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You know what’s the trouble with you? You’re an expatriate. One of the worst type. Haven’t you heard that? Nobody that ever left their own country ever wrote anything worth printing. Not even in the newspapers.

I re-read this for the first time since high school. Characters are constantly drunk and belligerent, arguing over a girl who is just as annoying. There is a fiesta. Bullfights and fights occur. Jake Barnes has a lot of ruminating thoughts. Sometimes they are interesting and sometimes they aren’t. The style is laconic but still manages to bore me to tears. Last part gets a little more interesting but then abruptly ends. Oh well, I am glad to be done. I agree with my past self: this book is a dud, despite the interesting subject matter and environs described. One star for the barest sympathies of what the Lost Generation was like, and half a star for the brevity of the book. Minus a million stars for my utter boredom and desire to DNF, were it not for the book count and a book club prompt. This book may have been exciting and groundbreaking once, but that time has passed.‘Favorite’ quotes:※ ‘“Everybody behaves badly,” I said.’※ ‘There was a waiter sitting at one of the tables with his head in his hands.’※ ‘It was beginning to get dark. The fiesta was going on. I began to feel drunk but I did not feel any better.’

The old definition of moth was ‘anything that gradually, silently eats, consumes, or wastes any other thing.’ It was a verb for destruction too…

If I may be vain for a moment, I am perhaps in the minority among readers of this novel, namely those who have not seen the film adaptation. I was vaguely familiar with it from pop culture, but I never knew all the details, aside from small details here or there about Hannibal Lecter. I had been seeing his name come up a lot lately and decided, why not, the penultimate day or so before my thesis is due is a perfect time to start a book! (Note: heavy sarcasm.) This is a novel that grips you as soon as you start, which made it hurt to simultaneously read and finish my thesis… so it was a bit slowgoing, at first. Despite that, it did not detract at all from my engagement with the story.The Silence of the Lambs is popularly known as one among a series of novels about Hannibal Lecter, and this is surely the case—but the novel’s main subject is really Clarice Starling, our protagonist and soon-to-be FBI agent. She’s just a mere trainee at the Academy, but that doesn’t stop her from somehow being handpicked by the head of Behavioral Science to team up with everyone’s favorite sociopathic villain to solve a serial killer. The gist of the plot is such, and it isn’t entirely novel as far as the thriller genre goes, but Harris is perhaps old enough in the game to have been innovative once. I’m not a huge thriller reader, but I do admit that Harris manages to keep the plot actually… you know, thrilling, which modern ‘thrillers’ often fail at. Everyone likely knows the story, it seems, so I won’t delve into that too much—suffice it to say that the ending was actually surprising for me, and though I had figured out some pieces, I never fully anticipated where exactly the story would go.As for characters, the entire cast of characters is charming and has a believable amount of depth. Clarice is obviously the star, a brilliant investigator, but also with some lingering trauma that makes her extremely vulnerable to Lecter. Her supervisor, Jack Crawford, is also an interesting enigma—he isn’t on-page much, but Harris has put at least some effort towards crafting his backstory. Ardelia Mapp was also a fun character, bringing levity into her scenes—and it was great to see Clarice and Ardelia have relatable moments like stressing out over tests, or staying up to talk in the middle of the night. Hannibal Lecter, last but not least, was of course incredibly interesting—but also, in this novel, you don’t actually get to know too much about him. I suppose I have to go back to Red Dragon for that, which I definitely plan on doing, but it was a bit disappointing. Of course he’s a cannibal. He spares a few cannibalistic jokes here and there, but aside from his major moment in this book, he’s mainly just a very chaotic and evil psychologist for hire. (That scene was awesome, though.) As for the villain, if anything, he could have used a little bit more development—he felt a bit cartoony at times, and even like a prop to move the plot along; Harris definitely built up his backstory, but perhaps it wasn’t enough.A brief note on style—Harris’s style is fairly unconventional, at least for literary fiction. It seemed strange at first, but I warmed up to it quickly, and I can definitely see why this book translated well to film. It’s punchy and paints a picture without getting lost in exposition; I’m not a visual thinker or reader, but even I couldn’t help but note how vivid Harris’s descriptions were. Moreover, his weird nuances help the reader get even closer to the inner minds of the characters, which was very interesting—especially when we had POV chapters for Buffalo Bill.Some minor criticisms I would point out is that the ending seems fairly lackluster, after what is an extremely exciting amount of third act buildup (I stayed up until 05:00am to finish this). Some of the secondary storylines, like that of Clarice and the zoology guy, seemed a bit random and unnecessary. I was in a reading slump part of my time reading this, largely because of impending deadlines, so I don’t know if this is entirely me or also the book in part, but some of the middle felt less exciting to read than the first and last thirds. I was stuck around the halfway mark for a good week or so. There are also a lot of reviews calling out the language for being misogynistic, which is interesting, and considering the time period this was written, likely accurate. However, when reading, I got the complete opposite sense—Clarice’s strength was precisely that she was a woman in a world full of men. It gave her an edge, and her femininity was a strength, not a hindrance. Sure, Harris depicts men who objectify and mock her being a woman, but isn’t that (unfortunately) a realistic depiction? On an unrelated note, it was also quite charming reading a book written in the 80s and seeing such technological marvels as a telegraph for fingerprints and car phones. It’s really incredible how much technology (and forensics) has progressed in just a few decades since.Do I regret starting this book while being nowhere near to done with my thesis? Sure, but that’s also a classic me move, and this book was well worth it. I should have gotten around to it ages ago honestly, and now I am excited to finally watch the film adaptation and see what everyone else has been raving about since 1991. I will definitely be keeping an eye out for the other books in this series, and who knows, maybe one day I’ll even take a gander at the relatively more recent TV series. In either case, I’m curious to learn more about this odd Hannibal Lecter fellow… even though his presence in this book is like the shadow of a moth’s wing, it nevertheless leaves an indelible imprint.

