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tachyondecay's reviews
2030 reviews
New Adventures in Space Opera by Jonathan Strahan
adventurous
emotional
hopeful
lighthearted
reflective
sad
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.0
Years and years ago, I said that my love for space opera was dimming. Space opera has always been one step away from science fantasy, of course, but I was getting bored with how same same all the nanotech-fuelled, AI-high stories seemed to feel. In the last couple of years, something has changed. I don’t know if it is me or the field or both, but I have been loving space opera again! When I opened my eARC of New Adventures in Space Opera, provided by Tachyon Publications in exchange for this review, I was pleasantly surprised by how many of the names I recognized among the contributors.
The book lifts off with Jonathan Strahan’s introduction, which provides escape velocity. He puts into words a lot of what I was feeling, described above, crystallizing how it feels like we are definitely in a new vogue of this subgenre. The military science fiction of the nineties and early 2000s is metamorphosing into a decolonial, or at least postcolonial, attempt at deconstructing the imperialist sides of space opera. I think that is what most fascinates me about the subgenre. Beyond that, however, I think the way authors are exploring how advanced tech and a sprawling, galactic humanity might reshape our understanding of personhood and autonomy has changed for the better. The Big Ideas are becoming more complex, more nuanced, than in decades previous. That isn’t to trash science fiction or space opera from before—but like any genre, science fiction must be responsive to its times. These new adventures feel different in the right way for the world in which we currently live.
The anthology opens with a banger, “Zen and the Art of Starship Maintenance,” by Tobias S. Buckell. It ends with an astrophysical twist which is clever but doesn’t exactly feel all that original, so your mileage may vary. What actually intrigued me more about the story is its handling of the idea of free will. The main character is a maintenance intelligence that is basically a copy of an uploaded human; when they uploaded themself, they signed a contract that removed their free will. At the same time, they seem to have plenty of autonomy, which is an intriguing paradox.
These meditations on personhood continue in “Belladonna Nights,” by Alastair Reynolds; “Metal Like Blood in the Dark,” by T. Kingfisher; and “A Good Heretic,” by Becky Chambers. These stories all variously have either nonhuman or transhuman protagonists and, as such, truly stretch one’s imagination when it comes to understanding how such protagonists navigate and learn concepts—like deceit—we humans take for granted.
Some of the stories are more prosaic. “Extracurricular Activities,” by Yoon Ha Lee, follows a young Shuos Jedao (one of the main characters from Lee’s Machineries of Empire series) on a special op. “A Temporary Embarrassment in Spacetime” by Charlie Jane Anders feels very season 3 Star Trek, if you know what I mean, and I can’t say I loved it, but I understand what she’s going for. “Planetstuck,” by Sam J. Miller, is a little melancholy and haunting.
I bounced off a few of the stories hard. Lavie Tidhar continues to be an author who I think is just not for me, nor did I really follow “Morrigan in the Sunglare,” by Seth Dickinson. I liked Arkady Martine’s “All the Colors You Thought Were Kings”—it was interesting reading this as a contrast to her Teixcalaan duology that I just recently finished. That being said, I think the theme I got from the story—that we are doomed to be assimilated into oppressive, imperalist institutions if we think we can change them from within—isn’t sufficiently explored, even for a short story. Similarly, “The Last Voyage of Skidbladnir,” while rich in pathos and imagination, didn’t intrigue me or excite me that much.
All of this is to say: this is a varied collection. It’s unlikely you will enjoy them all, but you will probably enjoy some (hopefully most) of these stories—maybe the ones I didn’t like as much are the ones you’ll love! That there is probably something for every science-fiction reader in this anthology is a testament not only to Strahan and Tachyon’s curatorial skills but also to the cornucopia of space opera available these days, especially in shorter forms. And as much as I am less enamoured by slower stories like “The Last Voyage of Skidbladnir,” I really want to emphasize that I don’t think those stories are any less worthy of celebration or inclusion—space opera should not just be bang-bang-big-shoot-em-up-in-space! There is room for and value in stories that focus more on inner lives, on relationships, on giant space crabs!
Anthologies are always hit-or-miss for me, yet I had a feeling New Adventures in Space Opera would be more hit than miss. Maybe I just read it at the right time. Whatever the case, I was right. This book is just fuelling the fire stoked by my recent reads in the subgenre and leaving me hungry for more, more, more.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
The book lifts off with Jonathan Strahan’s introduction, which provides escape velocity. He puts into words a lot of what I was feeling, described above, crystallizing how it feels like we are definitely in a new vogue of this subgenre. The military science fiction of the nineties and early 2000s is metamorphosing into a decolonial, or at least postcolonial, attempt at deconstructing the imperialist sides of space opera. I think that is what most fascinates me about the subgenre. Beyond that, however, I think the way authors are exploring how advanced tech and a sprawling, galactic humanity might reshape our understanding of personhood and autonomy has changed for the better. The Big Ideas are becoming more complex, more nuanced, than in decades previous. That isn’t to trash science fiction or space opera from before—but like any genre, science fiction must be responsive to its times. These new adventures feel different in the right way for the world in which we currently live.
The anthology opens with a banger, “Zen and the Art of Starship Maintenance,” by Tobias S. Buckell. It ends with an astrophysical twist which is clever but doesn’t exactly feel all that original, so your mileage may vary. What actually intrigued me more about the story is its handling of the idea of free will. The main character is a maintenance intelligence that is basically a copy of an uploaded human; when they uploaded themself, they signed a contract that removed their free will. At the same time, they seem to have plenty of autonomy, which is an intriguing paradox.
These meditations on personhood continue in “Belladonna Nights,” by Alastair Reynolds; “Metal Like Blood in the Dark,” by T. Kingfisher; and “A Good Heretic,” by Becky Chambers. These stories all variously have either nonhuman or transhuman protagonists and, as such, truly stretch one’s imagination when it comes to understanding how such protagonists navigate and learn concepts—like deceit—we humans take for granted.
Some of the stories are more prosaic. “Extracurricular Activities,” by Yoon Ha Lee, follows a young Shuos Jedao (one of the main characters from Lee’s Machineries of Empire series) on a special op. “A Temporary Embarrassment in Spacetime” by Charlie Jane Anders feels very season 3 Star Trek, if you know what I mean, and I can’t say I loved it, but I understand what she’s going for. “Planetstuck,” by Sam J. Miller, is a little melancholy and haunting.
I bounced off a few of the stories hard. Lavie Tidhar continues to be an author who I think is just not for me, nor did I really follow “Morrigan in the Sunglare,” by Seth Dickinson. I liked Arkady Martine’s “All the Colors You Thought Were Kings”—it was interesting reading this as a contrast to her Teixcalaan duology that I just recently finished. That being said, I think the theme I got from the story—that we are doomed to be assimilated into oppressive, imperalist institutions if we think we can change them from within—isn’t sufficiently explored, even for a short story. Similarly, “The Last Voyage of Skidbladnir,” while rich in pathos and imagination, didn’t intrigue me or excite me that much.
All of this is to say: this is a varied collection. It’s unlikely you will enjoy them all, but you will probably enjoy some (hopefully most) of these stories—maybe the ones I didn’t like as much are the ones you’ll love! That there is probably something for every science-fiction reader in this anthology is a testament not only to Strahan and Tachyon’s curatorial skills but also to the cornucopia of space opera available these days, especially in shorter forms. And as much as I am less enamoured by slower stories like “The Last Voyage of Skidbladnir,” I really want to emphasize that I don’t think those stories are any less worthy of celebration or inclusion—space opera should not just be bang-bang-big-shoot-em-up-in-space! There is room for and value in stories that focus more on inner lives, on relationships, on giant space crabs!
Anthologies are always hit-or-miss for me, yet I had a feeling New Adventures in Space Opera would be more hit than miss. Maybe I just read it at the right time. Whatever the case, I was right. This book is just fuelling the fire stoked by my recent reads in the subgenre and leaving me hungry for more, more, more.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin
emotional
reflective
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
1.0
That’s it, no more Gabrielle Zevin for Kara. Granted it had been fifteen years since the last book I had read by her. Moreover, both of the books I’ve read have been YA novels. So maybe I could be forgiven for talking myself into trying Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, given the hype it has received. Sometimes the hype is worth it, and I shout, “Why did you all let me sleep on this?”
Today is not one of those days, my friends. I did not enjoy this book, and the only reason I’m not giving it one star is because I am much kinder than twenty-year-old Kara was with her ratings.
Sam Masur is working on a math degree at Harvard when he reconnects with Sadie Green, his onetime friend from childhood in Los Angeles, who is now attending MIT to design video games. Sam and Sadie start working on a video game together, which propels them into a lifelong career. Sam’s roommate, Marx, joins them as the business leg of their tripod. As the sands of time, etc., the three experience the vicissitudes of life, love, and game design. Sam and Sadie quarrel and reconcile, Sam deals with disability, Sadie with sexism, both of them with loss. Marx is pretty much the only tolerable thing about this book.
Now, I do have some words of praise! First, although I’m not really qualified to comment on it, I liked Zevin’s portrayal of disability through Sam and his foot. It feels good to see this foregrounded in a way that shows the complexity of Sam’s condition. He is neither a saint nor a martyr; there is no disability porn here, nor is there a magical moment of Sam becoming a better person. It’s hard to write unsympathetic characters (which is what I found Sam to be) who are also disabled, and I want to emphasize that I found Sam’s unsympathetic nature to be separate from his disabled status. For what it is worth, I thought Sadie is super unsympathetic too.
