind of absurdist fatalism to the story that left me off balance the entire time. On one hand, so many of the twists (such as the identity of Gamma) felt imminently predictable. On the other hand, the plot careens forward without truly stopping to shore up the main characters, their feelings, and indeed their motivations.
When I went into this book, I thought it was more on the horror end of thriller—and that’s on me for that misapprehension, yet I can’t help but feel let down. None of the characters work for me. Maggie and Noa have a terrible relationship, and it’s weird that they don’t know how to act like adults and talk to each other. No one ever comments on the cheating in this book like it’s, you know, wrong. It’s just happening.
Emmett is also a really disappointing villain. Stephens set her up as quite arch, yet in the end her plans are cozily small-E evil in that they really only involve Maggie. The soapy twist that Maggie is Emmett’s daughter separated-at-birth is, as I said, somewhat predictable and also … unfulfilling.
It just feels like Stephens is trying to have her cake and eat it too. If You’re Safe Here is meant to be a serious deconstruction of how individualized wellness tech is dehumanizing us and cutting us off from each other, then the WellPods need to be more overtly sinister than they actually are. All we really get are a few hints—like with Maggie’s disaffected mother. If, on the other hand, this is supposed to be a more intimate portrait of the lengths one might go to reunite their family, I would have wanted a more sympathetic slant on Emmett.
The ending, instead, is a hot mess of mixed up tropes. Noa and Maggie don’t get closure. Emmett gets no comeuppance, and no one ever challenges the WellPods-as-apps-on-steroids metaphor. That is to say—what is the point here?
You’re Safe Here is a perfect example of what happens when you hand someone a lot of tropes as ingredients and say, “Write a compelling novel.” Like cooking, writing is more than just following a recipe. There’s technique. I’m not sure what technique Stephens used here, but it doesn’t work.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
A Tale of Two Titties: A Writer's Guide to Conquering the Most Sexist Tropes in Literary History by Meg Vondriska
challenging
funny
informative
fast-paced
3.0
I have followed Meg Vondriska on Twitter for a while now, and when I heard she was coming out with a book based on the concept of her @MenWritingWomen account, I ran, not walked, to the bookshop (well, I emailed them) to preorder. A Tale of Two Titties takes the basic concept of this account, amplifies it, but also twists it into something far more subversive and acerbic. The result is entertaining and potentially genuine helpful, albeit at times repetitive.
The book is loosely organized into chapters based on common issues with how women are portrayed in fiction. From anatomically impossible descriptions of breasts (or other parts of AFAB bodies) to stereotypical roles for women, this book covers the various ways men (because it is almost exclusively cis men) write. Set up, in jest, as a course for an aspiring author to write better, A Tale of Two Titties doesn’t hold back.
The book is at its best, in my opinion, when Vondriska lambastes specific examples of terrible writing of women. However, I also understand one cannot make an entire book out of quotes from other people’s writing (or at least, then it would be a sassy concordance and not a writing “advice” book). Vondriska has smartly chosen to expand the premise of the original account into something more suitable for a book length. Walking the line between parody and real advice is challenging, however.
A Tale of Two Titties is a joyfully creative subversion of sexist tropes. Vondriska goes beyond merely critiquing or lampooning how men write women and elevates her schtick to a new plane. There are exercises in every chapter to prepare the reader to write their breast. I particularly enjoyed a flowchart, “Genre Detour,” to help define which genre one is writing based on the presence of women and descriptions of their bodies. All of this is to say, this book’s parody works because it’s just so damn inventive.
However, I’m not sure the people who most need this book fall into its audience. Women are more likely to pick up this book in terms of its marketing and style, yet they aren’t the ones who need to read this. I nodded along, and while maybe there’s one or two points the book makes that you might not have realized, you will too. Men who want to write better female characters but aren’t sure how might not see this book, or consider to to be “for” them. Perhaps this is merely a marketing issue more than an issue with the book. It doesn’t detract from my enjoyment.
I don’t really have much else to say about this one. If you’re down for this style of humour, you’re going to enjoy this!
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
The book is loosely organized into chapters based on common issues with how women are portrayed in fiction. From anatomically impossible descriptions of breasts (or other parts of AFAB bodies) to stereotypical roles for women, this book covers the various ways men (because it is almost exclusively cis men) write. Set up, in jest, as a course for an aspiring author to write better, A Tale of Two Titties doesn’t hold back.
The book is at its best, in my opinion, when Vondriska lambastes specific examples of terrible writing of women. However, I also understand one cannot make an entire book out of quotes from other people’s writing (or at least, then it would be a sassy concordance and not a writing “advice” book). Vondriska has smartly chosen to expand the premise of the original account into something more suitable for a book length. Walking the line between parody and real advice is challenging, however.
A Tale of Two Titties is a joyfully creative subversion of sexist tropes. Vondriska goes beyond merely critiquing or lampooning how men write women and elevates her schtick to a new plane. There are exercises in every chapter to prepare the reader to write their breast. I particularly enjoyed a flowchart, “Genre Detour,” to help define which genre one is writing based on the presence of women and descriptions of their bodies. All of this is to say, this book’s parody works because it’s just so damn inventive.