I read this book for a book club in July 2022. It was a mediocre experience, and I would have probably DNFed it if not for the book club and also if I actively hated it. As it happens, the premise and ideas behind the novel were interesting, but the execution left quite a lot wanting. The main character, Nora Seed, is dull and uninspired; moreover, I could not understand or relate to her struggles in any way, so it made her a hard (near impossible, really) character to root for. The plot was extremely predictable. However, most egregious was the messaging and the themes behind the book—they were about as subtle as a brick to the face.

Well, I am not the target audience for this book. I have studied philosophy and while I’m not that knowledgeable about quantum mechanics, I know enough to know when it is misused. I’m not easily swayed by appearances or place much value in externals, like having a lot of money or having certain luxuries, etc. I don’t have a self-absorbed vision of myself as Nora does, thinking that she is somehow responsible for or affects everyone she comes into contact with. I have regrets, as does anyone, but I view them as a means to learn and grow from my past self. So I don’t get the hype and ‘life-changing’ remarks about this book. Particularly towards the end, Haig starts rambling like it’s his blog we are reading and not a novel.

Finally, the structure of the novel qua novel is under-cooked; the plot is wafer thin, the worldbuilding (or shall we say the justification for the novel’s premise) is nonexistent or too convenient, and the characters are forgettable if not downright annoying. I’d pass on this one, unless you are of the social media generation or somehow believe that ‘dating the right guy’ or ‘having a cool job’ will somehow magically provide happiness and cure your depression (without a lot of hard introspection). Or if you believe the world revolves around you. Or maybe if you have zero exposure to philosophy at all. I don’t know. Either way, this novel assumes its readers are clueless bats waiting to be passively impressed by Matt Haig’s ‘original’ ideas about mental health which are lukewarm at best and borderline insensitive at worst.

Publication date: 21 July 2022 by University of Iowa Press

The Plea is a fairly quick read that covers the history of Wesley Elkins, a notorious juvenile murderer from the state of Iowa. I had not heard of this case before reading this book, but the authors write in a simple and clear style and quickly engage the reader in the pitiful story. The blurb may be slightly misleading—this is not really a case of someone falsely accused, nor would I describe it as ‘true crime’, as the crime is dispensed with in the first few chapters of the book and serves only as a foundation for what is to come. Rather, this book is an expose on Elkins’s struggle as a juvenile offender for whom the legal system offered no reprieve, nor understanding of his unfortunate past. Spanning several states and many decades, this book is an expansive work whose authors have definitely poured many hours into the research and transmission thereof.