Oh wait, I am supposed to be compliment still. Damn it. Let me try this again.
Another highlight of Tomorrow, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow is the setting of a video game studio. Again, since I was a baby when most of this stuff happened, I am not the most qualified to comment. Still, I thought the depiction of nineties and early 2000s video game development was spiritually accurate if not factually accurate. Zevin captures the infectious enthusiasm that was the zeitgeist of the industry. These decades were a tipping point when PCs had started to saturate households and their capabilities had improved just enough to really do some amazing things (for the time) with graphics, yet such developments were expensive and time-consuming. The push-pull tension between “video games are art” and “video games are consumer products” feels very real and truthful, and I enjoyed these facets of the plot. That being said, if you thought this book was about video games, you are wrong.
Sam and Sadie’s relationship is the heart of this novel, and I really wanted to love it. Though there are elements of longing, theirs is ultimately a platonic relationship. As an aromantic asexual reader, it’s so valuable for me to see platonic relationships foregrounded as equal to romantic relationships. It feels like Zevin is trying to do that here, albeit in a messy and very unsatisfying way. Which is ultimately why, despite this positive aspect of the book, I can’t really say I enjoyed it.
See, Sam and Sadie suck. They are just terrible people.
I think Zevin knows this. I think she wants us to think they are terrible people but also sympathize with them because, hey, aren’t we all? Isn’t that the point of life, haha, we all hurt each other but we can kiss and makeup and move on?
About the third or fourth time Sam and Sadie had a falling out, I felt like I was watching one of those TV shows where the two leads are stuck in a will-they/won’t-they for seven seasons because writers have forgotten how to write tension into will-they relationships. Only in this case, it’s watching a friendship circle the drain. I get it—sometimes friends fight and don’t talk for years and then reconcile! I am old enough to finally grasp what friendship can be in all its glorious diversity, including the turbulence of decades. But why, Sam? Why, Sadie? You just keep hurting each other like moths drawn to a flame that arms them with chainsaws and then sets them against one another.
But let’s say you’re into chainsaw moth fights. Let’s say you are buying what Zevin is selling with the Sam/Sadie arc. OK, cool.
Can we talk about the writing?
The writing is clunky, and in particular, the sex scenes are just … wow. The best way I could describe it to a friend was that the author, a cis woman, writes sex scenes like a cis man—by which I mean, even when the perspective is focused on a woman’s sexual experience, the scene feels like it’s written by someone who has no idea what a woman’s sexual experience is like. Don’t believe me? I will hit you with a small dose. Brace yourself:
Today is not one of those days, my friends. I did not enjoy this book, and the only reason I’m not giving it one star is because I am much kinder than twenty-year-old Kara was with her ratings.
Sam Masur is working on a math degree at Harvard when he reconnects with Sadie Green, his onetime friend from childhood in Los Angeles, who is now attending MIT to design video games. Sam and Sadie start working on a video game together, which propels them into a lifelong career. Sam’s roommate, Marx, joins them as the business leg of their tripod. As the sands of time, etc., the three experience the vicissitudes of life, love, and game design. Sam and Sadie quarrel and reconcile, Sam deals with disability, Sadie with sexism, both of them with loss. Marx is pretty much the only tolerable thing about this book.
Now, I do have some words of praise! First, although I’m not really qualified to comment on it, I liked Zevin’s portrayal of disability through Sam and his foot. It feels good to see this foregrounded in a way that shows the complexity of Sam’s condition. He is neither a saint nor a martyr; there is no disability porn here, nor is there a magical moment of Sam becoming a better person. It’s hard to write unsympathetic characters (which is what I found Sam to be) who are also disabled, and I want to emphasize that I found Sam’s unsympathetic nature to be separate from his disabled status. For what it is worth, I thought Sadie is super unsympathetic too.
Oh wait, I am supposed to be compliment still. Damn it. Let me try this again.
Another highlight of Tomorrow, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow is the setting of a video game studio. Again, since I was a baby when most of this stuff happened, I am not the most qualified to comment. Still, I thought the depiction of nineties and early 2000s video game development was spiritually accurate if not factually accurate. Zevin captures the infectious enthusiasm that was the zeitgeist of the industry. These decades were a tipping point when PCs had started to saturate households and their capabilities had improved just enough to really do some amazing things (for the time) with graphics, yet such developments were expensive and time-consuming. The push-pull tension between “video games are art” and “video games are consumer products” feels very real and truthful, and I enjoyed these facets of the plot. That being said, if you thought this book was about video games, you are wrong.
Sam and Sadie’s relationship is the heart of this novel, and I really wanted to love it. Though there are elements of longing, theirs is ultimately a platonic relationship. As an aromantic asexual reader, it’s so valuable for me to see platonic relationships foregrounded as equal to romantic relationships. It feels like Zevin is trying to do that here, albeit in a messy and very unsatisfying way. Which is ultimately why, despite this positive aspect of the book, I can’t really say I enjoyed it.
See, Sam and Sadie suck. They are just terrible people.
I think Zevin knows this. I think she wants us to think they are terrible people but also sympathize with them because, hey, aren’t we all? Isn’t that the point of life, haha, we all hurt each other but we can kiss and makeup and move on?
About the third or fourth time Sam and Sadie had a falling out, I felt like I was watching one of those TV shows where the two leads are stuck in a will-they/won’t-they for seven seasons because writers have forgotten how to write tension into will-they relationships. Only in this case, it’s watching a friendship circle the drain. I get it—sometimes friends fight and don’t talk for years and then reconcile! I am old enough to finally grasp what friendship can be in all its glorious diversity, including the turbulence of decades. But why, Sam? Why, Sadie? You just keep hurting each other like moths drawn to a flame that arms them with chainsaws and then sets them against one another.
But let’s say you’re into chainsaw moth fights. Let’s say you are buying what Zevin is selling with the Sam/Sadie arc. OK, cool.
Can we talk about the writing?
The writing is clunky, and in particular, the sex scenes are just … wow. The best way I could describe it to a friend was that the author, a cis woman, writes sex scenes like a cis man—by which I mean, even when the perspective is focused on a woman’s sexual experience, the scene feels like it’s written by someone who has no idea what a woman’s sexual experience is like. Don’t believe me? I will hit you with a small dose. Brace yourself:
she put her hand between his legs, wrapping her fingers around the cylindrical chamber of blood sponges that was his (and every) penis
Well, I can’t erase that phrase from my mind and now neither can you!
Zevin cheerfully glosses over an incredibly abusive relationship—doesn’t deny it, mind you; Sadie and the others acknowledge it as abusive and it’s actually one of the many bombs that go off in her and Sam’s friendship. But Dov also gets to be smarmy, “haha, yes, I know I am a fuckboi, aren’t I incorrigible?” Similarly, Zevin orchestrates a gun-violence subplot that has all the emotional resonance of a sledgehammer against concrete. Oh, and that casually upbeat reference to “the creation of Israel” hits different in August 2024, and while I wouldn’t go so far as to dunk on this book for being Zionist like some have and don’t know much about Zevin herself, all I can say is … yeah, not a good look.
I am certain the critical defence of all this is simply “that’s the point, Kara.” Zevin doesn’t acknowledge the depth of these moments because this is supposed to be one of those books where “life happens.” It’s all literary and pretentious and shit, like she’s Douglas Coupland mixed with Philip Roth.
And I don’t. Care.
If Zevin is master of anything, it’s banality. Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow is boring. It has all the ingredients of a deep and important book. It wants you to think it’s saying a lot by not saying much at all, hoping you will fill in the blanks yourself rather than realizing there is nothing to read between the lines. But this book is nothing more than a long, empty promise.
Oh look, I talked myself into giving it one star. Is 2009 Kara coming back with a vengeance? Incidentally, this is my 2000th book review published on this my review website. When I was pondering if I should do something to mark the occasion, maybe pick a particularly special book, it never occurred to me that if I left the book to chance, it would end up being a one-star review. But I guess that is its own kind of special.
If I ever pick up another Gabrielle Zevin novel, please smack it out of my hands, OK?
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Zevin cheerfully glosses over an incredibly abusive relationship—doesn’t deny it, mind you; Sadie and the others acknowledge it as abusive and it’s actually one of the many bombs that go off in her and Sam’s friendship. But Dov also gets to be smarmy, “haha, yes, I know I am a fuckboi, aren’t I incorrigible?” Similarly, Zevin orchestrates a gun-violence subplot that has all the emotional resonance of a sledgehammer against concrete. Oh, and that casually upbeat reference to “the creation of Israel” hits different in August 2024, and while I wouldn’t go so far as to dunk on this book for being Zionist like some have and don’t know much about Zevin herself, all I can say is … yeah, not a good look.
I am certain the critical defence of all this is simply “that’s the point, Kara.” Zevin doesn’t acknowledge the depth of these moments because this is supposed to be one of those books where “life happens.” It’s all literary and pretentious and shit, like she’s Douglas Coupland mixed with Philip Roth.
And I don’t. Care.
If Zevin is master of anything, it’s banality. Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow is boring. It has all the ingredients of a deep and important book. It wants you to think it’s saying a lot by not saying much at all, hoping you will fill in the blanks yourself rather than realizing there is nothing to read between the lines. But this book is nothing more than a long, empty promise.