However, I’m not sure the people who most need this book fall into its audience. Women are more likely to pick up this book in terms of its marketing and style, yet they aren’t the ones who need to read this. I nodded along, and while maybe there’s one or two points the book makes that you might not have realized, you will too. Men who want to write better female characters but aren’t sure how might not see this book, or consider to to be “for” them. Perhaps this is merely a marketing issue more than an issue with the book. It doesn’t detract from my enjoyment.
I don’t really have much else to say about this one. If you’re down for this style of humour, you’re going to enjoy this!
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
You Sexy Thing by Cat Rambo
adventurous
hopeful
tense
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.0
Last year I took a chance on reading Devil’s Gun, the sequel to You Sexy Thing, even though I hadn’t read the first book. This was a big chance, for Cat Rambo’s fiction up to that point hadn’t worked for me. Fortunately, I loved Devil’s Gun enough to accept the offer of an eARC of the first book as well, and now I’ve read it too. With the amount of time that has elapsed, I actually don’t remember much of the sequel, which is kind of perfect in that I had no idea how this one was going to end!
Niko Larssen is the owner and nominal head chef of the Last Chance restaurant. Her employees are, for the most part, former members of her squad within the army of the Holy Hive Mind. They are now retired—supposedly—though not out of reach of this formidable entity. Disaster strikes on the eve of what could have been a great triumph for Niko and the Last Chance. She and her crew find themselves aboard a petulant bioship that thinks they’re trying to steal it. Saddled with a food critic who is more than she seems and an imperial heir mailed to Niko as cargo just before the disaster, this ragtag group must work hard to stay together and thwart the whims of a pirate out for revenge.
Everything I liked about Devil’s Gun is present in some form here. I don’t remember if the second book has the same omniscient narration. It’s not technically omniscient so much as it is a fast-switching type of limited third person. It works fine here, though the formatting of my ebook didn’t separate when the omniscient narrator switches perspective, and that can be confusing sometimes. Rambo also pulls a fast one in the sense that there are definitely some viewpoints we don’t see—Gio, Milly, Dabry, etc. This isn’t a criticism, of course. I appreciate Rambo leaving some questions open.
You can read these two books in any order, as far as I am concerned. Both scratch the itch of wanting a space opera that is loose in its affiliations. This story isn’t about the political machinations and military movements of a nation. It’s about family, in a way that might appeal to fans of Becky Chambers. Getting to see the genesis of You Sexy Thing’s sentience and personality (including its obsession with printing its logo on everything) is fun. Watching Atlanta become part of the family is likewise very touching.
I would gladly read many more novels set in this universe, with this crew.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Niko Larssen is the owner and nominal head chef of the Last Chance restaurant. Her employees are, for the most part, former members of her squad within the army of the Holy Hive Mind. They are now retired—supposedly—though not out of reach of this formidable entity. Disaster strikes on the eve of what could have been a great triumph for Niko and the Last Chance. She and her crew find themselves aboard a petulant bioship that thinks they’re trying to steal it. Saddled with a food critic who is more than she seems and an imperial heir mailed to Niko as cargo just before the disaster, this ragtag group must work hard to stay together and thwart the whims of a pirate out for revenge.
Everything I liked about Devil’s Gun is present in some form here. I don’t remember if the second book has the same omniscient narration. It’s not technically omniscient so much as it is a fast-switching type of limited third person. It works fine here, though the formatting of my ebook didn’t separate when the omniscient narrator switches perspective, and that can be confusing sometimes. Rambo also pulls a fast one in the sense that there are definitely some viewpoints we don’t see—Gio, Milly, Dabry, etc. This isn’t a criticism, of course. I appreciate Rambo leaving some questions open.
You can read these two books in any order, as far as I am concerned. Both scratch the itch of wanting a space opera that is loose in its affiliations. This story isn’t about the political machinations and military movements of a nation. It’s about family, in a way that might appeal to fans of Becky Chambers. Getting to see the genesis of You Sexy Thing’s sentience and personality (including its obsession with printing its logo on everything) is fun. Watching Atlanta become part of the family is likewise very touching.
I would gladly read many more novels set in this universe, with this crew.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Heart of the Sun Warrior by Sue Lynn Tan
adventurous
dark
emotional
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
5.0
Last year I was surprised by how much I enjoyed Daughter of the Moon Goddess, Sue Lynn Tan’s reimagining of the mythology of Chang’e (and specifically, her daughter). I was apprehensive whether Tan would bottle moonlight twice with Heart of the Sun Warrior—yet here we are, another five-star read. What can I say? Tan’s storytelling abilities are impressive.
Some time has passed since the end of the first book. Xingyin is living fairly contently on the moon with her mother, who is now free to leave whenever she pleases, though she still has the duty of lighting all the lanterns that illuminate the moon each night. Liwei, heir to the Celestial throne, continues to court Xingyin and make moves towards proposing. Yet Xingyin knows Liwei’s parents are no fans of hers, and this is confirmed when she begrudgingly attends a birthday celebration at the Jade Palace. An engineered slight puts the moon goddess—and her daughter—on the back foot again as they ultimately become ensnared in a much larger attempt on the throne. Xingyin and her allies—including some unexpected ones—must fight back against a usurper who only has evil in his heart. But this war might cost Xingyin all of the precious love she has gained since her previous victory, and there is no guarantee even of success.
Spoilers for both books in this review.