Wesley Elkins is just 11 years old when he coldly plans to murder his father and stepmother, all while his infant half-sister is sleeping in the same bed (luckily, he lets the infant live). The attitude of many in Clayton County, Iowa was direct: this was a heinous and morally depraved act, and Wesley should be incarcerated and the key thrown out. However, Bryan and Wolf explain the circumstances and efforts behind Wesley and his supporters who successfully seek his pardon and parole as a young adult—not to spoil the book too much, but the reasons are as complex as the case itself.

Are people to be defined by the worst thing they have ever done? Are criminals capable of rehabilitation and true repentance? Even now, these are far from simple questions. Juvenile justice reform has come a long way from Wesley’s time—we have dedicated juvenile courts and laws to ensure that the legal system treats minors (and the adults responsible for them) appropriately. I was fascinated by the legal history—Bryan and Wolf even manage to make a legislative session sound exciting and suspenseful. I would certainly recommend this book to those interested in the social and legal history of young offenders in the early 20th century.

The book also goes into great detail about the prison Wesley was incarcerated at, as well as the characters of various wardens and inmates. There is an almost excessive amount of attention given to Susan Glaspell who write a short story, ‘The Plea’, modeled on Wesley Elkins and aiming to rouse the sympathies of the public towards child offenders; looking at Bryan’s academic interests, it seems that she has done quite a lot of work on Glaspell, so I can see why she tied her work into the narrative.

However, one of the biggest drawbacks of this book is due to the nature of its extensive reliance on archival and written records. Much of the basis of this book, as the authors explain early on, is based on writings from Wesley and other people involved in the case directly. As such, the authors frequently turn to make speculative claims about one or other aspects of Wesley’s life. This is one of the few things that made me wonder if this would have been better off remaining as a short article rather than an entire book; there is just so much of Wesley’s life missing, and thus the authors must include too the narrative of the prison, the legislative processes at work in the background, etc. These were interesting, no doubt, and the context was very helpful for the case. However, it does highlight the difficulty in focusing your narrative on a man whose entire later years you have no record of. Perhaps some authorial reflection on Elkins would have helped to pad out the book—I couldn’t help but wonder why he made certain decisions and what he may have thought about his life. Surely the authors, having done so much research and having walked in his footsteps, have some thoughts on these matters.

I do very much appreciate this book for giving me a new perspective on juvenile criminal justice and prison reform; these are certainly important and relevant for the modern reader. While it was far from a perfect book, the authors’ style was engaging and this was a quick read. I learned a lot about Wesley Elkins, and I am happy to think that, even long after his death, his case may still impact the way we think of juvenile justice. I would hesitate to recommend this book if you’re merely interested in true crime, as it is barely about the crime itself and there is no mystery or otherwise suspenseful element to it; but if you are interested in accessible legal and social history, this may be up your alley.

Disclaimer: Thank you to NetGalley and the University of Iowa Press for providing an advanced reader copy of this book. This review reflects only my honest thoughts.

Publication date: 13 September 2022 by MIT Press

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? This is the question at the heart of Vili Lehdonvirta’s new book, Cloud Empires. The cover and title both drew me to this book. I am not well-versed in economics or sociology, but Lehdonvirta’s subject is something that affects us all—the digital markets or platforms that possess a firm hold on online markets. As such, this book is not about the tech giants in a broad sense, and I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it people who are looking for a more general overview of Big Tech. And yet I am pretty sure nearly everyone these days has bought something online, so it is still relevant to our daily lives. This is an important book and although we’ve been taking in the ominous portents of Big Tech’s reach for years now, we have not yet seen a narrative that tackles digital platforms and commerce for a broader audience. Lehdonvirta’s clear and well-organized prose makes this daunting subject accessible and clear, even if you lack an economics or sociology background.

The narrative is structured chronologically, with the earlier chapters corresponding to the lawless and chaotic days of the early internet. Since there was an abundance of anonymity and not much in the way of regulatory or institutional frameworks, Lehdonvirta explains how digital commerce had yet to really take off—at least until companies like eBay and Amazon came into the picture. Reading about the early days of Usenet and the visions of various tech founders was interesting and established one of the running themes of digital commerce—its primary intention was always to resist the undue influence of outsiders, i.e., government regulation, in favor of giving its users more control and liberty. Of course, this is far from how it actually played out. Lehdonvirta does well to emphasize that this occurred as a byproduct of human attitudes and limitations—not merely because tech founders were actively malicious.