Oh look, I talked myself into giving it one star. Is 2009 Kara coming back with a vengeance? Incidentally, this is my 2000th book review published on this my review website. When I was pondering if I should do something to mark the occasion, maybe pick a particularly special book, it never occurred to me that if I left the book to chance, it would end up being a one-star review. But I guess that is its own kind of special.
If I ever pick up another Gabrielle Zevin novel, please smack it out of my hands, OK?
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
The Rules by Stacey Kade
dark
mysterious
tense
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
2.0
Look, I knew The Rules would be a long shot from the moment I laid eyes on it, but I was bored and plucked it from the obscurity of the YA stacks at my library because why not. I feel like I have fallen off the YA wagon lately; I have only read three in the past year, so I was rather starving. Stacey Kade is not a name I recognized, but the plot seemed decent enough, and even though I suspected it would be a dud, I hoped it might at least have its moments. Which … sort of?
Ariane Tucker is a human–alien hybrid living under the assumed identity of the deceased daughter of the man who broke her out of captivity at GTX, the evil corporate villain of this book. Aside from life on the lam, Ariane is your typical junior—or she would be, if she didn’t slavishly follow the eponymous Rules. Invented by her “father” to help her fly under the radar lest GTX locate her and take her back into custody, the Rules help Ariane survive but are also a serious buzzkill. Until now, Ariane has never minded them. But when Rachel “Generic Mean Girl Du Jour” Jacobs bullies Ariane’s friend and Ariane retaliates, bringing her into the orbit of Zane “You’re Not Like Other Girls” Bradshaw, sparks fly and the Rules go out the window.
Look, I don’t want to be too harsh on this book, so let’s start with some good news: this book isn’t bad; it’s just OK. It’s the kind of YA novel that, if you read enough of this vibe, is eminently predictable—yet Kade deserves credit at least for managing to hit each beat. If each of the remaining two books in this trilogy (I won’t be reading the rest) sticks the landing in the same way, this is a solid serialized story that I could see myself loving more at fifteen. Storywise, The Rules is an exemplar of a novel that has all the working parts … just none of the heart that really gets to your core.
There are two major flaws with this book, and they are connected: the characterization and the writing overall.
None of these characters, Ariane included, are remotely interesting human beings. Though there are attempts at making them round and dynamic characters, these mostly result in each person falling back into an archetype, as I mocked above. Zane Bradshaw wants to be played by High School Musical–age Zac Efron but would probably be a Disney Channel Shia LaBeouf if he’s lucky. Jenna is a spaghetti noodle of a best friend type. Ariane’s father has, like, six lines until the climax of the novel. Split between Ariane and Zane’s first-person narration, The Rules should be full of dramatic irony and a lot of tension as Zane sleuths out Ariane’s secret. At the very least, there should be some sparkage, some romantic will-they-won’t-they drama. No. It’s Snoozeville over here, and Ariane and Zane are co-mayors.
Even that by itself might still make this a worthwhile slog. But then at the start of a later chapter Kade hits us with a “I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.” Literally. Word for word. In 2014. It’s not Kade’s fault, really; one of her editors should have caught this cliché, collected it carefully, and then marched it out back for its summary execution. This darling was not killed, however, and it’s emblematic of the writing in The Rules: this might be the most YA-iest YA novel I have read in a while, as if Kade sat down and, David Eddings style, plotted out beat-for-beat what a conspiracy SF YA novel should look like.
As I said above, in and of itself that is not a bad thing (David Eddings was my hook into fantasy, and maybe Kade’s books will be some young person’s hook into SF). There’s something to be said for hitting every beat. Alas, this kind of rote storytelling doesn’t do much for me these days, nor does it make me excited to recommend this to younger readers. The Rules is too good at following its own rules, and like Ariane up until the events of this book, it is too good at flying under the radar.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Ariane Tucker is a human–alien hybrid living under the assumed identity of the deceased daughter of the man who broke her out of captivity at GTX, the evil corporate villain of this book. Aside from life on the lam, Ariane is your typical junior—or she would be, if she didn’t slavishly follow the eponymous Rules. Invented by her “father” to help her fly under the radar lest GTX locate her and take her back into custody, the Rules help Ariane survive but are also a serious buzzkill. Until now, Ariane has never minded them. But when Rachel “Generic Mean Girl Du Jour” Jacobs bullies Ariane’s friend and Ariane retaliates, bringing her into the orbit of Zane “You’re Not Like Other Girls” Bradshaw, sparks fly and the Rules go out the window.
Look, I don’t want to be too harsh on this book, so let’s start with some good news: this book isn’t bad; it’s just OK. It’s the kind of YA novel that, if you read enough of this vibe, is eminently predictable—yet Kade deserves credit at least for managing to hit each beat. If each of the remaining two books in this trilogy (I won’t be reading the rest) sticks the landing in the same way, this is a solid serialized story that I could see myself loving more at fifteen. Storywise, The Rules is an exemplar of a novel that has all the working parts … just none of the heart that really gets to your core.
There are two major flaws with this book, and they are connected: the characterization and the writing overall.
None of these characters, Ariane included, are remotely interesting human beings. Though there are attempts at making them round and dynamic characters, these mostly result in each person falling back into an archetype, as I mocked above. Zane Bradshaw wants to be played by High School Musical–age Zac Efron but would probably be a Disney Channel Shia LaBeouf if he’s lucky. Jenna is a spaghetti noodle of a best friend type. Ariane’s father has, like, six lines until the climax of the novel. Split between Ariane and Zane’s first-person narration, The Rules should be full of dramatic irony and a lot of tension as Zane sleuths out Ariane’s secret. At the very least, there should be some sparkage, some romantic will-they-won’t-they drama. No. It’s Snoozeville over here, and Ariane and Zane are co-mayors.
Even that by itself might still make this a worthwhile slog. But then at the start of a later chapter Kade hits us with a “I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.” Literally. Word for word. In 2014. It’s not Kade’s fault, really; one of her editors should have caught this cliché, collected it carefully, and then marched it out back for its summary execution. This darling was not killed, however, and it’s emblematic of the writing in The Rules: this might be the most YA-iest YA novel I have read in a while, as if Kade sat down and, David Eddings style, plotted out beat-for-beat what a conspiracy SF YA novel should look like.
As I said above, in and of itself that is not a bad thing (David Eddings was my hook into fantasy, and maybe Kade’s books will be some young person’s hook into SF). There’s something to be said for hitting every beat. Alas, this kind of rote storytelling doesn’t do much for me these days, nor does it make me excited to recommend this to younger readers. The Rules is too good at following its own rules, and like Ariane up until the events of this book, it is too good at flying under the radar.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
A Desolation Called Peace by Arkady Martine
adventurous
hopeful
mysterious
tense
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.0
As mentioned in my review of the first book, I ordered A Desolation Called Peace from my indie bookshop about thirty pages into A Memory Called Empire. The result? Arkady Martine is one hell of a writer. This sequel forms the conclusion of a tight duology.
Spoilers for the first book but not for this one.
Mahit Dzmare has returned to her home, Lsel Station, after barely a week as the Lsel Ambassador to Teixcalaan. She is immediately mired in the politics of Lsel’s ruling council—one of the councillors wants to forcibly remove her imago machine; another might be an ally to her but might not, and so on. No one else knows Mahit actually has two imagos—two different versions of the previous ambassador, Yskander, in her head. Meanwhile, her one-time liaison, Three Seagrass, assigns herself to a dangerous mission on the frontlines of the Teixcalaan military action against an unknown alien force. Three Seagrass and Mahit soon reunite, and this time the stakes aren’t just the Teixcalaan Empire, but perhaps Lsel Station and all of humanity.
Whereas the first book hews closely to Mahit’s point of view, Martine opens up the narration in A Desolation Called Peace. In addition to following Mahit, we are treated to limited third-person perspectives of Fleet Captain Nine Hibiscus, Three Seagrass, and Imperial Heir Eight Antidote. She keeps the writing narration-heavy yet exposition-light, a paradoxical style I truly appreciate. You get to luxuriate within the world of Teixcalaan—often from Mahit’s point of view as ambivalent outsider—without feeling like you are receiving an intense crash course in imperial history. The increase in perspectives, however, allows Martine to explore and build out this story to a more epic scale.
Mahit and Three Seagrass are goals, a fantastic OTP, no notes.
I also love them both as protagonists, and I was surprised by how much I enjoyed Nine Hibiscus. The stuff with Twenty Cicada, aka Swarm, was a bit predictable but still satisfying. Eight Antidote annoyed me a bit and was giving child prodigy (but not in a good way). This is where the narration-heavy style lets me down, for the book often delves too deep, in my opinion, into things like Eight Antidote’s reasoning and motivation. There is far more telling than showing in this book. I’m not against that, but your mileage may vary depending on which character the book is following in any given chapter.
On one level, this is a story about first contact, about a threat to the neverending expansion of empire, about the travails of translation and interpretation with something truly alien. I thought Martine telegraphed the nature of the aliens pretty obviously from the start, so little about the mystery of how to communicate with them interested me. At the same time, I liked the fleet politics and the conflict between Mahit and Three Seagrass. Somehow, Martine balances all these disparate subplots, keeps all the plates spinning, in a very satisfying way.