Tan’s writing continues to be operatic in form and epic in scope. Once again we are thrust into a rich world. As she brings elements of Chinese mythology to life, she uses them to tell a broad and adventurous story. The stakes—the Celestial throne and stability of the entire immortal world—could not be higher.The love triangle of Xingyin with Liwei and Wenzhi is back, and once again, this aromantic reader did not mind the romance here. Additionally, the appearance of Houyi and his return to the immortal realm is very touching. At first, I thought it was a bit trite, until I really dug into the book and understood the genre and form in which Tan is operating.
I won’t attempt to get too technical here, because I haven’t read or watched a lot of Chinese drama. But I feel like Heart of the Sun Warrior kind of has everything? This is best demonstrated at the climax of the book, whenXingyin is about to go up against Wugang with the ultimate subterfuge. Wenzhi helps her, and Liwei finally gives his rival a grudging nod of respect—they will never be friends, not after what Wenzhi has done, but suddenly we have the Celestial Prince and the Demon Prince on the same side, fighting in a war together, and if that isn’t epic, I don’t know what is. But you have to be able to get to that payoff, and this is where Tan excels.
This is a book that lays down groundwork and then pays it off. It’s seldom a surprise—foreshadowing is strong here—but it is always rewarding.The dragons come back. The Celestial Empress baits Xingyin into a terrible promise, and then that comes full circle. Xingyin is caught between worlds—the worlds of the court and the moon, even the worlds of duty and family. What is she supposed to do? How come everything falls on her shoulders?
The death of Ping’er hits hard as well.
I love the ending. I love that Xingyin and Liwei don’t end up together. Sometimes you love someone, but it just doesn’t work out. You want too many different things. Xingyin and Wenzhi getting a second (third?) chance is perfect for this genre of story, even if, again, it feels trite. Tan has a masterful grasp of what is expected and works in a story like this.
As with the first book, I don’t feel like I have a lot of need to go into detail though. This book is a block of marble, expertly carved and exquisite from every angle. Definitely read the first book first, then do yourself a favour and pick this one up when you can. It’s a book where happy endings aren’t always the ones we expect or even desire, but they are the ones we need—and they are forever.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Some time has passed since the end of the first book. Xingyin is living fairly contently on the moon with her mother, who is now free to leave whenever she pleases, though she still has the duty of lighting all the lanterns that illuminate the moon each night. Liwei, heir to the Celestial throne, continues to court Xingyin and make moves towards proposing. Yet Xingyin knows Liwei’s parents are no fans of hers, and this is confirmed when she begrudgingly attends a birthday celebration at the Jade Palace. An engineered slight puts the moon goddess—and her daughter—on the back foot again as they ultimately become ensnared in a much larger attempt on the throne. Xingyin and her allies—including some unexpected ones—must fight back against a usurper who only has evil in his heart. But this war might cost Xingyin all of the precious love she has gained since her previous victory, and there is no guarantee even of success.
Spoilers for both books in this review.
Tan’s writing continues to be operatic in form and epic in scope. Once again we are thrust into a rich world. As she brings elements of Chinese mythology to life, she uses them to tell a broad and adventurous story. The stakes—the Celestial throne and stability of the entire immortal world—could not be higher.
I won’t attempt to get too technical here, because I haven’t read or watched a lot of Chinese drama. But I feel like Heart of the Sun Warrior kind of has everything? This is best demonstrated at the climax of the book, when
This is a book that lays down groundwork and then pays it off. It’s seldom a surprise—foreshadowing is strong here—but it is always rewarding.
The death of Ping’er hits hard as well.
I love the ending. I love that Xingyin and Liwei don’t end up together. Sometimes you love someone, but it just doesn’t work out. You want too many different things. Xingyin and Wenzhi getting a second (third?) chance is perfect for this genre of story, even if, again, it feels trite. Tan has a masterful grasp of what is expected and works in a story like this.
As with the first book, I don’t feel like I have a lot of need to go into detail though. This book is a block of marble, expertly carved and exquisite from every angle. Definitely read the first book first, then do yourself a favour and pick this one up when you can. It’s a book where happy endings aren’t always the ones we expect or even desire, but they are the ones we need—and they are forever.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Renegades by Marissa Meyer
dark
emotional
sad
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.0
Marissa Meyer is one of those authors always adjacent to my radar, never quite on it. I want to say I tried Cinder once and bounced off it, but I can’t actually say for sure. In any event, I noticed the sequel to Renegades on a shelf at my library and promptly checked out both books. I am a sucker for superhero remixes, and this one looked good. However, I have been burned by them in the past—they are tricky to get right—and at the very beginning of this book, I was nervous. Fortunately, Meyer sticks the landing.
Nova watches her parents get murdered at six years old. Instead of becoming Batman, however, she gets taken in by her uncle—who also happens to be Ace Anarchy, the most powerful and founding member of the Anarchists. These superpowered “prodigies” have wreaked havoc on Galton City. Fast forward ten years. Nova is now a teen, her uncle was murdered nine years ago by the eponymous Renegades, and she is hellbent on revenge. She hatches on a scheme whereby she infiltrates the Renegades, joining up as one of them: Insomnia. Living a double life as Insomnia to her new Renegade team and the wanted fugitive Nightmare to her Anarchist found family, Nova is a textbook case of divided loyalties. Whose side will she come down on in when it counts the most?