One of the more interesting chapters was on Satoshi Nakamota, the anonymous creator of Bitcoin. I have to say, I quite appreciated this contextual information, and Lehdonvirta’s exposition on Bitcoin has helped me to understand how it works moreso than any other thing I’ve read on Bitcoin. Lehdonvirta also displays a deft skill with European history—he makes several comparisons to medieval economy but also culture generally throughout the book; for instance, he compares Satoshi Nakamoto to Solon after the Athenian peasant revolt, and honestly, as unexpected as that was, he makes a fair point. The historical comparisons did feel overdone at times, but I still found it impressive how broad the author’s range of historical knowledge was. The story of Bitcoin points out an inherent flaw in the nature of the internet—we may be anonymous and equal behind these screens, but even when you have an algorithm, you still need a human (along with all of his or her accompanying biases and flaws) to push the buttons and write the code. The promise of true objectivity and neutrality is far from being realized.

Another great aspect of the book are the parts that touch on labor rights and the digital workers’ movements—for instance, the chapters on the development of Upwork (which I had never heard of until now, somehow) and Kristy Milland’s efforts to seek better treatment for Amazon’s Mechanical Turk laborers. There is a lot of opportunity, particularly in the digital freelancing world, but given its novel nature and unprecedented economic flourishing, digital labor is also ripe for abuse. This book helps to illustrate why this is still a major issue arising from platform giants and what may be done to alleviate these concerns.

The second half of the subtitle is ‘How We Can Regain Control’. On this front, the reader may be slightly disappointed. Since much of the book covers various platforms and their origins or development, the last section of the book, the Conclusion, is where Lehdonvirta begins discussing possible solutions in earnest. However, to his credit, he critically discusses and analyzes various theories and strategies proposed by people such as Lina M. Khan, the newly appointed Director of the Federal Trade Commission. In that sense, he does at least provide some frameworks that the reader can consider for how we may move forward from the current state of things. This book would be especially useful in that regard for those in tech policy. However, he emphasizes that this is something out of the reach of the individual user; we need movements and governments to step in and lend a guiding hand. On this front, I am admittedly skeptical, especially since it seems like most of the Boomer Generation currently occupying seats in the U.S. legislature are not going anywhere any time soon. As long as we have senators who are ignorant of simple things such as how Facebook makes inconceivable amounts of money in revenue or how Amazon tracks users across much of the modern web, I am not sure that the government can adequately respond to these issues. Additionally, this is a minor point, but I wish the author had better established the definitions of ‘digital platforms’ early on in the book; the cover features Amazon, Meta, Apple, and Google, but really only one of these gets a decent amount of discussion, and so I would have appreciated a more expanded overview of these other platforms (as well as interesting cases like Facebook Marketplace).

I also noticed a few typographical or minor grammatical errors. For instance, at one point, ‘Orson Scott Card’ is referred to as ‘Scott Orson Card’. I can only hope these were fixed for the final print version.

All the same, Lehdonvirta’s main message of this book is to convince the reader that digital platforms have taken on quasi-state roles, developing institutional frameworks that occupy both economic and political roles. This applies not only to digital commerce but indeed to most aspects of the internet. Transparency and accountability are seriously lacking. But, as Lehdonvirta points out, this was also the case in the early days of the Industrial Revolution. Things can and still may begin to change towards a more democratizing trend, and for the sake of internet users everywhere I sincerely hope that they do.

After all, just read the latest headlines and ask yourself if this isn’t a dystopia: Amazon to buy primary care provider One Medical for $3.9B

Disclaimer: Thank you to NetGalley and MIT Press for providing an advanced reader copy of this book. This review reflects only my honest thoughts.

‘He feels like the situation is repeating itself, and the fleeting thought crosses his mind that this is what Hell must be like: having to replay the same appalling scenes over and over again.’

