Reviews and Comments

This is only my second time reading Sanderson, but it was still surprising how smooth his writing is to read—like slipping on an unexpected patch of ice. Still, given that fact, it was hard not to compare this to Tress of the Emerald Sea, which was my first Sanderson showstopper. It was also hard for me not to compare this to the masterful Death in Vesunna by Harry Turtledove—a short story that also takes the concept of ‘modern man travels to the past’ but in a very different direction. However, reading this after Tress, I did feel like it was somewhat less exciting the second time around—not sure whether that was now being used to his style, or just the nature of this story in particular. I do intend to keep reading the rest of his Kickstarter novels, since maybe this one just wasn’t the perfect fit.

The use of Clarke’s law—that of advanced technology seeming like magic to the untrained eye—is a theme I’ve always enjoyed exploring in fiction, and perhaps I am biased, but nobody has yet surpassed Turtledove’s refutation of this concept for me. Skeptical though I was, Sanderson’s use of ‘advanced’ technology in a medieval setting here was delightful, if for the sheer relatability. Who hasn’t wondered what it would be like to go back in time and impress people with modern knowledge? Yet, as our amnesiac protagonist discovers, even modern knowledge can be quite useless without context and thorough understanding—both of which have disappeared along with his memories.

Given the formulaic nature of this story, and its reliance on fantasy tropes (even if it does intend to subvert and play with them), the narrative didn’t feel that original, and the characters themselves felt like cardboard cutouts rather than actual, fleshed-out people. Nevertheless, they were humorous and down-to-earth, which is a trend I also enjoyed in Tress of the Emerald Sea.

The pacing of the plot is a bit slow to start, and since we only get fragments of the titular pamphlet, the world can be disorienting at first—though not alien, since I imagine most of us are familiar with generic medieval fantasy lands. This made it hard for me to sympathize and engage with the plot, compared to the beginning of Tress. Despite that, the novel does become increasingly enjoyable as it goes on, and the latter third of the book really picks up the pace with the worldbuilding, lore, and dramatic third act hijinks. It could have been better balanced, definitely, but I can’t complain about the end result. It would have been nicer to have some buildup towards the worldbuilding and final plot mechanics, but the surprise and curiosity were alright, too.

Sanderson’s writing style is starting to grow on me, bit by bit. Perhaps it is the fact that it is so ridiculously simple and intimate, a bit like having him over for tea. Whatever it is, I do enjoy reading it—and his tendency to interact with fantasy tropes and elements demonstrate a clear fondness for the genre that I understand too well.

This book was somewhat of a departure from Arden’s The Bear and the Nightingale series, which I loved—but historical fiction is exactly up my alley, especially one with a hint of the supernatural. The Warm Hands of Ghosts is historical fantasy—a popular genre these days—but the fantasy is very light, so this would be great for anyone who doesn’t typically see themselves reading fantasy.

The novel is centered on WWI and the experiences of two siblings: one, Laura, a nurse, and Freddie, a soldier who has gone missing on the Flemish front. While I found the characters fairly static, the plot was quite captivating and Arden managed to create her trademark surreal sense of place that I knew from her previous books. If you are a simple reader who enjoys a good atmospheric novel, then you’re bound to enjoy this one.

WWI is a tricky topic to focus any book on—especially in North America, where it is vastly overshadowed by WWII; perhaps this is strange for Europeans, but it makes sense when you think about how much of the ‘action’ took place on European soil. Interestingly for me, this book is partially set in Halifax, Nova Scotia—a region I am very unfamiliar with, but one I was nonetheless fascinated to learn about. The novel also centers a historic boat explosion in 1918, which of course coincided with the Spanish influenza epidemic. That is to say, Laura, our poor nurse, certainly has her work cut out for her, even before she finds out her brother is MIA.

I wanted the characters to be more engaging, perhaps. Laura was interesting and her sense of independence and agency certainly distinguish her from her social peers, the typical polite ladies of parlors and salons. Freddie was also a well-developed character, with his own demons and mysteries that must be dealt with. Despite Arden’s efforts to characterize and enrich these characters, the dual perspective in narration somewhat blunted these effects.

If anything, I found the secondary characters more fascinating—the society ladies who accompany Laura, daring to be bold; the German soldier who saves Freddie’s life, at great risk to his own; and even the hardworking doctor who aids dying soldiers in a dilapidated mansion-turned-hospital at the doorstep of the front. This novel has a rich cast of characters, and at the very least, their interactions were a solid component of what makes this novel a great one.

Arden ties the novel together with themes of trauma, memory, grief, and the hubristic nature of progress, among others. A certain aspect reminded me of the Odyssey, of course. Ever since reading All Quiet on the Western Front, I have been slightly curious about WWI, because more than any other war, its effects on the human psyche seem unparalleled. (After all, we get the term shellshock, whence PTSD is derived, from this war.) It is difficult to discuss the masterful interplay of these themes without spoiling the book, and I fear this review is rambling too much already, so I will leave it at that. In the afterword, you do get the sense that this became a very intimate novel for Arden—these themes and ideas really resonated with her—and she clearly has done copious amounts of research to achieve this.