The opening of Renegades is great from a technical point of view. Much like an action film, we get a big, explosive set piece that introduces us to some of the main characters while getting us excited. However, as with a lot of superhero fiction, sometimes things that look great in comics or on television come across as clunky in prose. It’s one thing to show a superpower being used and another to describe it only in writing. I think this is what a lot of authors who want to write a superhero novel struggle with, and Meyer here is no exception.
What saves this book, honestly, is the strength of the interpersonal characterization. Nova and Adrian are such a great duo. They are both keeping secrets—from each other and from the people close to them. Their motivations are in lockstep, both traumatized by a close personal loss. I found some of their individual characterization a bit over the top at times—yet that kind of melodrama is probably appropriate for this subgenre.
Meyer walks a fine line in her portrayal of the Renegades. It would be easy to turn this book into a “Nova learns the Renegades were the good guys all along” parable; similarly, she could have turned it into “Ah-hah, the Renegades are the bad guys all along and have evil designs on humanity.” Without spoiling it, the truth is definitely somewhere in between. The Renegades have positive and negative qualities. Some of them are giant dicks. Some of them truly mean well. To that end, Meyer shows us how much Nova struggles as she infiltrates their ranks. She befriends her team members. Is attracted to Adrian. Genuinely adores and acts against her best interests to save Max. Yet it’s clear she hasn’t completely been converted to the Renegade cause—and honestly, that might be a good thing?
One of the themes that emerges later in the book is the idea that maybe the powers, not the prodigies who wield them, are the problem. Maybe the world would be a better place if prodigies didn’t exist as such. This is not an original theme, mind you, nor does Meyer explore it with that much gusto (though I have hope that Archenemies will go in that direction). But Renegades excels at highlighting how the powers are not the point. As several so-called allies of Insomnia point out, “not having to sleep” is not the world’s most baller superpower. Nova proves her mettle through her ingenuity and grit. Adrian, likewise, has spun his power, which is not very useful as an offensive ability, into something that can be incredibly versatile. Even though she has come up with such an incredible diversity of prodigy powers, Meyer remains committed to a lens that depicts prodigies as people first, which is fascinating.
All in all, this is one of the more successful novels I have seen to tackle superheroes and superpowers. Much respect to Meyer for not really delving into why prodigies exist (I am filing this under “fantasy” rather than “science fiction” because it seems like magic is involved—there is certainly no attempt to justify anything with science, and some of the powers are frankly ludicrous). Love the moral ambiguity, especially surrounding Nova. The twist at the end is a bit anticlimactic yet, to be honest, delicious. I’m so glad I have the next book in front of me to read soon!
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Nova watches her parents get murdered at six years old. Instead of becoming Batman, however, she gets taken in by her uncle—who also happens to be Ace Anarchy, the most powerful and founding member of the Anarchists. These superpowered “prodigies” have wreaked havoc on Galton City. Fast forward ten years. Nova is now a teen, her uncle was murdered nine years ago by the eponymous Renegades, and she is hellbent on revenge. She hatches on a scheme whereby she infiltrates the Renegades, joining up as one of them: Insomnia. Living a double life as Insomnia to her new Renegade team and the wanted fugitive Nightmare to her Anarchist found family, Nova is a textbook case of divided loyalties. Whose side will she come down on in when it counts the most?
The opening of Renegades is great from a technical point of view. Much like an action film, we get a big, explosive set piece that introduces us to some of the main characters while getting us excited. However, as with a lot of superhero fiction, sometimes things that look great in comics or on television come across as clunky in prose. It’s one thing to show a superpower being used and another to describe it only in writing. I think this is what a lot of authors who want to write a superhero novel struggle with, and Meyer here is no exception.
What saves this book, honestly, is the strength of the interpersonal characterization. Nova and Adrian are such a great duo. They are both keeping secrets—from each other and from the people close to them. Their motivations are in lockstep, both traumatized by a close personal loss. I found some of their individual characterization a bit over the top at times—yet that kind of melodrama is probably appropriate for this subgenre.
Meyer walks a fine line in her portrayal of the Renegades. It would be easy to turn this book into a “Nova learns the Renegades were the good guys all along” parable; similarly, she could have turned it into “Ah-hah, the Renegades are the bad guys all along and have evil designs on humanity.” Without spoiling it, the truth is definitely somewhere in between. The Renegades have positive and negative qualities. Some of them are giant dicks. Some of them truly mean well. To that end, Meyer shows us how much Nova struggles as she infiltrates their ranks. She befriends her team members. Is attracted to Adrian. Genuinely adores and acts against her best interests to save Max. Yet it’s clear she hasn’t completely been converted to the Renegade cause—and honestly, that might be a good thing?
One of the themes that emerges later in the book is the idea that maybe the powers, not the prodigies who wield them, are the problem. Maybe the world would be a better place if prodigies didn’t exist as such. This is not an original theme, mind you, nor does Meyer explore it with that much gusto (though I have hope that Archenemies will go in that direction). But Renegades excels at highlighting how the powers are not the point. As several so-called allies of Insomnia point out, “not having to sleep” is not the world’s most baller superpower. Nova proves her mettle through her ingenuity and grit. Adrian, likewise, has spun his power, which is not very useful as an offensive ability, into something that can be incredibly versatile. Even though she has come up with such an incredible diversity of prodigy powers, Meyer remains committed to a lens that depicts prodigies as people first, which is fascinating.