Yet another thriller, and this time one that has been on my list for a while and which had received much acclaim since its publication—even a Netflix series. Søren Sveistrup’s debut original novel certainly immerses you in the dark, gritty environs of Nordic noir, and although I do not have overmuch experience in the genre, it is a comfortable one. I was excited for the twisty and dark narrative and the slow reveal of plot elements—all in the service of finally uncovering the mystery behind the ‘Chestnut Killer’. Though it was not quite as perfect an execution as anticipated, it was still fairly thrilling and some of the characters were well-written. Most importantly, I had a lot of fun guessing the plot twists, and I was (mostly) correct! I don’t know what that says about the book though, as I don’t think I have a special talent when it comes to guessing mysteries.The narrative itself sticks to a fairly formulaic thriller/mystery playbook, and perhaps if that is overdone for some readers, this may not bring anything new to the table. I am still acclimating to the genre, or at least its modern iterations, so while parts of it felt predictable, it did not ruin my enthusiasm too much. The biggest contention I have with the novel is the pacing, though. The first third or even half of the book goes by at a breathtaking pace—the short chapters and cliffhangers lend themselves well to a fast pace. However, there comes a certain lull in the pacing, and with it, an odd misshapen pacing that tries to both maintain its suspense for the last third or so of the book while paradoxically also wrapping up loose ends and crafting a conveniently sorted resolution. There were also still a few plot holes that I did not feel were adequately explained, despite all of that. In that respect, I found the ending rather odd, and not too well executed, to be honest. The resolution had a bit too much of telling rather than showing, and a lot of concessions on the reader’s part. Moreover, some of the red herrings and plot hints were placed not too subtly throughout the book; I do think I have a fine attention for detail, but I am also rather forgetful, so if I’m picking up on these things, it means it isn’t that shocking. Agatha Christie is my benchmark because she can completely pull the wool over my eyes and I’ll be none the wiser, but this is not the case here. Even so, I was quite joyful at seeing my predictions borne out, so there was some enjoyment there.The characters are a mixed bag as well. The constantly shifting perspectives in each chapter mean that you never really stick with one character, but get more of a bird’s eye view of the investigation. Hess was particularly well done, and I liked his offbeat approach to the detective work as well as his unusual zeal during certain parts of the investigation. However, I also found some of his investigative methods strange and unorthodox, and his backstory could have been fleshed out better. Thulin on the other hand was more disappointing, and frustratingly, she had hints of an intriguing backstory, but this was never brought to fruition in the text itself. The Chestnut Killer and important but side characters like the Hartungs were also slightly dynamic, but still within a realm of stereotypes. The relationship between Hess and Thulin as partners growing to trust each other beyond instrumental purposes was also nice to see, but the direction it goes in seemed unnecessary. (Also, in general, there are a lot of misogynistic remarks about women—granted, they are from the perspectives of seedy male characters, but nonetheless, it is a bit annoying to see this kind of view in 2022, even if Sveistrup is careful to layer it with detestable characters, as there is little to no repercussion or contrast.)For a quick thriller, this is a decent read and nothing groundbreaking. The themes and narrative aren’t too heavy-handed if you just want to read something slightly clever before bedtime but also feel like playing along. I am being generous with my rating because even though it was a mixed bag of a novel, I did have a lot of fun reading it, and I am still quite curious about the Netflix adaptation (if only to see how they adapt it to screen and visualize certain aspects). Kudos to Sveistrup for what must have been an inordinately meticulous amount of research on chestnuts. Not necessarily an unequivocal recommendation, but if you aren’t bored to death with Nordic thrillers, you might as well give this one a go as it seems representative and standard for the genre.

‘The man was afraid of strange people. Anyone deaf or crippled or ugly, he felt, was cursed. This was the attitude of most northerners. His wife, of course, being a native, understood that lameness or strangeness was a mark of grace. If one suffered purgatory on Earth rather than after death, heaven was easier to access.’