It is hard to believe it has been four months since I finished this book… but I am optimistic in conquering my review backlog. In any case, this book is well worth checking out if you are at all curious, and especially if you are a fan of Arden’s other novels.

Favorite quotes:
○ ‘There's nothing noble about suffering. It's an ugly, petty, crawling business. You'll see men die with less dignity than dogs, cursing you sometimes, that you can't save them.’
○ ‘Maybe witches like the war. They can do what they like with everyone busy fighting.’

It took me two months to finish this, but don’t take that to mean the title is false or the book not worthy—it is, on both counts. This is a great book to savor and take in pieces, as I did while reading it alongside other books. Though I’ve studied history for years, my knowledge of Indian history was extremely limited and focused only on certain eras—this book was a great way to remedy that.

Despite its short length, Zubrzycki manages to be surprisingly detailed; he not only gives an overview of major dynasties and empires/forces in each time period, but he also takes care to highlight important figures—many of whom I learned about only for the first time. His focus employs a narrative approach which further humanizes these ancient or sometimes mythic figures; it’s hard not to be engaged.

Throughout each chapter, I always several things to highlight or mark for further study, in the nostalgic manner of an enthusiastic student. At times, my attention started waning as we approached more recent history, which is no fault of the book but of my own biases. I did appreciate how Zubrzycki, though he somewhat equivocates on contemporary hot-button political issues in the country, gives detailed insights into various perspectives. Being a historian is a tricky balance, since we tend to reward the victors only in hindsight—but the present is rather messy when it comes to this sort of polarization.

Overall, the author’s passion for India certainly comes through, as well as the sense that this was a sort of culminating project for him—all of which enriches the book and makes it a worthy choice for a skillful introduction to India’s long and rich history.

Disclaimer: I received this book as an ARC from NetGalley. Thank you to The Experiment, LLC and the author for the opportunity to read and review this book. My review reflects only my honest opinions.

Thank you to the anonymous person who left this book in a little free library for me to discover. Truly one of the most serendipitous book happenings I’ve ever experienced. Tim O'Brien’s name was familiar to me, as I’ve heard of his other, more famous book quite often in recent years—The Things They Carried. O'Brien himself was a Vietnam War veteran, so his personal experiences have indubitably shaped his fiction; this book is no different.

Our protagonist, John Wade, is a likeness for the author in some ways—he is also a Vietnam War veteran, middle-aged, and living a respectable middle-class American life; however, he also has high ambitions—he is campaigning for the United States Senate. At the center of the novel is his missing wife, Kathy, who is the love of his life. Lake of the Woods is a real county in Minnesota—quite remote and near the Canadian border; not only is it a fantastic place to set a sleepy mystery, but we also get to meet charming ‘locals’ who come to Wade’s assistance. The characters are all well-developed, and we even get chapters shifting in perspective—including a few from his wife, Kathy, as well as locals who report on events from their perspective.

The conceit of the novel is that it isn’t a standard narrative—rather, it is like a collection of records, documents, and ‘evidence’ that help the reader piece together what may or may not have happened to Kathy. However, for those who like solid ground—be well-warned: there is no definitive answer or solution. I enjoyed O'Brien’s ability to weave together disparate things like eyewitness accounts, random lists of police evidence, and interviews, among many others. Not only did it move the plot along, it also enriched the depth of all of the characters—no matter if they only appeared for a few pages. It reminded me somewhat of Janice Hallett’s The Appeal, except here it was somewhat more cohesive. Moreover, O'Brien manages to set the scene well and make the reader yearn for the beautiful landscape of forests and lakes—though, of course, such beauty can often hide disturbing secrets.

This is the sort of book that makes you want to embody its world for a little bit—in this case, exploring all of the different avenues of possibility. The writing style is almost overly simplistic, but it works well and doesn’t feel sparse. As the author hints, the “solution” to the question of what happened to Kathy is truly a vehicle to explore certain issues in greater detail, not least of all the experience of Vietnam War veterans and the price (and perhaps aspirations?) of politics, among other things. Being able to inhabit the minds of the characters, especially Wade, is not an easy task in this kind of novel—but he manages to do it so effortlessly. I am looking forward to reading more O'Brien!

Favorite quotes:
※ ‘We are fascinated, all of us, by the implacable otherness of others. And we wish to penetrate by hypothesis, by daydream, by scientific investigation those leaden walls that encase the human spirit, that define it and guard it and hold it forever inaccessible.’
※ ‘If time and space were in fact entwined along the loop of relativity, how then could anyone ever reach a point of no return? Were not all such points contrivance? Therefore meaningless? So, again, what was the point?
Not to return.’
※ ‘I cannot remember much, I cannot feel much. Maybe erasure is necessary. Maybe the human spirit defends itself as the body does, attacking infection, enveloping and destroying those malignancies that would otherwise consume us.’