On another level, this is a story about creating the future. Reluctantly, this is where I admit Eight Antidote shines. For a culture built on war and conflict and blood, Teixcalaan struggles sometimes with the idea that it is good to be at peace. Eight Antidote’s certain rejection of conflict is heartening, reading this now in 2024 with the world the way it is. I appreciate the grand themes Martine is getting at here. The internecine plots within the Empire’s ruling class are so deliciously crafted and such fun to follow. There are people who would plunge Teixcalaan deep, deep into war just to further their ambitions, and it is startling, albeit not surprising.
On a third level, this is a story about loving people. Whether it’s Nine Hibiscus’s longstanding platonic bond with Twenty Cicada, Mahit and Three Seagrass’s tenuous romantic connection, or Eight Antidote’s opaque relationship with Nineteen Adze, Martine shows us so many different types of love and care. The desolation in A Desolation Called Peace includes, I think, the fact that peacetime is when we realize what—who—we have lost. In war, there is no time to mourn the dead. Afterwards, the emotional valence of our lost loved ones—whether they are dead or simply have left—is felt more fully. If the majority of this book is a tense thriller, the denouement is a rewarding, bittersweet, hopeful coda.
If you liked A Memory Called Empire, you will like and must read this sequel—and you should definitely read the first book before you read this one. I will gladly consume any more stories Martine gives us in this universe, and perhaps any more that she creates.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Spoilers for the first book but not for this one.
Mahit Dzmare has returned to her home, Lsel Station, after barely a week as the Lsel Ambassador to Teixcalaan. She is immediately mired in the politics of Lsel’s ruling council—one of the councillors wants to forcibly remove her imago machine; another might be an ally to her but might not, and so on. No one else knows Mahit actually has two imagos—two different versions of the previous ambassador, Yskander, in her head. Meanwhile, her one-time liaison, Three Seagrass, assigns herself to a dangerous mission on the frontlines of the Teixcalaan military action against an unknown alien force. Three Seagrass and Mahit soon reunite, and this time the stakes aren’t just the Teixcalaan Empire, but perhaps Lsel Station and all of humanity.
Whereas the first book hews closely to Mahit’s point of view, Martine opens up the narration in A Desolation Called Peace. In addition to following Mahit, we are treated to limited third-person perspectives of Fleet Captain Nine Hibiscus, Three Seagrass, and Imperial Heir Eight Antidote. She keeps the writing narration-heavy yet exposition-light, a paradoxical style I truly appreciate. You get to luxuriate within the world of Teixcalaan—often from Mahit’s point of view as ambivalent outsider—without feeling like you are receiving an intense crash course in imperial history. The increase in perspectives, however, allows Martine to explore and build out this story to a more epic scale.
Mahit and Three Seagrass are goals, a fantastic OTP, no notes.
I also love them both as protagonists, and I was surprised by how much I enjoyed Nine Hibiscus. The stuff with Twenty Cicada, aka Swarm, was a bit predictable but still satisfying. Eight Antidote annoyed me a bit and was giving child prodigy (but not in a good way). This is where the narration-heavy style lets me down, for the book often delves too deep, in my opinion, into things like Eight Antidote’s reasoning and motivation. There is far more telling than showing in this book. I’m not against that, but your mileage may vary depending on which character the book is following in any given chapter.
On one level, this is a story about first contact, about a threat to the neverending expansion of empire, about the travails of translation and interpretation with something truly alien. I thought Martine telegraphed the nature of the aliens pretty obviously from the start, so little about the mystery of how to communicate with them interested me. At the same time, I liked the fleet politics and the conflict between Mahit and Three Seagrass. Somehow, Martine balances all these disparate subplots, keeps all the plates spinning, in a very satisfying way.
On another level, this is a story about creating the future. Reluctantly, this is where I admit Eight Antidote shines. For a culture built on war and conflict and blood, Teixcalaan struggles sometimes with the idea that it is good to be at peace. Eight Antidote’s certain rejection of conflict is heartening, reading this now in 2024 with the world the way it is. I appreciate the grand themes Martine is getting at here. The internecine plots within the Empire’s ruling class are so deliciously crafted and such fun to follow. There are people who would plunge Teixcalaan deep, deep into war just to further their ambitions, and it is startling, albeit not surprising.
On a third level, this is a story about loving people. Whether it’s Nine Hibiscus’s longstanding platonic bond with Twenty Cicada, Mahit and Three Seagrass’s tenuous romantic connection, or Eight Antidote’s opaque relationship with Nineteen Adze, Martine shows us so many different types of love and care. The desolation in A Desolation Called Peace includes, I think, the fact that peacetime is when we realize what—who—we have lost. In war, there is no time to mourn the dead. Afterwards, the emotional valence of our lost loved ones—whether they are dead or simply have left—is felt more fully. If the majority of this book is a tense thriller, the denouement is a rewarding, bittersweet, hopeful coda.
If you liked A Memory Called Empire, you will like and must read this sequel—and you should definitely read the first book before you read this one. I will gladly consume any more stories Martine gives us in this universe, and perhaps any more that she creates.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Scrappy Little Nobody by Anna Kendrick
funny
relaxing
fast-paced
3.0
I came to my Anna Kendrick obsession sideways, in a low-key way I am realizing is very apposite for Kendrick’s brand of celebrity. I have never watched Pitch Perfect. If you asked me which of her movies cemented her in my mind as a celebrity crush, I couldn’t tell you (but I can tell you my fave—more in a moment). To top it off, I found Scrappy Little Nobody as a publisher overstock purchase from a local store and paid—wait for it—$5. Five Canadian dollars. So I didn’t even pay full price, which again, feels very on-brand for Kendrick.
Kendrick’s memoir is of the “look at me, I am just like you folk” variety: witty, self-deprecating, down-to-earth. Plenty of embarrassing stories from her childhood and awkward adolescence, along with her arrival in Los Angeles and her rocky road to her present level of moderate fame. I don’t mean to sound cynical—I truly enjoyed this memoir and found it the perfect mix of entertaining and inspirational. However, let me be upfront by saying that if you hoped for Big! Revelations! about Kendrick, or if you were expecting this to be anything more than a run-of-the-mill memoir from an actor in her thirties, then you’ll be disappointed. Pitch your expectations perfectly, and you’ll have a great time.
It is, after all, Kendrick’s atmosphere of being a scrappy little nobody that she projects that I think I find so alluring. Lots of celebrities understand their role in our society is absurd—too many these days seem to lean into that. Kendrick has somehow managed to find moderate success in her profession without (as far as I can tell) getting involved in anything that I call “weird shit”: cults, influencer gimmicks and scams, and so on. She acknowledges the gulf between her reality and those of her fans, but she has a foot still in the real world. Also, this girl works—have you seen her filmography? She’s busy.
Indeed, her love of what she does shines through in these pages—balanced by a hefty dose of “I need to work to live.” She talks about how Twilight paid her bills while she could work on indie projects that wouldn’t. She talks about the struggle, sometimes, to afford toilet paper, the incongruity of staying in swank hotels for the publicity tour for Up in the Air when, back in LA, she could barely afford the place she shared with two others. Kendrick neither romanticizes the biz nor does she downplay how much she loves theatre and acting. It’s this sense of unvarnished honesty that I appreciate.
Early on in the book, Kendrick says something that really stuck with me. Of her experience wrapping her first film, Camp, she says
Kendrick’s memoir is of the “look at me, I am just like you folk” variety: witty, self-deprecating, down-to-earth. Plenty of embarrassing stories from her childhood and awkward adolescence, along with her arrival in Los Angeles and her rocky road to her present level of moderate fame. I don’t mean to sound cynical—I truly enjoyed this memoir and found it the perfect mix of entertaining and inspirational. However, let me be upfront by saying that if you hoped for Big! Revelations! about Kendrick, or if you were expecting this to be anything more than a run-of-the-mill memoir from an actor in her thirties, then you’ll be disappointed. Pitch your expectations perfectly, and you’ll have a great time.
It is, after all, Kendrick’s atmosphere of being a scrappy little nobody that she projects that I think I find so alluring. Lots of celebrities understand their role in our society is absurd—too many these days seem to lean into that. Kendrick has somehow managed to find moderate success in her profession without (as far as I can tell) getting involved in anything that I call “weird shit”: cults, influencer gimmicks and scams, and so on. She acknowledges the gulf between her reality and those of her fans, but she has a foot still in the real world. Also, this girl works—have you seen her filmography? She’s busy.
Indeed, her love of what she does shines through in these pages—balanced by a hefty dose of “I need to work to live.” She talks about how Twilight paid her bills while she could work on indie projects that wouldn’t. She talks about the struggle, sometimes, to afford toilet paper, the incongruity of staying in swank hotels for the publicity tour for Up in the Air when, back in LA, she could barely afford the place she shared with two others. Kendrick neither romanticizes the biz nor does she downplay how much she loves theatre and acting. It’s this sense of unvarnished honesty that I appreciate.
Early on in the book, Kendrick says something that really stuck with me. Of her experience wrapping her first film, Camp, she says
I haven’t cried at the wrap of a film since. At the time, I couldn’t reconcile the fact that no matter what we told each other, I would never go back there, never be with those people ever again. Now, I see catch-and-release as part of the beauty of what I get to do.
That last sentence tho!! I think I needed to hear that this summer. My life is good overall, and I feel very fortunate and privileged. But I’m turning thirty-five, and I am becoming aware of my approaching middle age. Friends are creating families, and this aroace girlie is feeling … uncertain. Turning inwards, thinking about times past, feeling wistful and angsty about the inability to reclaim youth.