All in all, this is one of the more successful novels I have seen to tackle superheroes and superpowers. Much respect to Meyer for not really delving into why prodigies exist (I am filing this under “fantasy” rather than “science fiction” because it seems like magic is involved—there is certainly no attempt to justify anything with science, and some of the powers are frankly ludicrous). Love the moral ambiguity, especially surrounding Nova. The twist at the end is a bit anticlimactic yet, to be honest, delicious. I’m so glad I have the next book in front of me to read soon!
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Agency by William Gibson
adventurous
hopeful
tense
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
3.0
Damn but William Gibson can write! I realize this might feel like a contradictory pronouncement to the one I made at the start of my review of The Peripheral, but I assure you the statements are compatible. I wasn’t aware of this sequel, Agency, until recently, but it was nice to pluck it from my library’s shelves. While you don’t need to have read the first book—this is a very loose sequel, with overlapping characters but not a direct connection in plot—it would help. Overall, however, I think Agency is the superior of the two novels.
Verity Jane works as an alpha tester for new apps. She agrees to test some AR glasses that include an AI assistant who is more than she (as Eunice identifies) appears to be. This quickly sinks Verity deep into plots to destroy or repossess Eunice and then get Verity out of the picture—and that is when Ainsley Lowbeer, through her intermediary of Wilf Netherton, decides to intervene from the future. Well, from a parallel future. See, Verity and Eunice exist in a “stub” continuum. It’s 2017 there, 2136 back in Wilf’s home timeline. Verity’s time has diverged from his as a result of the initial intervention—by a longtime foe of Wilf and Lowbeer’s—back in 2015. However, Verity’s timeline could still be careening towards destruction, whether it’s the jackpot or just an ol’ fashioned nuclear war. As a result, Wilf does his best to intervene.
As a writer, Gibson is really in the business of creating his own stubs. Worlds where things went a bit different from how they have in ours, where the technology is a bit different. We don’t have the cyberspace cowboys of Neuromancer, but we got the web. We don’t have the virtual reality and nanotechnology from Gibson’s Bridge trilogy, but we have related technologies. With each decade, Gibson takes his same concerns and tweaks them for the technologies of our time. Agency is no exception. Its emphasis on AI, surveillance, and the connectivity of networks—both digital and human—is notable.
I can’t tell if it’s reading The Peripheral nearly exactly a year ago or just that Gibson explains things better here, but I found this book a lot easier to follow. The narrative is also much more straightforward—whereas The Peripheral had a lot of back and forth, people from Flynne’s stub visiting Wilf’s time, etc., for the most part this just has one-way travel. There are fewer side quests, resulting in a more linear plot—not always a good thing, but a good choice here, in my opinion, for the way it allows us to focus on the two timelines and the overall story.
Ironically given its title, the main character, Verity, has very little agency of her own. From almost the moment we meet her, she is being given orders, either by Eunice or one of the members of Eunice’s hastily assembled network of operatives. It’s true that Verity chooses to go along with all of this. She seems to have some semblance of fondness for Eunice despite their short acquaintance. The irony remains, however, and I think this paradox is most easily resolved if we realize Verity is not the main character. Eunice is. Eunice is the protagonist, even if there are large swathes of the book where she isn’t around—Gibson tells us, pretty explicitly, that her branch plants are working on a lot of things in the background throughout the story. Verity is much closer to being a stock character, like Joe-Eddy or Virgil. It’s a bit of a weird narrative choice, but I guess it kind of works.
Really, though, that’s what Agency is all about. Writing prior to the COVID-19 pandemic, Gibson nevertheless presages some of this event’s effects on the world. Similarly, he anticipates the bubble of generative AI and the attendant problems this could cause—though Eunice is far more AGI than anything we could create at the moment.
Though this book is replete with the spectre of the jackpot—a Gibsonian view of the apocalypse if ever there was one, albeit also eerily probable—and all of its negative consequences, Agency, like The Peripheral, is actually really optimistic. It’s a story about people who are enthusiastic for the future—or a future. Lowbeer, Wilf, and Rainey’s palpable concern for the inhabitants of Verity’s stub, despite that past timeline in no way affecting theirs, is really touching. The same goes for the moments we get between Wilf and Rainey and with their son, Thomas, and how Wilf dotes on him as a proud dad. It’s cutesy—but it is also meant to remind us that even after an apocalypse, life goes on. We keep going. We rebuild. And, given the chance to avert that apocalypse or the equivalent thereof, some people would like to do that.