This is a fascinating collection of essays by Daniel M. Lavery, centered around his experience transitioning as an older adult as well as grappling with religious themes based in his upbringing. It was certainly a fresh perspective on the ‘trans memoir’ genre, as it isn’t exactly a memoir in the traditional sense. Lavery decided to forego specific details in favor of capturing his emotional thoughts more precisely; it worked great for this type of project. I wasn’t previously familiar with Lavery’s writing, though I’m sure I had seen some of his writing floating around.

The essays range from topics like Lord Byron (one of my favorite chapters, of course) to The Golden Girls or even to The Pilgrim’s Progress, by John Bunyan. I had never heard of the latter book until reading this one, but it was entirely fascinating. I am areligious, but it is hard not to identify some of the themes invoked by Bunyan in contemporary American society and thought. Lavery also takes these themes and retrofits them to aspects of gender transition, which was clever and liable to piss off traditional religious types. Kudos for that.

This is perhaps a great example of the opposite of my most common criticism with memoirs—that they lack emotional depth or reflection. Here, it is entirely full of reflection and emotional insights from Lavery. Some of the essays worked better for me than others, partially because I wasn’t familiar with all of the aspects of pop culture he cites, but also because some of his style can be outlandish at times. I wouldn’t confidently say I am a fan of his style, but it was enjoyable enough for a quick read. All in all, I quite liked how it feels like him discussing his thoughts and ideas about certain topics in a casual manner, as with a friend.

Clearly, religion played a foundational role in Lavery’s life, and as a lens for examining his own experiences and formation of identity, it works extremely well. I would recommend reading this one if you are at all curious on his thoughts—not only about his life and his own identity journey, but about these miscellaneous topics that float around in his head.

This book has been on my radar since at least 2015, so I’m glad I finally got the chance to get around to it this year. (It was top on my TBR in terms of popularity on Goodreads.) It was also my first introduction to Margaret Atwood. The Handmaid’s Tale is a powerful dystopian read that has cemented itself as a modern classic—everything about it was so familiar to me from pop culture and media, yet that didn’t dampen my enjoyment of it.

The narrative is fragmented and disjointed since it is presented as a recollection or memoir by the protagonist; consequently, it is also in first-person POV. Atwood handled this rather well—Offred’s reflections on her past and the current state of dystopia felt genuine. Her difficulty in recollecting older things or ruminations on the future were palpable and lent a sense of realism. Many authors fail to do first-person convincingly; here, it helps that Offred is telling us her story, but not altogether subsuming the reader into her life—partly because of the conceit of the novel. (I won’t get into that too much, but it is brilliant.) Go into the novel with no expectations or spoilers, even though you may be familiar with its overarching points from media. It is well worth seeing how it all unfolds.

I also found the characters memorable—some are stereotypical, but to a reasonable degree. Offred is the highlight of the novel, and her character arc is entirely flawed—as she admits herself—which makes her an even more sympathetic and endearing character. Her struggles are somewhat emblematic of women generally in Gilead, but her particular outlook on them nonetheless strikes its own chord. The supporting characters were also surprisingly well-developed—her partner, Ofglen, is devious and scheming and I felt quite affected by what happens with her.

The dystopian themes were incredible to read and felt extremely prescient for 2024. Oppression championed by the oppressed class themselves; the faulty nature of collective memory; the consequences of contrarian thought; the passive acceptance of oppressive forces and imposed hierarchy; and so on. So often while reading the book, I went through cycles of thinking ‘this is too unrealistic’ and a few moments later switching to ‘this is exactly on the nose’. I did find myself uncomfortable at times with the reversal of certain tropes, like the female gaze; it is a good example of how easy it is to take certain aspects of literary narratives for granted (i.e., the male gaze).

That there are people today who openly align themselves with the sort of values embraced by Gileadean society is a disturbing thought. Atwood herself must have felt this, too, since she ended up writing a sequel to the book. (I may or may not read the sequel—we’ll see; I don’t want it to unnecessarily ruin my impression of the first.) I can only hope her preface to the book holds true—that we must not and can not let ourselves fall to such disgraceful states, whether as people or as a country.

I definitely do want to see the show next—it seems to have good reviews, and I am curious how they capture some of these moments in the book. I was somewhat (though not entirely) surprised that there are several tender and even happy moments in the book, though they are almost drowned out by all of the depressing and bleak ones. Also—the one definitive word for this book must be ‘bleak’, because I saw that so many times.

From the get-go, Witch King manages to grab the reader for what promises to be an enjoyable ride. The reader follows as the protagonist, a demon named Kai (short for Kaiisteron, among other names) wakes up trapped in a water tomb… turns out, he’s dead. The novel deftly switches between past and present perspectives, crafting a narrative that slowly unravels some of the central mysteries marching along with the plot. Accompanying Kai are not only his dearest friend, Ziede, but also a young sacrificial child, as well as others known from his past and new acquaintances.