Then Anna Kendrick shows up and rolls her eyes and says, “Get over it,” but in a far more thoughtful way. Live in the present. Keep going. If old adventures never ended, new ones could never begin.
Again, I don’t want to give the impression this book is some deeply philosophical tome. It’s not. Ninety percent of this book is the most prosaic shit you could imagine. Which is what makes that ten percent, these little nuggets, all the better. Scrappy Little Nobody knows what it is about, gets in, does the job, and gets out.
My favourite Anna Kendrick movie, by the way, is currently Mr. Right, with Sam Rockwell. I watched it for the first time a few weeks ago (I bought this book about six months ago but hadn’t read it until now). I was obsessed. How had no one told me to watch this nine-year-old movie before now?? Kendrick plays to type—a weirdo—and pulls it off with such an incredible balance between mania and elation that I don’t know what else to do except applaud. I know your dream already came true, but in case you need to see it again in print, Anna: Kendrick is a revelation.
If you enjoy Kendrick’s performances, you’ll like this book. If you think she’s a scrappy little nobody, this book could change your mind and get you interested in her performances. Or not. I don’t know. Don’t trust me; I didn’t even pay full price for it.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Then Anna Kendrick shows up and rolls her eyes and says, “Get over it,” but in a far more thoughtful way. Live in the present. Keep going. If old adventures never ended, new ones could never begin.
Again, I don’t want to give the impression this book is some deeply philosophical tome. It’s not. Ninety percent of this book is the most prosaic shit you could imagine. Which is what makes that ten percent, these little nuggets, all the better. Scrappy Little Nobody knows what it is about, gets in, does the job, and gets out.
My favourite Anna Kendrick movie, by the way, is currently Mr. Right, with Sam Rockwell. I watched it for the first time a few weeks ago (I bought this book about six months ago but hadn’t read it until now). I was obsessed. How had no one told me to watch this nine-year-old movie before now?? Kendrick plays to type—a weirdo—and pulls it off with such an incredible balance between mania and elation that I don’t know what else to do except applaud. I know your dream already came true, but in case you need to see it again in print, Anna: Kendrick is a revelation.
If you enjoy Kendrick’s performances, you’ll like this book. If you think she’s a scrappy little nobody, this book could change your mind and get you interested in her performances. Or not. I don’t know. Don’t trust me; I didn’t even pay full price for it.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
The Curse of Pietro Houdini by Derek B. Miller
adventurous
dark
emotional
tense
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
3.0
World War II books that don’t focus on soldiers or battles are my jam. Give me the pieces about the civilians, the spies, the scientists, the kids. I picked up The Curse of Pietro Houdini on a whim from the new books shelf at my library. I thought the title betokened some kind of fantasy novel, and though that hope was dashed, I still enjoyed Derek B. Miller’s historical yarn of an irreverent-yet-sentimental old man and his happenstance, gendershifting protégé.
A fourteen-year-old narrowly escapes Rome as Italy finds itself occupied by German forces. The eponymous Pietro scoops up this child on his way to Montecassino, the first Benedictine abbey, where he plans to restore and perhaps rescue some priceless works of art before the Nazis or the Allies destroy them. The child claims the name Massimo and takes on the appearance of a boy and falls in with Pietro as his assistant. From here the kind of peculiar bond really only found in quirky stories like this develops as Pietro tries to keep Massimo safe while also preserving the artworks. Along the way, they kill some Nazis, get injured, go on the run, and more.
Miller shows himself an expert at interweaving fact and fiction in this historical novel. I didn’t know much about Monte Cassino (don’t know much about wartime Italy at all, to be honest), so it was fascinating learning about real-life people like Schlengel and Becker alongside Miller’s fictional creations like Pietro. I liked seeing things through the eyes of sympathetic yet non-Ally characters: their disdain for Americans and imperialists is enjoyable. Pietro criticizes the Americans, for example, for dispatching their “monuments men” in some cases yet blithely bombing irreplaceable landmarks like Montecassino in other cases. Similarly, the perspectives of civilians like Lucia and Dino, or Bella, or even Massimo/Eva, shed light on how fraught the war must have felt when it was both in the vicinity yet at a remove.
Miller’s exploration of gender expression through our narrator is also worth examining. The book starts in the first person until the narrator reaches a breaking point and “becomes” Massimo, fully inhabiting this persona so much that it feels like he “believes” himself to be a fourteen-year-old boy from a rough life in Rome. At this point, the book shifts into third person, remaining this way even as Massimo transforms into Eva to escape press-ganging. Though I don’t believe we are meant to interpret these shifts as the narrator truly having a mental break, they are useful in illustrating how intensely some people had to conceal their identities to survive Nazi or fascist rule. I also enjoyed how accepting Pietro was of the genderfluidity of our narrator.
Without going into spoilers, I want to conclude by briefly looking at this book as a tragedy—for it has some of those elements. Dark shit happens near the end of this book. You want everyone to get out of it alive. You want a happy ending. And maybe Miller gives you one or maybe he doesn’t—that isn’t for me to say. But like any book about World War II, The Curse of Pietro Houdini is about resilience in the face of trauma, and Miller is quick to point out in his afterword that some of the worst events in this book did, in fact, happen. War is hell, and it is no wonder novelists continue to revisit some of our most famous wars so they can tinker with the environments that most test our humanity.
If, like me, you want “cozy” wartime books, The Curse of Pietro Houdini has something to offer. It’s humorous yet sometimes heavy, far-reaching yet incredibly intimate, lighthearted yet shading often into sombre. In other words, it is as much a rash of contradictions as its title character—as it should be.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
A fourteen-year-old narrowly escapes Rome as Italy finds itself occupied by German forces. The eponymous Pietro scoops up this child on his way to Montecassino, the first Benedictine abbey, where he plans to restore and perhaps rescue some priceless works of art before the Nazis or the Allies destroy them. The child claims the name Massimo and takes on the appearance of a boy and falls in with Pietro as his assistant. From here the kind of peculiar bond really only found in quirky stories like this develops as Pietro tries to keep Massimo safe while also preserving the artworks. Along the way, they kill some Nazis, get injured, go on the run, and more.
Miller shows himself an expert at interweaving fact and fiction in this historical novel. I didn’t know much about Monte Cassino (don’t know much about wartime Italy at all, to be honest), so it was fascinating learning about real-life people like Schlengel and Becker alongside Miller’s fictional creations like Pietro. I liked seeing things through the eyes of sympathetic yet non-Ally characters: their disdain for Americans and imperialists is enjoyable. Pietro criticizes the Americans, for example, for dispatching their “monuments men” in some cases yet blithely bombing irreplaceable landmarks like Montecassino in other cases. Similarly, the perspectives of civilians like Lucia and Dino, or Bella, or even Massimo/Eva, shed light on how fraught the war must have felt when it was both in the vicinity yet at a remove.
Miller’s exploration of gender expression through our narrator is also worth examining. The book starts in the first person until the narrator reaches a breaking point and “becomes” Massimo, fully inhabiting this persona so much that it feels like he “believes” himself to be a fourteen-year-old boy from a rough life in Rome. At this point, the book shifts into third person, remaining this way even as Massimo transforms into Eva to escape press-ganging. Though I don’t believe we are meant to interpret these shifts as the narrator truly having a mental break, they are useful in illustrating how intensely some people had to conceal their identities to survive Nazi or fascist rule. I also enjoyed how accepting Pietro was of the genderfluidity of our narrator.
Without going into spoilers, I want to conclude by briefly looking at this book as a tragedy—for it has some of those elements. Dark shit happens near the end of this book. You want everyone to get out of it alive. You want a happy ending. And maybe Miller gives you one or maybe he doesn’t—that isn’t for me to say. But like any book about World War II, The Curse of Pietro Houdini is about resilience in the face of trauma, and Miller is quick to point out in his afterword that some of the worst events in this book did, in fact, happen. War is hell, and it is no wonder novelists continue to revisit some of our most famous wars so they can tinker with the environments that most test our humanity.
If, like me, you want “cozy” wartime books, The Curse of Pietro Houdini has something to offer. It’s humorous yet sometimes heavy, far-reaching yet incredibly intimate, lighthearted yet shading often into sombre. In other words, it is as much a rash of contradictions as its title character—as it should be.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Doppelganger by Naomi Klein
informative
reflective
medium-paced
3.0
Wait, this book isn’t by Naomi Wolf? Why did I even bother … jk. Although, ironically, I haven’t read anything by Naomi Klein previously, and I’ve read two books by Naomi Wolf (more on that in a bit). I don’t think I personally have conflated the two Naomis myself, but I’m sure that’s just the lack of opportunity. Doppelganger intrigued me because I wanted to hear about Klein’s deep dive into the world in which Wolf has immersed herself and what lessons that holds for the fragile state of our democracies.
Though this book is built on premise of people mistaking the two Naomis to a ridiculous degree online, Klein makes it clear that this book isn’t so much about Wolf as it is about the crowd she hangs out with these days. Klein is interested in this “mirror world,” as she calls it, and how Wolf went from third-wave feminist darling to conspiracy-theory monger and general alt-right poster woman. So she listens to Steve Bannon’s podcast, plumbs the depth of Wolf’s Twitter, and generally examines the ways in which the alt right and adjacent movements use, manipulate, and take advantage of media (both traditional and social) to sway people to their cause.