I stand by what I said last year: I think Gibson’s legacy as a writer will almost certainly be the influence he has had on science fiction as a genre more so than his novels themselves. When I express awe at Gibson’s writing ability, it’s less so for his storytelling prowess—Agency is a serviceable thriller but nothing to write home about—and more so for his ability to take our contemporary concerns and mould them into something just ever-so-slightly Other, just enough to get us to take them more seriously (I hope). Gibson is not prescient by any means; however, he does possess that excellent quality, for a science-fiction author, of being clairvoyant. He can see our present, zoom out and see the big picture for humanity, and then choose which “what if” paths to go down. Agency is one such path. If you like intrigue, action, chase sequences, and sentient AI, it’s a path you ought to read.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Verity Jane works as an alpha tester for new apps. She agrees to test some AR glasses that include an AI assistant who is more than she (as Eunice identifies) appears to be. This quickly sinks Verity deep into plots to destroy or repossess Eunice and then get Verity out of the picture—and that is when Ainsley Lowbeer, through her intermediary of Wilf Netherton, decides to intervene from the future. Well, from a parallel future. See, Verity and Eunice exist in a “stub” continuum. It’s 2017 there, 2136 back in Wilf’s home timeline. Verity’s time has diverged from his as a result of the initial intervention—by a longtime foe of Wilf and Lowbeer’s—back in 2015. However, Verity’s timeline could still be careening towards destruction, whether it’s the jackpot or just an ol’ fashioned nuclear war. As a result, Wilf does his best to intervene.
As a writer, Gibson is really in the business of creating his own stubs. Worlds where things went a bit different from how they have in ours, where the technology is a bit different. We don’t have the cyberspace cowboys of Neuromancer, but we got the web. We don’t have the virtual reality and nanotechnology from Gibson’s Bridge trilogy, but we have related technologies. With each decade, Gibson takes his same concerns and tweaks them for the technologies of our time. Agency is no exception. Its emphasis on AI, surveillance, and the connectivity of networks—both digital and human—is notable.
I can’t tell if it’s reading The Peripheral nearly exactly a year ago or just that Gibson explains things better here, but I found this book a lot easier to follow. The narrative is also much more straightforward—whereas The Peripheral had a lot of back and forth, people from Flynne’s stub visiting Wilf’s time, etc., for the most part this just has one-way travel. There are fewer side quests, resulting in a more linear plot—not always a good thing, but a good choice here, in my opinion, for the way it allows us to focus on the two timelines and the overall story.
Ironically given its title, the main character, Verity, has very little agency of her own. From almost the moment we meet her, she is being given orders, either by Eunice or one of the members of Eunice’s hastily assembled network of operatives. It’s true that Verity chooses to go along with all of this. She seems to have some semblance of fondness for Eunice despite their short acquaintance. The irony remains, however, and I think this paradox is most easily resolved if we realize Verity is not the main character. Eunice is. Eunice is the protagonist, even if there are large swathes of the book where she isn’t around—Gibson tells us, pretty explicitly, that her branch plants are working on a lot of things in the background throughout the story. Verity is much closer to being a stock character, like Joe-Eddy or Virgil. It’s a bit of a weird narrative choice, but I guess it kind of works.
Really, though, that’s what Agency is all about. Writing prior to the COVID-19 pandemic, Gibson nevertheless presages some of this event’s effects on the world. Similarly, he anticipates the bubble of generative AI and the attendant problems this could cause—though Eunice is far more AGI than anything we could create at the moment.
Though this book is replete with the spectre of the jackpot—a Gibsonian view of the apocalypse if ever there was one, albeit also eerily probable—and all of its negative consequences, Agency, like The Peripheral, is actually really optimistic. It’s a story about people who are enthusiastic for the future—or a future. Lowbeer, Wilf, and Rainey’s palpable concern for the inhabitants of Verity’s stub, despite that past timeline in no way affecting theirs, is really touching. The same goes for the moments we get between Wilf and Rainey and with their son, Thomas, and how Wilf dotes on him as a proud dad. It’s cutesy—but it is also meant to remind us that even after an apocalypse, life goes on. We keep going. We rebuild. And, given the chance to avert that apocalypse or the equivalent thereof, some people would like to do that.
I stand by what I said last year: I think Gibson’s legacy as a writer will almost certainly be the influence he has had on science fiction as a genre more so than his novels themselves. When I express awe at Gibson’s writing ability, it’s less so for his storytelling prowess—Agency is a serviceable thriller but nothing to write home about—and more so for his ability to take our contemporary concerns and mould them into something just ever-so-slightly Other, just enough to get us to take them more seriously (I hope). Gibson is not prescient by any means; however, he does possess that excellent quality, for a science-fiction author, of being clairvoyant. He can see our present, zoom out and see the big picture for humanity, and then choose which “what if” paths to go down. Agency is one such path. If you like intrigue, action, chase sequences, and sentient AI, it’s a path you ought to read.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
The Last Huntress by Lenore Borja
adventurous
emotional
mysterious
fast-paced
2.0
What would you do if you could make the world a better place and save the soul of someone you’re attracted to, but you would have to die in his place? A hero would jump at this chance, of course. The Last Huntress is a story about willingness to sacrifice and standing against powers far beyond our comprehension. Lenore Borja’s world is creative and intriguing, though I can’t say the same for the story she chooses to tell in it. I received a copy of this book in exchange for a review.
Alice finds herself initiated rather abruptly into the current generation of huntresses: women throughout history who can access the Mirror Realm and track and exorcise demons. They are trained and overseen by Cithaeron, a once-mortal man now reincarnated through the lifetimes. But things are different now. Alice might be the last huntress ever called, and she seems to have more power—that comes at more of a price—than the others. She and Cithaeron are bound up, twin flames, yet Alice’s destiny is one of self-sacrifice in exchange for Cithaeron’s soul. For lurking behind the Mirror Realm, behind our world, behind it all, is the spectre of Hades and the other Olympians.