Wells doesn’t hold your hand—she immerses you in the worldbuilding from the get-go, and you slowly begin to unravel the history and context of the characters as you go along; however, the worldbuilding is almost beside the point—we never get encyclopedia-style explanations, just enough to move on and help the narrative flow smoothly. The characters and plot are both important aspects here, which is perhaps why I enjoyed it so much, even though the worldbuilding was not the strongest. It was kind of like the inverse of The Raven Tower by Ann Leckie, which has some pretty neat worldbuilding, but whose characters and plot feel secondary to the former. Both novels worked well for me, so I guess it is mostly dependent on the author’s skill.

Perhaps in a different mood I would have demanded more worldbuilding, or more in-depth examinations of the characters’ relationships; but here, I was content to get lost in the mystery of the world. Though the plot was nothing too complicated, it was still enjoyable watching Wells unravel the knotted threads and bring them to a restored whole at the end. The pacing could have been executed better at times; the back-and-forth of present vs. past could get repetitive; sometimes I just wanted to stay in a particular moment. This is a self-contained narrative, and I don’t necessarily think it would have worked if it were drawn out into a series, but something about the length feels off—perhaps it could’ve been more concise.

I did quite enjoy the focus on themes like found family, memory, and perhaps a hint of what we owe others (especially those we consider friends). The exploration of these themes could have been deeper, but I also wasn’t expecting it to be; the novel just works as an enjoyable standalone fantasy. I’m definitely hoping to read more from Martha Wells—and I’m very excited that Murderbot is a series of shorter novellas.

He was almost consumed by his passion for logic, and during his entire life, that strange gift of his let him see things with remarkable clarity, granting him a vision so blinding that to others, whose focus is smeared by emotional considerations and prejudices, his point of view seemed completely incomprehensible.

Without a doubt, this book was one of my favorite reads of 2023/2024 (I started it late December and finished in early January). It swept me away with a force nearly unlike any other book. Somehow, it manages to tackle subjects like Johann von Neumann (the star of the show), AlphaGo, and even the strange story of Paul Ehrenfest (with whom I was previously unfamiliar) with great aplomb, bearing the force of an addictive contemporary thriller. Although the novel’s focus is von Neumann, it is of course greater than any one person—the structure itself is formatted through recollections of his acquaintances; these are fictional, of course, but Labatut is so skilled that I honestly had to remind myself that they weren’t real. In a word, the entire novel is concisely packed together with narrative, plot, ‘characters’, and dramatic tension—it comes together beautifully, and I struggle to even find where the seams are. The ideas behind the novel are a huge part of what makes it a success. Computational thinking is the key here, more or less; from von Neumann’s ‘MANIAC’ to AlphaGo in 2015, the subtly hidden but omnipresent character is none other than the almighty computer in all of its various forms. I really appreciated how Labatut manages to boil down complex discussions of advanced-level mathematics and computer science into things even I, a poor humanities pleb, can understand. It seemed like magic, honestly. I have always been interested in the more philosophical strands of math, and this book does appeal to that side, which helps; but even so, it’s sheer madness how he was able to explain things almost as easily as von Neumann himself. For example, Gödel’s incompleteness theorems were something I was vaguely aware of, but it wasn’t until seeing them explained here that I actually felt like I understood. The nature of von Neumann’s single-minded focus towards his obsession—first in mathematics and then theoretical physics, and then onwards to the burgeoning field of information systems and computer science—is extremely captivating. Labatut must be tapping into some kind of writing genius for his ability to channel von Neumann’s colleagues, friends, and rivals—it was hard to remember that I was indeed reading a fictional book at times. As a figure, von Neumann is entirely alien—his mind works in such a drastically different way from most of us, and yet, it is that very quality that makes it extraordinary to even take a peek into his mind; and somehow, Labatut manages to achieve this.The section on the development of the atomic bomb was also quite interesting, since I’ve got the Oppenheimer film under my belt; going through that again in Labatut’s delightful prose, and especially in his precisely captured voices of figures like Feynman and the rest, was pure delight. Of course, the perspective here is more on the theoretical and computational aspects, but it was no less enjoyable; and of course, the figures ruminating on the nature of the bomb and the ethical consequences of all that theory… well, as a theme, it fits seamlessly into the book.Still, the throughline of the novel is about the power of computing more generally, as well as the limits of computing—and whether it can approximate something like natural minds or environments. We see hints of this even in early computing, and Labatut focuses on the fine line between some of von Neumann’s domineering ‘collaboration’ with his colleagues, at times refining on ideas and taking over projects that he believes he can do better. (He did and probably could, but still, it’s that characteristic ego of geniuses.) For example, his collaboration on the work of Nils Aall Barricelli, whose influence was not duly recognized. By the time we get to AlphaGo, the various pieces of the book click together in place, and you begin to see the overall web Labatut has been weaving all this time. The discussion of AlphaGo may seem at first a non-sequitur—a topic as creative and abstract as go, however, is a natural companion to the abstract theories of computation. Whereas von Neumann’s machines are artificial and structured, go is chaotic and messy, something that was only tamed by AlphaGo in 2015. Having tried my hand at go the last few years (though I’m still very much a beginner), I loved reading about Lee Sedol and the other go champions’ approaches to the game as well as to their interactions with the computer program. The final part of the book begins its discussions not with AlphaGo but with one of the founders of DeepMind, Demis Hassabis, a wunderkind whose prodigious talents make him a natural figure in the world of ‘artificial intelligence’. Sometimes you look at what other people have accomplished and begin to doubt what you’ve even accomplished in your life; Hassabis’s skillset is certainly beyond the standard deviation, though. His goal of working on deep learning and neural networks has undoubtedly had a positive effect on humanity—for example, AlphaFold predicts protein structures, which tackles one of the most pressing problems in modern biology. Examining the humans behind the programs is also a kind of unveiling, at the least, of the motivations behind such projects, if not for their lofty ambitions.One of the most mind-bending sections comes towards the end, where AlphaGo’s successful reign is eclipsed only by its ‘successor’, AlphaGo Zero (and there are many successive iterations), which manages to learn the same capabilities as the original but without human involvement. Very much a mind-blown sort of moment. We are certainly in the early stages of machine learning, but this kind of example shows that so much more is likely possible. Perhaps not enough to replace human thinking—the human brain is incredibly complex in its entirety, and I doubt machines can replicate that anytime soon—but with the capacity to come up with creative maneuvers in go, and play extremely rare moves that almost seem to taunt their opponent, the programs are coming closer than perhaps we will even be able to understand. I’m not sure where I first read it, but I believe the nature of some machine learning isn’t even clear to researchers themselves; we just see its effects.Anyway, I’ll stop rambling on and on but this is an incredibly brilliant book that made me reflect a lot on the nature of computation, theoretical models of reality, and the nature of being human in an age of machines… to name but a small slice of the many complex themes invoked in the book. This is a fictional ‘novel’, yet its immediate concerns are not far from reality—nor are its characters unreal. In a liminal sort of way, this book offers a lot to a sufficiently curious reader at the thresholds of what is possible and what may be in the future. I am looking forward to reading Labatut’s previous book, and whatever he publishes next. I may be overzealous in this, but I would recommend this book to anyone with a pulse.