Because we are living in a unique tipping point in history. Mass literacy battles with mass media illiteracy. Even critical thinking doesn’t exempt one from falling prey to misinformation, of course. One of Klein’s key points is that Wolf is a smart person and a deep thinker—many prominent people in these movements are, and it would be a mistake to underestimate them or label anyone associated with them as less intelligent. Rather, Klein wants to figure out what makes the mirror world so enticing.
Doppelganger is one of an emerging genre of pop culture political books looking at the effect of the internet age on politics and society. Some of Klein’s most important takeaways come from reflection on how the internet encourages us to become doppelgangers of ourselves (in how we perform ourselves online). As someone who “grew up” on the internet—on Neopets and Geocities and message boards and live chatrooms and whatnot—I feel this. To this day, I might spend more time on any given day talking to people behind my “tachyondecay” username and an avatar than my real name and face. On an individual basis that’s fine. But when you scale this up to a societal level, Klein points out, cracks appear that leave us vulnerable to the misinformation that fuels conspiracy and polarization.
In this way, Klein scatters references to different forms of doppelganger throughout the book. She did a deep dive into doppelgangers in literature and film (she talks a lot about Philip Roth, shrug). I watched Dual because she mentions it here and it has Karen Gillan in it (it’s weird and not at all satisfying, IMO). Though there’s something amusing imagining Klein obsessively consuming all of these books and movies for research purposes, all in all I don’t know that she successfully connects her doppelganger discussion to her broader points about the mirror world. I understand that she’s trying to say Wolf is more a doppelganger of herself than she is of Klein, that Wolf’s trip through the looking glass has resulted in that kind of self-doppelganging. But it feels like a slightly contrived twist.
As far as Wolf herself goes, well … I read The Beauty Myth when I was 22, young, naïve (though I am pleasantly surprised to find I didn’t go gaga over it and therefore can honestly say I had my own reservations). Then five years later I read Vagina and criticized it for much the same reasons Klein criticizes Wolf: mistaking anecdotal evidence for science, confirmation bias, etc. Both of these reviews are real trips to read now, given that I was writing them back when I thought I was a cisgender man (oops). But I stand by my work.
I respect Klein taking the high road and refusing to dangle Wolf in front of us like a cautionary tale. Still … she is. Like Klein, I can’t speculate about the precise factors that galvanized Wolf’s slide towards authoritarian militancy and conspiracy theories—but I can watch it, judge it, and remind myself that we are all vulnerable here. That’s what Klein realizes as she canvasses for her husband in the Canadian federal election and visits with people who should be sympathetic to the NDP but are raving anti-vaxxers instead.
Doppelganger offers up some cogent and prescient (in the sense that even for a relatively recent book, it feels like Klein anticipated some of what has happened since it was published) analysis of the cracks in our media world. It stumbles a bit as Klein dances around her various topics of doppelgangers, propaganda, etc., and as a result it feels a little longer and more repetitive than it needs to be. This is a book that I would recommend if, like me, you are a sucker for discussions of media literacy, awareness of conspiracy theories, and how we can strengthen our democracy. It has enough substance to be worth the read—yet having read it, I don’t feel like I particularly learned much I didn’t already know.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Though this book is built on premise of people mistaking the two Naomis to a ridiculous degree online, Klein makes it clear that this book isn’t so much about Wolf as it is about the crowd she hangs out with these days. Klein is interested in this “mirror world,” as she calls it, and how Wolf went from third-wave feminist darling to conspiracy-theory monger and general alt-right poster woman. So she listens to Steve Bannon’s podcast, plumbs the depth of Wolf’s Twitter, and generally examines the ways in which the alt right and adjacent movements use, manipulate, and take advantage of media (both traditional and social) to sway people to their cause.
Because we are living in a unique tipping point in history. Mass literacy battles with mass media illiteracy. Even critical thinking doesn’t exempt one from falling prey to misinformation, of course. One of Klein’s key points is that Wolf is a smart person and a deep thinker—many prominent people in these movements are, and it would be a mistake to underestimate them or label anyone associated with them as less intelligent. Rather, Klein wants to figure out what makes the mirror world so enticing.
Doppelganger is one of an emerging genre of pop culture political books looking at the effect of the internet age on politics and society. Some of Klein’s most important takeaways come from reflection on how the internet encourages us to become doppelgangers of ourselves (in how we perform ourselves online). As someone who “grew up” on the internet—on Neopets and Geocities and message boards and live chatrooms and whatnot—I feel this. To this day, I might spend more time on any given day talking to people behind my “tachyondecay” username and an avatar than my real name and face. On an individual basis that’s fine. But when you scale this up to a societal level, Klein points out, cracks appear that leave us vulnerable to the misinformation that fuels conspiracy and polarization.
In this way, Klein scatters references to different forms of doppelganger throughout the book. She did a deep dive into doppelgangers in literature and film (she talks a lot about Philip Roth, shrug). I watched Dual because she mentions it here and it has Karen Gillan in it (it’s weird and not at all satisfying, IMO). Though there’s something amusing imagining Klein obsessively consuming all of these books and movies for research purposes, all in all I don’t know that she successfully connects her doppelganger discussion to her broader points about the mirror world. I understand that she’s trying to say Wolf is more a doppelganger of herself than she is of Klein, that Wolf’s trip through the looking glass has resulted in that kind of self-doppelganging. But it feels like a slightly contrived twist.
As far as Wolf herself goes, well … I read The Beauty Myth when I was 22, young, naïve (though I am pleasantly surprised to find I didn’t go gaga over it and therefore can honestly say I had my own reservations). Then five years later I read Vagina and criticized it for much the same reasons Klein criticizes Wolf: mistaking anecdotal evidence for science, confirmation bias, etc. Both of these reviews are real trips to read now, given that I was writing them back when I thought I was a cisgender man (oops). But I stand by my work.
I respect Klein taking the high road and refusing to dangle Wolf in front of us like a cautionary tale. Still … she is. Like Klein, I can’t speculate about the precise factors that galvanized Wolf’s slide towards authoritarian militancy and conspiracy theories—but I can watch it, judge it, and remind myself that we are all vulnerable here. That’s what Klein realizes as she canvasses for her husband in the Canadian federal election and visits with people who should be sympathetic to the NDP but are raving anti-vaxxers instead.
Doppelganger offers up some cogent and prescient (in the sense that even for a relatively recent book, it feels like Klein anticipated some of what has happened since it was published) analysis of the cracks in our media world. It stumbles a bit as Klein dances around her various topics of doppelgangers, propaganda, etc., and as a result it feels a little longer and more repetitive than it needs to be. This is a book that I would recommend if, like me, you are a sucker for discussions of media literacy, awareness of conspiracy theories, and how we can strengthen our democracy. It has enough substance to be worth the read—yet having read it, I don’t feel like I particularly learned much I didn’t already know.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
A Memory Called Empire by Arkady Martine
adventurous
challenging
mysterious
tense
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.0
This book worked its way into my brain. I’m not sure how else to describe it. I slept on this one, but when I finally started reading it, I did not want to put it down. So what did I do? I put it down to save it for a road trip later that week—but I immediately messaged my local indie bookshop so they could order the sequel for me, which I will read as soon as I get it. A Memory Called Empire isn’t a perfect book. I don’t even know if I would settle on “amazing.” But Arkady Martine’s storytelling did something to me, and that’s worth talking about.
Mahit Dzmare is a citizen of Lsel Station. Stationers are humans born into the lower gravity of a space station and fiercely independent from larger, sprawling political entities like the Teixcalaanli Empire. However, Mahit has been fascinated by the empire for years, and her proficiency has led to her selection as Lsel’s next ambassador. Her first mission? Find out what the hell happened to the previous ambassador—the Teixcalaanli just sent a ship demanding a new ambassador with no explanation. In addition to her enthusiasm for Teixcalaanli literature and language, Mahit brings with her an out-of-date imago of the previous ambassador—a memory recording of his personality that should, in theory, integrate with her own personality, augmenting her. Everything goes wrong, of course, and Mahit finds herself in the middle of a political crisis, maybe even an attempted coup, relying far too much on the questionable largesse of an important player in the empire.
This book hits like a Charles Stross novel with even less infodumping. Don’t get me wrong—I love a good Strossian exposition—but Martine plays a lot of the empire’s culture and history close to her chest, and I’m cool with that. However, I really like how the main character, while competent, gets thrown into the deepest of ends without even a lifejacket. The entire book is a scramble from start to finish with nary time for Mahit to catch her breath. In a lesser author that might feel exhausting—who doesn’t love a protagonist finally hitting their stride?—but Martine makes it work.
Teixcalaan itself is a lush mixture of Byzantine, the Mexica, and others from history (which is Martine’s profession). Probably the most obvious cultural difference is in their naming: all Teixcalaanli have a two-word name comprising a number and a noun, like Six Direction. I have to say, the moment that crystallized how much I would enjoy this book came when Mahit bonded with her Teixcalaanli liaison, Three Seagrass, by laughing at someone who had named themselves “Thirty-Six All-Terrain Vehicle.” I laughed too.