This book is perhaps best summarized with a ‘what the fuck’. Going into it, all I understood was that it had a medieval context and an arresting cover. Perhaps there would be commentary about being an ‘other’ in medieval society, or the role of religion in daily life, or something to that effect. To be sure, there is a bit of this, but in quite a different way than expected. I had read some of the reviews—or at least, enough to expect some grotesque and disgusting scenes. Listen to the reviews: this book is not for the faint of heart, nor those who cannot stand to read about horrible acts and horrible characters. However, Moshfegh does not describe these things gratuitously; unlike The Discomfort of Evening by Rijneveld, this book did not make me feel like I needed a scalding hot shower to feel clean again. Moshfegh’s readable style made this a fairly breezy and captivating read, even if it did feel like I was involuntarily glued to a horrible crash most of the time.Society and power imbalances abound in this book, so naturally, all of the characters are either outright detestable or, at best, pitiable but still quite monstrous. The novel mostly revolves around Marek, but Moshfegh uses various perspectives, and often will abruptly switch between them. It took some getting used to the random shifts in the middle of a scene, or even between paragraphs. Everyone is self-righteous, and no one thinks of the consequences of their actions. From the synopsis, I thought Marek would be a pitiful character and a vehicle of commentary, but he really turns out to be something else. Still, Moshfegh did a great job in making some of the characters pitiful despite all of them being either outright evil or morally ambiguous. The characters do follow certain stock types: the ‘crazy’ forest witch who is an outsider, the abusive father, the irreligious priest, the demanding lord, etc. But the book still manages to make them entertaining—and witnessing their thoughts and attitudes was morbidly fascinating.There is a narrative involved, but I’d say the characters and their flaws and mishaps are more the vehicle than the sense of a single narrative. The ending felt a bit abrupt, but also fitting, in the sense that it felt like reality—similarly, some of the characters’ actions felt out of place, and certain connections too convenient. At times the narrative would step in to explain a previous off-screen event, thereby making sense of a current scene in a way that felt a little too easy or else explaining how a character should or should not know certain plot details. Sometimes, the narrative just felt like a string of very loosely connected events. And yet, it felt realistic this way—life is hardly a continuous, linear story. Every time something doesn’t go the way you have planned, you have to begin charting a different course. And so it goes here, except that most of the paths our characters face are anything but simple or rewarding. Occasionally there were a few instances that felt unrealistic or almost fantastic, and I wasn’t sure initially whether to take this novel as literary; but it does contain otherworldly elements. Moshfegh’s literary skill isn’t so much in the plot as it is in the use of language and the way she peels back layers on each character to slowly reveal their natures and use them to explore various ideas.The themes of the novel are fairly obvious: religious, power, society, isolation, approval, suffering, and authenticity. Looming over these in the background is the series of natural disasters that blights Lapvona. Of these, the religious themes are perhaos the most overt; I enjoyed Moshfegh’s commentary on the differences between people who are devoutly religious, those who are self-righteous, and religion as an institution. Religion appears in many forms in this book, and in exactly none of them is it the least bit flattering. I would be tempted to recommend this to religious readers, especially Christians, because it highlights a lot of behaviors and ideas that seem hypocritical or questionable; but they probably would dislike it, unless they are the sort to enjoy entertaining criticisms and challenging their own preconceived beliefs. The depiction of medieval society was also executed well; in particular, the relationship between Villiam, the lord of Lapvona, and the villagers in the town below, sees some interesting turns throughout the novel.This novel is not going to be for everyone, and it is not even one I would recommend to most people unless they are the type to enjoy the themes and ideas I have outlined above. Still, Moshfegh has a charming writing style that draws you in—not to mention that cover. It is an eminently readable novel, but also at times taxing to get through. Was it rewarding in the end? I’m not sure—as I alluded to earlier, the ending is a bit abrupt and not entirely satisfactory, but it somehow works. Terrible things happen; such is life. Life has no choice but to move on, with or without us. And what of the natural disasters? Maybe nature really would heal without us, because people bring nothing but misery—at least in Lapvona.

‘It is my belief that the World (or, if you will, the House, since the two are for all practical purposes identical) wishes an Inhabitant for Itself to be a witness to its Beauty and the recipient of its Mercies.’