I am a Tralfamadorian, seeing all time as you might see a stretch of the Rocky Mountains. All time is all time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is.

I very much appreciated receiving this for my Jólabókaflóð 2023 book; it has been on my to-read list for over a decade. Kurt Vonnegut is also an author whom I’ve always wanted to read, expecting his work would be to my taste—and I was not wrong. This is a brief novel, but it is incredibly dense—it feels like Vonnegut sculpted each word precisely for its role. The core of the novel is about the bombing of Dresden, which is something that Vonnegut actually experienced; thus, the main character, Billy Pilgrim, does have some autobiographical elements. Though, of course, this is still a work of fiction. Occasionally, the veneer of fiction ebbs away, revealing reality—which is an impressive sleight-of-hand for an author. But I shouldn’t be surprised; after all, this is Vonnegut!

Interestingly, the subtitles are ‘The Children’s Crusade’ as well as ‘A Duty-Dance with Death’. The former, I presume, refers to the fact that young men who really didn’t know any better were shipped off to war; the former, of course, could be a number of things, least of all the experience of seeing Dresden bombed and people dying in the streets (not to mention your own comrades).

Billy was an interesting character; he’s sort of an everyman, whose existence is almost like an accident. He encounters events and meanders through them with scarcely any purpose; whatever the opposite of intentional is—that’s what he feels like. It’s all the more remarkable that Vonnegut manages to make him such a compelling character nonetheless. Of course, his intentions become a bit clearer and further developed as the novel progresses. The remaining characters are intriguing, if only to reflect on Billy’s personality and gradual change. Unfortunately, the women were pretty static, and written as a male writer would write his female characters in the 1960s.

The first few chapters are somewhat chronological and reflect Vonnegut’s time in Chicago almost exactly; it was a bit uncanny to read about those experiences—so far removed in time, and yet, so similar. However, the time warp of the novel is one of its central themes—and begins to throw the reader for a spin rather quickly. It does take some getting used to, but eventually, I grew to enjoy the brief interludes of aliens and asynchronous happenings in Billy’s life. Science fiction and the asynchronous telling of his experiences adds another layer of almost un-reality to everything, though it also reminds me of modern media like the film Arrival. Vonnegut’s visions of future America were also rather stark, and one could say rather pessimistic; I can’t exactly blame him, but it’s weird reading that so many decades ahead of him and wondering what he would make of our modern world.