But seriously, the ways in which Martine contrasts Teixcalaan with Lsel (the two main human cultures we get to experience in this book) is so well done. Lsel is obviously meant to seem closer to our baseline experience as readers, though there are plenty of hints it would feel alien too—stringent population control, a heavy focus on scholastic tests and test-based career determinism, etc. Teixcalaan, on the other hand, is portrayed as intensely alien (but still definitively human, unlike actual aliens). And in some ways it is more recognizable than Lsel—whereas Lsel is built on hereditary memory and function, Teixcalaan is about literary memory and cultural institutions, something far more familiar to most of us. It’s a very “Homer, but art deco” kind of vibe.
To that end, it’s clear that in many ways this book is a love letter to language and storytelling—so naturally I am a sucker for that. Yet it avoids descending into ponderousness, mostly through slick humour and characters like Twelve Azalea. Martine knows how to balance banter with moments of tension, and the result is something truly straddling space opera and planetary romance. In addition to Stross, I detect notes of Asimov, Reynolds, Le Guin, and other science fiction heavyweights here. Standing on the shoulders of giants, Martine reaches far—and, more impressively, doesn’t overreach.
Much of the book meditates on the nature of mortality and aging. I’m turning thirty-five this year—not old, I know, but of an age where I am starting to notice age in a way I didn’t when I turned thirty. Starting to look back and realize certain eras are truly behind me. Whether it’s Mahit bantering with the younger Yksander or Six Direction’s desire to preserve himself (ostensibly, of course, for the good of the empire), A Memory Called Empire can be very solemn at times in acknowledging that the good times do, in fact, end.
On a broader level, this is a book about the continuity of civilization. Like so many empires, Teixcalaan is vast and has, in its vastness, conflated its size with civilization. Mahit is a “barbarian,” albeit a nearly tolerable one. Teixcalaan’s annexation of Lsel, culturally if not politically, is spoken of as nearly a fait accompli, for that is the power of empire, here and now as well as in the future—just like at how the United States flexes imperial muscle and quite literally distorts other countries as a result. Martine portrays outsize imperial influence, the conflicts that spring up around colonization as well as from it, with admirable deftness.
I don’t know what else to say. Again, this is far from a perfect book—I can totally see some people putting it down for feeling “difficult” or having too much narration and internal monologuing and not enough dialogue or snappy action sequences. This is a book in which you immerse yourself—I’m glad I saved it for a summer read—though I wouldn’t call it difficult or challenging in the way Dhalgren or Too Like the Lightning is. I think the actual narrative and characterization here are quite straightforward, though if you are not in the mood for political machinations and speculations thereof, you won’t enjoy it.
Fortunately, I was in precisely that kind of mood, and A Memory Called Empire was decadence itself. What a fulfilling read.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Mahit Dzmare is a citizen of Lsel Station. Stationers are humans born into the lower gravity of a space station and fiercely independent from larger, sprawling political entities like the Teixcalaanli Empire. However, Mahit has been fascinated by the empire for years, and her proficiency has led to her selection as Lsel’s next ambassador. Her first mission? Find out what the hell happened to the previous ambassador—the Teixcalaanli just sent a ship demanding a new ambassador with no explanation. In addition to her enthusiasm for Teixcalaanli literature and language, Mahit brings with her an out-of-date imago of the previous ambassador—a memory recording of his personality that should, in theory, integrate with her own personality, augmenting her. Everything goes wrong, of course, and Mahit finds herself in the middle of a political crisis, maybe even an attempted coup, relying far too much on the questionable largesse of an important player in the empire.
This book hits like a Charles Stross novel with even less infodumping. Don’t get me wrong—I love a good Strossian exposition—but Martine plays a lot of the empire’s culture and history close to her chest, and I’m cool with that. However, I really like how the main character, while competent, gets thrown into the deepest of ends without even a lifejacket. The entire book is a scramble from start to finish with nary time for Mahit to catch her breath. In a lesser author that might feel exhausting—who doesn’t love a protagonist finally hitting their stride?—but Martine makes it work.
Teixcalaan itself is a lush mixture of Byzantine, the Mexica, and others from history (which is Martine’s profession). Probably the most obvious cultural difference is in their naming: all Teixcalaanli have a two-word name comprising a number and a noun, like Six Direction. I have to say, the moment that crystallized how much I would enjoy this book came when Mahit bonded with her Teixcalaanli liaison, Three Seagrass, by laughing at someone who had named themselves “Thirty-Six All-Terrain Vehicle.” I laughed too.
But seriously, the ways in which Martine contrasts Teixcalaan with Lsel (the two main human cultures we get to experience in this book) is so well done. Lsel is obviously meant to seem closer to our baseline experience as readers, though there are plenty of hints it would feel alien too—stringent population control, a heavy focus on scholastic tests and test-based career determinism, etc. Teixcalaan, on the other hand, is portrayed as intensely alien (but still definitively human, unlike actual aliens). And in some ways it is more recognizable than Lsel—whereas Lsel is built on hereditary memory and function, Teixcalaan is about literary memory and cultural institutions, something far more familiar to most of us. It’s a very “Homer, but art deco” kind of vibe.
To that end, it’s clear that in many ways this book is a love letter to language and storytelling—so naturally I am a sucker for that. Yet it avoids descending into ponderousness, mostly through slick humour and characters like Twelve Azalea. Martine knows how to balance banter with moments of tension, and the result is something truly straddling space opera and planetary romance. In addition to Stross, I detect notes of Asimov, Reynolds, Le Guin, and other science fiction heavyweights here. Standing on the shoulders of giants, Martine reaches far—and, more impressively, doesn’t overreach.
Much of the book meditates on the nature of mortality and aging. I’m turning thirty-five this year—not old, I know, but of an age where I am starting to notice age in a way I didn’t when I turned thirty. Starting to look back and realize certain eras are truly behind me. Whether it’s Mahit bantering with the younger Yksander or Six Direction’s desire to preserve himself (ostensibly, of course, for the good of the empire), A Memory Called Empire can be very solemn at times in acknowledging that the good times do, in fact, end.
On a broader level, this is a book about the continuity of civilization. Like so many empires, Teixcalaan is vast and has, in its vastness, conflated its size with civilization. Mahit is a “barbarian,” albeit a nearly tolerable one. Teixcalaan’s annexation of Lsel, culturally if not politically, is spoken of as nearly a fait accompli, for that is the power of empire, here and now as well as in the future—just like at how the United States flexes imperial muscle and quite literally distorts other countries as a result. Martine portrays outsize imperial influence, the conflicts that spring up around colonization as well as from it, with admirable deftness.
I don’t know what else to say. Again, this is far from a perfect book—I can totally see some people putting it down for feeling “difficult” or having too much narration and internal monologuing and not enough dialogue or snappy action sequences. This is a book in which you immerse yourself—I’m glad I saved it for a summer read—though I wouldn’t call it difficult or challenging in the way Dhalgren or Too Like the Lightning is. I think the actual narrative and characterization here are quite straightforward, though if you are not in the mood for political machinations and speculations thereof, you won’t enjoy it.
Fortunately, I was in precisely that kind of mood, and A Memory Called Empire was decadence itself. What a fulfilling read.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
In Defense of Witches: The Legacy of the Witch Hunts and Why Women Are Still on Trial by Mona Chollet
challenging
informative
reflective
slow-paced
2.0
Women are some kind of magic, to quote amanda lovelace, so it’s no wonder the patriarchy thinks we’re witches. The metaphor (and, for parts of history, literal belief) of woman-as-witch is a potent one. In Defense of Witches seeks to connect contemporary feminist struggles with the legacy of the witch hunts and trials that ran through Europe and America. Mona Chollet, translated here by Sophie R. Lewis, looks at a number of themes, like beauty standards, or the decision whether or not to have kids. I’m not sure how much I learned from this book, but it has some good synthesis of second- and third-wave feminism and presents a more European perspective than I’m used to.
The chapters are long: in addition to the introduction, there are only four: “A Life of One’s Own,” “Wanting Sterility,” “The Dizzy Heights,” and “Turning the World Upside Down.” Averaging fifty pages, each chapter packs quite the punch. Chollet begins by examining the desire for independence beyond the home. From there, she talks about the pressure to procreate, followed by the idea that women have an expiration date, that after a certain age we just can’t be successful or desired anymore. The book finishes on an optimistic note, referring to progress Chollet sees through movements like #MeToo, and a reminder that we can take control of our bodies without being essentialist about gender.
If I am disappointed in In Defense of Witches, it’s only because I was expecting more … witches? Like I kind of thought this book was about witch hunts and trials. Chollet really only references these in passing, however. There are a few juicy quotes from primary sources and researchers’ materials. But mainly she’s using the idea of women as witches as a lens to examine the tension between feminist writings of the twentieth century and broader society’s pushback. There’s nothing wrong with this, of course, but the way the book’s title, subtitle, and design lean so heavily into it, I feel like I’m sensible for expecting there to be more of a connection.
As it is, I really enjoyed how many French writers and thinkers Chollet mentions and quotes. My feminist reading (most of my reading, let’s be real) is in a bubble of American, British, and occasionally Canadian authors. I don’t recognize a lot of the names Chollet drops—and that’s a good thing. I commented to a close friend of mine who is French that I felt like I was getting a window into what it’s like to come up into feminism in France. On top of this, of course, Chollet’s view itself is informed by French culture and standards—as evidenced by the very casual way in which she discusses wanting to have a lot of lovers, lol, and takes shots at American culture for being far less tolerant of this attitude among women.