The Last Huntress starts off like so many young adult stories. Alice is the new girl in town, and she meets a cast of peers, some of whom are boorish and awful (David) and others who become her new sisters (Olivia, Hadley, Soxie). The dialogue is trite, the action a series of set pieces, the development fairly standard. Alice’s initiation into the huntresses is as confusing for the reader as it is for her, but once she is finally in the know, the book picks up.
Borja’s creative use of Greek mythology is the best thing about this book. The parts she uses are a bit more obscure to me, but I like how she characterizes Hades and the other Greek gods. I like the lore gradually revealed, especially near the climax, of why the gods have been absent and what Hades’ master plan entails. Alas, the nature of the demons and their connection to the Mirror Realm is somewhat underdeveloped (which will be a recurring complaint from me).
We never really get a chance to settle into this world or the story. We don’t get much of an understanding of what business-as-usual is for the huntresses before Alice’s arrival throws everything off its axis. Even as Alice’s destiny unspools, Borja keeps throwing twist after twist at us as the story careens further away from its initial conditions. There’s no breathing room. There’s one memorable chapter where Alice is bonding with her fellow huntresses and having fun, but that’s about it—everything else is urgency, danger, go go go.
The romance subplot is also, as far as this aromantic chick can tell, just all right? Maybe even a bit boring? It’s supposed to be hot and heavy. But we get so little time with the two characters, and most of it is spent in crisis mode. Again, I just don’t feel invested in or connected with these characters as people.
The Last Huntress is a book with a lot of potential; it just falls flat for me. It never quite comes together into something truly memorable.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Alice finds herself initiated rather abruptly into the current generation of huntresses: women throughout history who can access the Mirror Realm and track and exorcise demons. They are trained and overseen by Cithaeron, a once-mortal man now reincarnated through the lifetimes. But things are different now. Alice might be the last huntress ever called, and she seems to have more power—that comes at more of a price—than the others. She and Cithaeron are bound up, twin flames, yet Alice’s destiny is one of self-sacrifice in exchange for Cithaeron’s soul. For lurking behind the Mirror Realm, behind our world, behind it all, is the spectre of Hades and the other Olympians.
The Last Huntress starts off like so many young adult stories. Alice is the new girl in town, and she meets a cast of peers, some of whom are boorish and awful (David) and others who become her new sisters (Olivia, Hadley, Soxie). The dialogue is trite, the action a series of set pieces, the development fairly standard. Alice’s initiation into the huntresses is as confusing for the reader as it is for her, but once she is finally in the know, the book picks up.
Borja’s creative use of Greek mythology is the best thing about this book. The parts she uses are a bit more obscure to me, but I like how she characterizes Hades and the other Greek gods. I like the lore gradually revealed, especially near the climax, of why the gods have been absent and what Hades’ master plan entails. Alas, the nature of the demons and their connection to the Mirror Realm is somewhat underdeveloped (which will be a recurring complaint from me).
We never really get a chance to settle into this world or the story. We don’t get much of an understanding of what business-as-usual is for the huntresses before Alice’s arrival throws everything off its axis. Even as Alice’s destiny unspools, Borja keeps throwing twist after twist at us as the story careens further away from its initial conditions. There’s no breathing room. There’s one memorable chapter where Alice is bonding with her fellow huntresses and having fun, but that’s about it—everything else is urgency, danger, go go go.
The romance subplot is also, as far as this aromantic chick can tell, just all right? Maybe even a bit boring? It’s supposed to be hot and heavy. But we get so little time with the two characters, and most of it is spent in crisis mode. Again, I just don’t feel invested in or connected with these characters as people.
The Last Huntress is a book with a lot of potential; it just falls flat for me. It never quite comes together into something truly memorable.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Undoing Border Imperialism by Harsha Walia, Syed Khalid Hussan, Andrea Smith
challenging
informative
inspiring
slow-paced
4.0
Although over a decade old at this point, Undoing Border Imperialism still feels relevant today in 2024—maybe even more urgent and important than it was when Harsha Walia first wrote and assembled it. Part how-to, part manifesto, part oral history, this compact volume works hard to syncretize different modes of resistance, from academic theory to grassroots activism. It is a volume I sorely needed to read as I navigate my own journey trying to figure out how to be a more effective, more participatory activist.
The core of this book looks at resistance against the Canadian state via NOII (No One Is Illegal), and specifically the NOII-Vancouver branch in which Walia has participated. Though focused therefore on migrant justice, fights against deportation, etc., Walia explicitly addresses the need for intersectionality, particularly with regards to Indigenous self-determination and sovereignty, as well as anticapitalism. She discusses her own experience occasionally. However, she focuses mainly on what NOII has accomplished, how the NOII groups have functioned, and what advice she or other activists she has interviewed would give to people looking to be more involved in this advocacy. The result is impressively well-organized, incisive, and inspiring.
I appreciate how Walia makes space for different lenses of activism. The book starts grounded in theory before branching out into practice, and Walia notes the tension between these two worlds. As someone whose background is heavily academic, intellectual, rational, part of my work is unlearning some of these modes of thinking, expanding my perspective so I better understand what it is like to do work on the ground. At the same time, Walia cites a lot of theorists, scholars, and writers whose names I had never heard or whose work I haven’t read. There is so much more for me to learn!