The Tralfamadorian sense of time sees all time at once, not as a linear dimension but as a loop; everything that has once been will be in the future and always has been. When this is applied to Dresden and similar war experiences, on the one hand, it lends a kind of timeless quality to war—war exists, always has existed, and will continue to exist. On the other hand, it also places a barrier between the one experiencing the war and the war itself; for Vonnegut, perhaps this was a way of coming to terms with some of what he saw. However, there is a danger in depicting war in this way—it precludes the possibility of change.

Of course, this is an anti-war novel; how could it not be? Vonnegut’s own experiences didn’t let him go until he was able to flesh out this book, as hard-going as it was. What Billy Pilgrim witnesses, and indeed what Vonnegut himself saw, should be sufficient to show the horrors of war. At this point, I’m fairly fortunate in that I haven’t been involved in a country’s active war, nor sent to die for one. But my pacifist tendencies certainly sympathized and saw commonality with Vonnegut. I can hardly blame him for how he has processed these events, as coming out of something like that with your sanity somewhat intact seems victory enough.

A review can't really encapsulate the essence of this book at all, especially not after so many months have passed from when I read it. All I can do is recommend it—‘so it goes’. Also, I really need to read more of Vonnegut before I’m in a retirement home.

My first foray into Han Kang, Greek Lessons was an impulse pick from the library shelf. Having studied Ancient Greek, I was drawn to the premise solely for that reason—after all, it’s in the title. Still, this is a novel more about the role of language in how we relate to others, and ancient Greek being the specific medium of that exploration is ultimately neither here nor there. (Though there are some nice one-liners that explore the nuances of ancient Greek, so she must have done the research, or at least had consulted someone who has.)

The characters were a bit strange, admittedly; the protagonist is a middle-aged woman who seemingly goes mute without explanation. She has gone through a messy separation with her husband and has a child she can only see occasionally; like her world, her language closes in around her, cutting her off from other human beings. In the midst of this, she enrolls in a Greek course, hoping that her brain’s engagement with language will revive her ability to speak, as it had done in her teens.

She meets the lonesome Greek tutor, who is himself a mysterious and especially lonely middle-aged man. Having returned from living abroad (Germany), the tutor is also somewhat removed from his fellow humans—in his case, being a returnee for whom Korea is a former home, in which he has to constantly adjust. And of course, the tutor is slowly going blind, because who doesn’t love a symmetrical sort of character study.

I’m not sure I entirely liked this one; to be sure, the plot was intriguing and it kept me guessing. The vignettes of the past were weaved together with the present narration a bit abruptly, like the nature of memory itself (jarring, obtrusive at times, fragmented). This is more a philosophical novel about ideas, rather than focusing on a strict plot. I either hate or love these types of books, and unfortunately in this case, I think it missed the mark.

I enjoyed the themes about language, memory, and thought, all wrapped up in discussions of how we relate to others in our lives. But I didn’t find the way it was explored here all that convincing; the characters felt static, purposeful but not nuanced. Their histories also were presented in a confusing way; the perspective or timeline would shift easily, with little notice or marker. It was a kind of a fever dream of a novel. Perhaps my expectations were just not set in the right mode to appreciate this novel more.

I do still hope to read Kang’s other book, The Vegetarian, especially now that I am more aware of her style and will perhaps be better prepared for it.

I picked this up on a whim after seeing it at the library; but it ended up being a delightful one. I knew nothing about the history of Madagascar or even the history of pirates, but Graeber’s inviting writing style and deft with the source materials makes for easy reading. Though there were some parts that dragged a bit, it kept my attention rather easily. Pirate Enlightenment, or the Real Libertalia, as the author says, was originally meant to be an essay; it does struggle with this format change at times, resulting in some stagnant pacing. Despite that, the narrow focus on the Betsimiraka Confederation makes this a more focused essay/book and keeps it from becoming over- or under-encumbered.

You need to know nothing going in, as evidently I did not; some familiarity with the history of trade routes in the Indian Ocean would be helpful. The narrative focuses on a period of Magalasy history from the 16th to 18th centuries, concerning the rise of pirates and the eventual emergence of the Betsimiraka under a legendary figure named Ratsimilaho. As far as the sources indicate, he was a real person, but the sources themselves conflict on the nature of his power at the time.

Graeber takes it upon himself to unravel some of these sources and makes some definitive arguments about the nature of the Betsimiraka Confederation. This was a formation of a group influences by the children of foreign-born pirates and Malagasy natives, and as such, Graeber argues that this eclectic mix provided an experimental foundation for this polity. Rather than the salons of Paris, Madagascar served as a test ground for ‘proto-Enlightenment’ ideas, such as the egalitarian nature of society under the Betsimiraka, cooperation and unity among members, and similar ideas.

At times, I did struggle to find his arguments entirely convincing; they could be circular or suppositive. However, the sources themselves do pose quite a mystery, and Graeber’s deductions do at least follow a traceable train of thought. Whether or not Ratsimilaho was the leader of the Confederation is less material of a question than the nature of how the Confederation came to be. In the end, I ended up learning quite a bit about Malagasy history and the nature of pirates on the Madagascar coast; as usual, learning something new is always a great experience. This short little book is worth the read if you are at all curious or ignorant about the subject; perhaps it could stand to harsher scrutiny by those more aware of the subject matter.