Chollet’s attitudes and arguments are firmly rooted in segments of second-wave feminism; indeed, In Defense of Witches can in many ways be viewed as a love letter to Gloria Steinem, whom Chollet quotes and praises interminably. On one hand, I appreciate this because my view of second-wave feminism is a little jaded and has been coloured by its appropriation by TERFs. On the other hand, although Chollet’s analysis makes offhand noises towards inclusion of queer and trans identities, it stops short of a full-throated attempt to integrate trans and nonbinary people. So in this respect, I ran up against the limits of this book’s analysis fairly quickly: it pulls together some interesting ideas, but it also doesn’t bring up anything all that new or radical.
Probably the most enduring theme here is rationality versus irrationality and the way the former is inevitably masculine-coded, the latter, feminine-coded. Chollet argues that irrationality and emotionality are not the same. Patriarchy’s attempts to restrict women’s power and influence are rooted, in part, she maintains, because male-dominated institutions feared the power, creativity, and efficiency of women’s emotions. Hence the attempts to paint us as “hysterical.” Chollet makes the case that emotionality, while not an essentialist quality and something that many men can possess as well, is key to a more compassionate and just future in our society—something with which I am sympathetic. If there has been any theme to my overall arc, it has been moving away from the highly rational, academic mindset I cultivated in high school towards a mindset that embraces the irrational when needed (is it any wonder I found my true gender along the way?).
In Defense of Witches is an all right book, and for others, could very well be revelatory. For me it was a fine way to pass the time, and it exposed me to writers and ideas that I might not have otherwise heard on this side of the pond. However, it wasn’t quite the book I was looking for, and in some respects, it doesn’t go as far as I wanted it to.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
The chapters are long: in addition to the introduction, there are only four: “A Life of One’s Own,” “Wanting Sterility,” “The Dizzy Heights,” and “Turning the World Upside Down.” Averaging fifty pages, each chapter packs quite the punch. Chollet begins by examining the desire for independence beyond the home. From there, she talks about the pressure to procreate, followed by the idea that women have an expiration date, that after a certain age we just can’t be successful or desired anymore. The book finishes on an optimistic note, referring to progress Chollet sees through movements like #MeToo, and a reminder that we can take control of our bodies without being essentialist about gender.
If I am disappointed in In Defense of Witches, it’s only because I was expecting more … witches? Like I kind of thought this book was about witch hunts and trials. Chollet really only references these in passing, however. There are a few juicy quotes from primary sources and researchers’ materials. But mainly she’s using the idea of women as witches as a lens to examine the tension between feminist writings of the twentieth century and broader society’s pushback. There’s nothing wrong with this, of course, but the way the book’s title, subtitle, and design lean so heavily into it, I feel like I’m sensible for expecting there to be more of a connection.
As it is, I really enjoyed how many French writers and thinkers Chollet mentions and quotes. My feminist reading (most of my reading, let’s be real) is in a bubble of American, British, and occasionally Canadian authors. I don’t recognize a lot of the names Chollet drops—and that’s a good thing. I commented to a close friend of mine who is French that I felt like I was getting a window into what it’s like to come up into feminism in France. On top of this, of course, Chollet’s view itself is informed by French culture and standards—as evidenced by the very casual way in which she discusses wanting to have a lot of lovers, lol, and takes shots at American culture for being far less tolerant of this attitude among women.
Chollet’s attitudes and arguments are firmly rooted in segments of second-wave feminism; indeed, In Defense of Witches can in many ways be viewed as a love letter to Gloria Steinem, whom Chollet quotes and praises interminably. On one hand, I appreciate this because my view of second-wave feminism is a little jaded and has been coloured by its appropriation by TERFs. On the other hand, although Chollet’s analysis makes offhand noises towards inclusion of queer and trans identities, it stops short of a full-throated attempt to integrate trans and nonbinary people. So in this respect, I ran up against the limits of this book’s analysis fairly quickly: it pulls together some interesting ideas, but it also doesn’t bring up anything all that new or radical.
Probably the most enduring theme here is rationality versus irrationality and the way the former is inevitably masculine-coded, the latter, feminine-coded. Chollet argues that irrationality and emotionality are not the same. Patriarchy’s attempts to restrict women’s power and influence are rooted, in part, she maintains, because male-dominated institutions feared the power, creativity, and efficiency of women’s emotions. Hence the attempts to paint us as “hysterical.” Chollet makes the case that emotionality, while not an essentialist quality and something that many men can possess as well, is key to a more compassionate and just future in our society—something with which I am sympathetic. If there has been any theme to my overall arc, it has been moving away from the highly rational, academic mindset I cultivated in high school towards a mindset that embraces the irrational when needed (is it any wonder I found my true gender along the way?).
In Defense of Witches is an all right book, and for others, could very well be revelatory. For me it was a fine way to pass the time, and it exposed me to writers and ideas that I might not have otherwise heard on this side of the pond. However, it wasn’t quite the book I was looking for, and in some respects, it doesn’t go as far as I wanted it to.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
Flooded Secrets by Claudie Arseneault
adventurous
funny
hopeful
lighthearted
mysterious
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
3.0
What’s worse than not having a place in the world? Finding your place only to feel like it might be ripped away from you. Claudie Arseneault dangles this prospect in front of readers with Flooded Secrets, the second book in her Chronicles of Nerezia series of novellas. I was impressed by Awakenings because it felt so cozy. This book builds on that success while also revealing the first layer of even more potent themes Arseneault has cooked up.
No spoilers for this book but some for the first one!
Horace believes e has found eir place, guarding Rumi’s wandering wagon and protecting the mysterious Aliyah, who has no memory of their life beyond some flashes of forest—oh yeah, and the ability to turn into a tree. Horace isn’t a very good guard yet, but e has a growth mindset. That comes in handy when the wagon is waylaid by Keza, who pilfers their food stores before running afoul of her own people’s laws. Her life, and the lives of Horace and eir companions, weighed against the survival of her village.
Flooded Secrets, much like the first book, opens with a fair amount of action, then settles down to let us spend time with characters. For a novella, it packs a punch in terms of plot. I’m enjoying this decision of Arseneault’s to parcel out these stories in a more serialized format than a novel or two might allow. It more closely mimics the sensation of playing a session of DnD, echoes of which reverberate throughout this universe.
What makes this book stand out, of course, is how Keza meets the wagon crew. Rumi, Aliyah, and Horace joined together amicably, if reluctantly on Rumi’s part, and in their short time together, the three of them (four, if you count the wagon) have forged a strong bond. Keza, her personality irascible to start, is sharpened by the actions she has had to take to protect her village, not to mention what happens as the story goes on.
So of course Horace, lovable embo that e is, has to make friends, right?
This is, of course, what makes Flooded Secrets and this series as a whole so valuable. Arseneault’s story is not by any stretch of the imagination conflict-free. However, she goes out of her way to construct conflicts that belie one’s typical expectations of sword and sorcery. The set pieces are there, from the overarching mystery of the Fragments to the cornucopia of species populating Nerezia. But this is a story about found family, about putting right wrongs even when you aren’t the one who caused them—not for credit, not even in exchange for commutation or pardon, but simply because it’s the right thing to do.
In a world that seems darker by the day (at least some days), books like these are valuable because they remind us that hope comes from within. From ourselves and from each other. From working together, mutual aid, and community. If these ideas comfort you, this will be a comfort book. Even if they don’t, Flooded Secrets still has its share of action, intrigue, and of course, the games.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.
No spoilers for this book but some for the first one!
Horace believes e has found eir place, guarding Rumi’s wandering wagon and protecting the mysterious Aliyah, who has no memory of their life beyond some flashes of forest—oh yeah, and the ability to turn into a tree. Horace isn’t a very good guard yet, but e has a growth mindset. That comes in handy when the wagon is waylaid by Keza, who pilfers their food stores before running afoul of her own people’s laws. Her life, and the lives of Horace and eir companions, weighed against the survival of her village.
Flooded Secrets, much like the first book, opens with a fair amount of action, then settles down to let us spend time with characters. For a novella, it packs a punch in terms of plot. I’m enjoying this decision of Arseneault’s to parcel out these stories in a more serialized format than a novel or two might allow. It more closely mimics the sensation of playing a session of DnD, echoes of which reverberate throughout this universe.
What makes this book stand out, of course, is how Keza meets the wagon crew. Rumi, Aliyah, and Horace joined together amicably, if reluctantly on Rumi’s part, and in their short time together, the three of them (four, if you count the wagon) have forged a strong bond. Keza, her personality irascible to start, is sharpened by the actions she has had to take to protect her village, not to mention what happens as the story goes on.
So of course Horace, lovable embo that e is, has to make friends, right?
This is, of course, what makes Flooded Secrets and this series as a whole so valuable. Arseneault’s story is not by any stretch of the imagination conflict-free. However, she goes out of her way to construct conflicts that belie one’s typical expectations of sword and sorcery. The set pieces are there, from the overarching mystery of the Fragments to the cornucopia of species populating Nerezia. But this is a story about found family, about putting right wrongs even when you aren’t the one who caused them—not for credit, not even in exchange for commutation or pardon, but simply because it’s the right thing to do.
In a world that seems darker by the day (at least some days), books like these are valuable because they remind us that hope comes from within. From ourselves and from each other. From working together, mutual aid, and community. If these ideas comfort you, this will be a comfort book. Even if they don’t, Flooded Secrets still has its share of action, intrigue, and of course, the games.
Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.