Probably the most enlightening chapter for me personally was “Overgrowing Hegemony: Grassroots Theory” (see what Walia did there, lol). Walia criticizes NGOs for being reliant on funding from governments or institutions that, in turn, might expect them to be less radical. She contrasts this with the model of NOII and other, more fluid groups. This analysis really helped me understand why I have felt disappointed in a local collective that I initially thought could be more radical than it turned out to be—they are organized as a nonprofit, with a board, etc. Walia sounds the alarm that the path towards respectability and campaigns for mainstream reform can be tempting but fraught with problems.
At the same time, Undoing Border Imperialism does not pretend that NOII or similar groups are utopian. Walia is honest about the challenges of operating such groups, the unspoken hierarchies that can emerge, and the need often to work alongside other groups who don’t always share your values. This latter point was interesting to me. We are so polarized, and the Left has a serious problem right now with purity culture and eating itself, especially on social media. Walia’s approach is practical, compassionate, but also grounded in an unflinching commitment to her group’s core principles. Her point is that you can align on strategy without expecting one hundred percent concordance on beliefs. However, she also stresses that there is no one-size-fits-all solution to working alongside diverse groups. It’s always going to be a conversation—and that is so important too.
I must admit I don’t know a ton about migrant justice issues in Canada. I learned some from reading Policing Black Lives, and I have been trying to follow the conversation around the temporary foreign worker program. Our society doesn’t seem like it is interested in having a serious discussion, however, about the racism and xenophobia within Canada; we are too interested in pretending we are so much more welcoming and inclusive than the United States. Walia and other activists whose voices are included in this book are very critical of Canada as a nation-state. As they should be. Undoing Border Imperialism might not radicalize you by itself, but it is a fantastic resource on your path to further radicalization.
Ultimately, this is a book that encourages action rather than armchairing. If you want to learn more about signing petitions and posting on social media, this book is not for you. I can’t claim I am going to immediately go out and start hanging out with my local activists and putting my body on the line in direct action—I’d love to say that, but it would be untrue. But this is a book that shows you how direct action works in concert, not in opposition, with other forms of resistance.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
The core of this book looks at resistance against the Canadian state via NOII (No One Is Illegal), and specifically the NOII-Vancouver branch in which Walia has participated. Though focused therefore on migrant justice, fights against deportation, etc., Walia explicitly addresses the need for intersectionality, particularly with regards to Indigenous self-determination and sovereignty, as well as anticapitalism. She discusses her own experience occasionally. However, she focuses mainly on what NOII has accomplished, how the NOII groups have functioned, and what advice she or other activists she has interviewed would give to people looking to be more involved in this advocacy. The result is impressively well-organized, incisive, and inspiring.
I appreciate how Walia makes space for different lenses of activism. The book starts grounded in theory before branching out into practice, and Walia notes the tension between these two worlds. As someone whose background is heavily academic, intellectual, rational, part of my work is unlearning some of these modes of thinking, expanding my perspective so I better understand what it is like to do work on the ground. At the same time, Walia cites a lot of theorists, scholars, and writers whose names I had never heard or whose work I haven’t read. There is so much more for me to learn!
Probably the most enlightening chapter for me personally was “Overgrowing Hegemony: Grassroots Theory” (see what Walia did there, lol). Walia criticizes NGOs for being reliant on funding from governments or institutions that, in turn, might expect them to be less radical. She contrasts this with the model of NOII and other, more fluid groups. This analysis really helped me understand why I have felt disappointed in a local collective that I initially thought could be more radical than it turned out to be—they are organized as a nonprofit, with a board, etc. Walia sounds the alarm that the path towards respectability and campaigns for mainstream reform can be tempting but fraught with problems.
At the same time, Undoing Border Imperialism does not pretend that NOII or similar groups are utopian. Walia is honest about the challenges of operating such groups, the unspoken hierarchies that can emerge, and the need often to work alongside other groups who don’t always share your values. This latter point was interesting to me. We are so polarized, and the Left has a serious problem right now with purity culture and eating itself, especially on social media. Walia’s approach is practical, compassionate, but also grounded in an unflinching commitment to her group’s core principles. Her point is that you can align on strategy without expecting one hundred percent concordance on beliefs. However, she also stresses that there is no one-size-fits-all solution to working alongside diverse groups. It’s always going to be a conversation—and that is so important too.
I must admit I don’t know a ton about migrant justice issues in Canada. I learned some from reading Policing Black Lives, and I have been trying to follow the conversation around the temporary foreign worker program. Our society doesn’t seem like it is interested in having a serious discussion, however, about the racism and xenophobia within Canada; we are too interested in pretending we are so much more welcoming and inclusive than the United States. Walia and other activists whose voices are included in this book are very critical of Canada as a nation-state. As they should be. Undoing Border Imperialism might not radicalize you by itself, but it is a fantastic resource on your path to further radicalization.
Ultimately, this is a book that encourages action rather than armchairing. If you want to learn more about signing petitions and posting on social media, this book is not for you. I can’t claim I am going to immediately go out and start hanging out with my local activists and putting my body on the line in direct action—I’d love to say that, but it would be untrue. But this is a book that shows you how direct action works in concert, not in opposition, with other forms of resistance.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.