One of my favorite reads of the year, certainly. My first book by Brandon Sanderson was a rewarding one. I had heard repeatedly of this book, and of Sanderson’s legendary pandemic book project, but reading the first few pages of Tress of the Emerald Sea was the key recipe to get me hooked. Sanderson’s writing style, quirky and playful, felt like a breath of fresh air from other recent fantasy I’ve read—which is often trying too hard to sound overly lyrical. Sanderson brings the fantastical almost down-to-earth, while reminding the reader that this is, indeed, a fantasy world; we can take nothing for granted based on our own expectations of Earth.

Tress’s world has an emerald sea, but it is a sea made of spores, not water. Into this adventure of ignorance, the narrative can do nothing but continue to impress and subvert the reader’s subconscious biases about the fantasy genre. The worldbuilding is truly the centerpiece of this novel—it’s not like most fantasy books, and it entirely owns up to that characterization (perhaps annoyingly to a fault, at times). There are familiar elements, like witches, sea voyages, magic, and opaque curses; but as a reader, I was kept guessing until the end how they would be utilized.

From the beginning, Tress is a likeable character—in the classic fantasy heroine style, she is naïve, but her personality is somewhat self-aware. Unlike the fantasy tropes, her simpleness is not a flaw that is to be remedied or a cover for lurking greatness—her simplicity is what makes her great. She is kind, but not to a fault; she isn’t perfect—she doubts herself constantly.

In a sense, Tress felt like a realistic character. Moreover, her relationships with other characters and gradual ability to win people over was just charming. Sanderson also manages to flesh out the characters decently well, though there is no shortage of cast to introduce—even halfway through the book; even the ’villainous’ characters have depth to them.

Sanderson’s style is unfettered with garrulous descriptions and exquisite details—it’s exactly the kind of ‘to the point’ style I love reading, since it makes the experience glide along much more smoothly. His humor is also well-timed and adds to the narration; as I’ve mentioned, the book being self-aware of its role in the story (that is, as a story) makes it that much more delightful when it casually breaks the fourth wall or subverts the reader’s expectations.

Were there things that could have been better? Perhaps; it’s hard for me to recall if I had any issues with this book, given that this review is coming months late… but as it stands, I can only remember loving this book and how this book gripped me from start to finish. I wholeheartedly recommend this to anyone who enjoys fantasy, or even someone that thinks they don’t—you never know, and Sanderson is a beloved author for a reason, as I’ve come to learn.

Favorite quotes:
※ ‘That is one of the great mistakes people make: assuming that someone who does menial work does not like thinking. Physical labor is great for the mind, as it leaves all kinds of time to consider the world. Other work, like accounting or scribing, demands little of the body—but siphons energy from the mind.
If you wish to become a storyteller, here is a hint: sell your labor, but not your mind. Give me ten hours a day scrubbing a deck, and oh the stories I could imagine. Give me ten hours adding sums, and all you’ll have me imagining at the end is a warm bed and a thought-free evening.’

※ ‘Memory is often our only connection to who we used to be. Memories are fossils, the bones left by dead versions of ourselves. More potently, our minds are a hungry audience, craving only the peaks and valleys of experience. The bland erodes, leaving behind the distinctive bits to be remembered again and again. Painful or passionate, surreal or sublime, we cherish those little rocks of peak experience, polishing them with the ever-smoothing touch of recycled proxy living. In so doing—like pagans praying to a sculpted mud figure—we make of our memories the gods which judge our current lives.’

※ ‘Empathy is an emotional loss leader. It pays for itself eventually.’

I first read Dr John Ratey’s work when I read the book he wrote with Ned Hallowell, ADHD 2.0. Since he was already on my radar, and this book had great reviews, I decided to finally pick it up in the hopes that I could convince myself to finally get a movement habit going. Though I will note that the book can be dated at times, since it was published in 2008—it mentions investing in a heart rate monitor, for example, when everyone seems to have a smart watch capable of that and much more nowadays. However, even so, this book is still quite useful and worth reading if you are someone who likes to be sure of mainstream research behind a phenomenon before accepting it.

The premise of the book seems to be a hard sell. The blurb states that “exercise is truly our best defense against everything from depression to ADD to addiction to aggression to menopause to Alzheimer's”. Surely, that is belaboring the point; how can something as basic as exercise tackle so many disparate issues? Yet, Dr. Ratey explores the way exercise interacts with each of these domains with skillful ease, which makes this book eminently readable. The human body, at its core, has not evolved to sit at a desk all day or to move around just a few times a week. Rather, its function is to be moving almost constantly—at least every day—and getting up to an exertive heart rate for most of those days.