This is my type of book, apparently. For a good portion of the beginning, I didn’t believe it. I’m not at all a visual reader, so the inundation of rooms and locations was overwhelming and confusing—but I managed to push through it, because Clarke is skillful in slowly exposing the mysteries of the House. This is my first novel by her but hopefuly not my last. Her style in this book reminded me a lot of early 19th century writing—before proper standardization in English, when people used to emphasize almost all nouns for emphasis. Piranesi, the titular character, has nothing to do with the artist—which is what I had assumed at first from the title—but his story is no less compelling for that. The plot is intriguing and slow-paced but still gripping, and the characters are memorable and distinct in their own ways—for the most part. I would not say this is a novel for most readers, and I’m honestly a bit surprised it’s a bestseller because these types of books tend not to be.I won’t say too much about the narrative, since that would spoil the fun. Go into Piranesi knowing nothing beyond the title, if you must—probably not even your expectations of the author, because apparently this is unlike her other novel. The main idea behind it is that Piranesi lives in a mysterious House filled with statues, a relentless sea, and impenetrable clouds. What is this House, and why is he there? You will have to read to find out. I will say that I was able to anticipate a lot of the major plot points in the novel, but I still didn’t quite hit the target—often times I was merely adjacent, or got lucky with my guesses. If you enjoy a good, cerebral puzzle, then this is the book for you. Towards the end of the book, I had a hard time putting it down; in fact, I finished the last third more or less in one sitting, staying up quite late to do so.The characters are fairly dynamic and interesting. Piranesi’s unfettered enthusiasm and quasi-worship of the House was fascinating to read about—certainly themes about spirituality and faith come into play, but even just the mundane like how to live out each day in the face of uncertainty. The reader is occasionally at odds about how to understand Piranesi, and whether he can be a reliable narrator. Nevertheless, his ability to catalogue the Halls of the House and his dedication to the project is commendable, and his memory for specific Statues and their positions, etc. is equally impressive. As character traits, they are a bit fantastic, but this is a fantastic (in the sense of fantasy) novel, so it works. The Other is also a rather curious character—he is Piranesi’s only companion in the House, and the slow development of that character is, for the most part, executed quite splendidly. There are small aspects that seemed unrealistic or convenient to me, in terms of both character and plot, but as a whole the novel feels pretty solid.As I alluded to, there are some heavy themes in this book: the self, religion/belief, suffering, wisdom, etc. Spotting these motifs in the narrative was a really enjoyable experience. The book is quite slow-paced, which I tend not to enjoy, so some degree of ‘just getting through it’ is necessary. Piranesi has some nice moments with the statutes and animals in the House, but… I just didn’t care all that much. There isn’t really any Greek mythology in this book at all. There are certain statutes that are Minotaurs. That’s it. I have no idea why the publishers compared this to Circe—that is completely off-mark. (Well, I do—because marketing.) If you want a cozy, cottage story, this isn’t it. It is a literary puzzle, meant to be elusive and frustrating at times. The ending is a bit abrupt and not fully satisfactory either, but it does lend itself to reflection. If you enjoy thoughtful, intellectually stimulating books that leave you thinking about them even after you finish, you might enjoy this. If I had to give a comparison, I might suggest something like The Name of the Rose: atmospheric, heady, and more about a certain idea or authorial vision than a straightforward sense of plot or strictly black-and-white characters or moral dilemmas.

A predictable yet fast-paced suspense novel, The Guest List is my first and likely last book by Lucy Foley. Given all the hype here on Goodreads and elsewhere, this had been on my list for a while. Real life is stressful and busy at the moment, so I wanted a read that wasn’t too complex and would read quickly—this at least fits that bill. However, on the mystery/thriller front, this book left a lot to be desired. It is a solidly mediocre book for me—it could have been better, and it wasn’t terrible enough for me to quit it, but I can’t justify it winning a Goodreads award. It is no great novel, and had a lot of similar issues to The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides, yet somehow did not annoy me as much. Maybe because my expectations were not that high to begin with.

All of the characters in the book are malicious, if not in intent, certainly in effect. Even the reader self-insert character, Hannah, is portrayed as kind and congenial to almost everyone (except her husband), and a lot of readers clearly empathized with her. She still has her flaws, though, and at times irked me. Olivia, the teen character, had passages that had me rolling my eyes with how cringe-worthy and overly dramatic they were. I know Foley is far from being a teenager, but Olivia’s portrayal felt too much like a caricature of an amalgam of soap opera characters rather than a real person. Other characters were similarly flat or even irrelevant.

That leads me to the ‘twists’. For the most part, there is no plot, just various descriptions of characters, and extremely obnoxiously placed character backstories. They make little sense in context unless you put two and two together. For that reason, I made up a bingo list for the book and had every twist figured out by the halfway point, so my enjoyment in the climax was partly knowing I was correct and partly seeing the final reckoning of the previous events. Besides that, I cared little for the characters and the ‘twists’ were quite cheesy, if not unrealistic at times.