I will admit, when I read about Dr. Ratey explaining how several studies found improvements in the conditions mentioned above through exercise (either alone or in concert with medication), it seemed like a too-good-to-be-true panacea. Sure, exercise can improve mental and physical health; but Dr. Ratey’s point here is precisely that improving one’s physical health is secondary to improving mental health—the brain ‘gains’ that one can get from exercise are worth it alone, even leaving any physical benefits. Even if he has cherry-picked some of these studies, however, they were ultimately quite convincing and telling; even if you are skeptical, it is hard to entirely deny that exercise has important benefits—and seeing the brain as an extension of those benefits is not a hard leap.

Yes, after a time, this book felt like it was preaching to the choir and somewhat tediously repetitive in its message. Yet, Dr. Ratey keeps things interesting by interspersing anecdotes from his patients and even from his own family/himself. I did appreciate that Dr. Ratey qualified his assessments when the research was not quite definitive; but in those instances, he sometimes went on to presuppose exercise as being effective, which could feel disingenuous. At the very least, it couldn’t hurt; but the studies are not always so clear when it comes to causality. (We are very much in the realm of correlation when it comes to human studies… for mostly obvious reasons.)

My biggest gripe with the book was the lack of footnotes and citations, or even suggestions for further reading. Every time he mentioned a study, I wished there were a way to look it up and read it for myself. The primary researchers and scientists are mentioned, so in theory you can look it up, but it isn’t precise. This meant, on occasion, glossing over studies that seemed incomplete or less robust than other studies mentioned. Even so, I am constantly reminded of this book and the studies on exercise every time I try to reinforce the habit. It is hard… but having the evidence in front of you makes excuses harder to fabricate.

“Any defiance of the wild leads at best to a fragile, temporary victory. Nature and fate are their own capricious monsters, ones that cannot be tamed any more than a roc ever truly belongs to her ruhker.”

Immediately intrigued by this novella, I was excited to read something that featured creatures from Persian myths, like manticores and rocs. It can be hard to do fantasy well in fewer pages, but Fonda crafts the world of Untethered Sky vividly nonetheless. The characters are, more or less, vehicles to the storytelling and to the atmosphere. There are a few meandering wisps of plot and moments of tension, but the ambiance was the real star of this show. It was almost inspiring to read about Ester and her dedication to a calling that is not only brutally violent but occasionally deadly; despite the risks, being a ‘ruhker’ is a vital position in Ester’s society. Ester is given a fairly standard tragic backstory, and her relationships with her fellow ruhkers is almost besides the point—though I did appreciate the side-stepping of the unnecessary romantic angle you see often in adult fantasy these days. The central relationship is between Ester and Zahra, her roc. (Her relationship to fellow ruhker Darius was also really enjoyable—their interactions felt quite realistic, but also endearing.)The storytelling is inviting and immersive; Fonda’s writing style was concise, which served the narrative well. You get these small segments of scenes more than full encounters, which makes it feel somewhat like a tasting course. But it helps establish the breadth of worldbuilding, even if some of it ends up being more superficial. This is a delightful fantasy novella that treads over new grounds, which is a hard enough task in this genre; it may be short, but what it lacks in volume and depth it more than makes up for in ideas, sentiments, and its remarkable world.

I’m not sure exactly why, but this one didn’t strike me nearly as forcefully as The Haunting of Hill House. Perhaps it was the characters, who are really the primary focus of We Have Always Lived in the Castle. I know many readers find Mary Katherine and Constance sympathetic characters, but I just could not bring myself to care. Even from the start, Mary Katherine’s tone in her narration and general way of existing made me weary of her (yes, I mean weary, not wary). Her affectations were just a tad bit too much. Her childish nature is part of the point, you could argue, but for me it was just off-putting. Even Constance, whose melancholy bleeds through the pages in its abundance, was almost overwrought. The characters are as stunted as the house, and the mirroring of these aspects is clever, but even with that understanding, I guess I just don’t ‘get’ this book.

There are interesting moments, certainly—as I’ve come to learn, Jackson’s style is brilliant in creating a sense of atmosphere. Castle is no different; the ‘castle’ in question, and especially the town, appear vividly in these pages. The sisters’ and their interactions with the mysteriously hostile town inhabitants creates a deepening sense of claustrophobia as the novel progresses. I’ve read that this part of the book was inspired by Jackson’s own experiences in North Bennington, Vermont, so it is quite remarkable to see how readily she has transposed that feeling into words, Her writing style, as in Hill House, is brief and to the point, but in the way that a statue has been chiseled away to leave only what is necessary for its form. The opening paragraph itself is a fantastic scene-setter, introducing you not only to Merricat’s oddity, but to the motifs of the story more generally.

This book will either impress you or dull you, almost certainly; few seem to walk away with an intermediate reaction. It did both for me, in parts, but overall, its weirdness was just not my cup of tea. Despite that, I would still reservedly recommend this book—it’s a classic, and a cemented foundation of the Jackson canon, and for that alone is well worth the read.