There were a few inconsistencies in the book, and sometimes the drama was too overbearing. Mostly, I’m glad I am not part of the ‘elite’ this book portrays—they all seem like a miserable lot. The book occasionally attempts to make a point about class distinctions or racism, but it merely hints at such themes, without really digging deep into them. The mystery-by-numbers approach that Foley uses here and in her other books clearly has succeeded with some readers, but it’s not for me—nobody can live up to the great Agatha Christie.

P.S. Honestly though, readers who greatly enjoyed this book: do you just take people at face value? Do you never question appearances? A huge portion of the novel revolves around how no one is quite who they seem to be, and the overemphasis on appearances during a wedding is quite bluntly pointed out throughout. The ‘twists’ were also eye-rolling obvious to me, and I’m very curious as to how people were seemingly blindsided by them.

Edit: I saw this recap of Pretty Little Liars off the cuff, and now that I think about it, the mechanics of that extremely ridiculous and convoluted show map on almost eerily well onto this book. If you liked that style of ‘suspense’ or ‘thriller’ (and I use those words extremely generously here), then you will probably enjoy this book.

‘What kind of people are we if we can’t traverse the landscape of our own memories? What kind of people do they become who refuse?’

This is the fundamental concern of Mem, a novella that reminds me in part of a Black Mirror episode, but also one that is firmly rooted in the past—the early 20th century in Montréal, to be precise. The major conceit of the novel, which admittedly took me a lot of getting used to, is that a ‘new’ technology permits people to extract their memories—whether painful, joyous, or neutral—and that these extracted memories become ‘Mems’, which are inexplicably robot-like replicas of their human counterparts, frozen in the time of that memory. Our protagonist is ‘Dolores Extract No. 1’, a unique figure in that she has consciousness and reaction—in other words, she is more like a person than a Mem.The focus is mainly on the character of Elsie, as she comes to name herself, and how she navigates her world after being recalled to the Vault. Previously allowed to live somewhat freely in society, mimicking all the trappings of human life, Elsie is forced to return to the sterile, laboratory environment where many Mems are housed—doomed to stay and repeat their specific memory loops until they ‘expire’. What precipitates this move is not nearly as important to the story as Elsie’s understanding of herself, and especially how the people she interacts with view her. After all, she is an anomaly—the only kind. Sort of a person, but lacking an identity of her own, Elsie msut be content to live a kind of shadow life.I enjoyed the explorations of the consequences of this technology and especially about how the ideas regarding Elsie’s personhood are developed through the course of the novella. However, I found that the framing and technology, though not the focus of the story, nevertheless felt underdeveloped. Half the time I was scratching my head, not fully understanding what was happening in the story—this may be a mix of the unexplained backstory to Mems, or the writing style. At times the writing style seemed forced, as if the writer meant to say something truly profound, but it just felt confusing and flat. I also would have liked to see more of the conflicting actors we are told about but never see make an appearance on the page; there isn’t a great sense of what the stakes really are until later in the novella.While not quite living up to my expectations, this novella was an interesting exploration into the complex human experience that is memory, while also touching on themes of trauma, identity, and agency. It is clever in some parts and could use some work in others, so it didn’t feel exactly like a Black Mirror episode, but if you enjoy the series and like historical or retro fiction, this novella may delight you. At the very least, it will certainly give you some food for thought.

‘You have arrived on earth
where your relatives, your kin, suffer hardships, endure affliction,
where it is hot, it is cold, it is windy.
It is a place of thirst, it is a place of hunger,
a place without pleasure, a place without joy,
a place of suffering, a place of fatigue, a place of torment.
O my little one, perhaps, for a brief time, you shall shine as the sun!
—The Florentine Codex, Book VI, 128V–151R’

After reading Black Sun last year, I had been eagerly anticipating reading the sequel (and finally got a chance to read it not too long after it released). Fevered Star is a refreshing jaunt back into the world of the Meridian. Like many ‘second of a trilogy’ novels, this one is not quite perfect, but it still provides an exciting sense of immersion into a complex world and characters I have grown to love. As in the previous novel, the narrative focuses on the exploits of Serapio, the Crow God Reborn; Naranpa, the now former Sun Priest; Xiala, a Teek; and Balam, a merchant lord. As before, some were interesting and others seemed shortsighted. The plot unfurls at perhaps a frustrating pace, as it takes a backseat to some of the finer details of plotting and worldbuilding that need to happen in the second volume to set it up for the third. And as before, the worldbuilding is well-written and engrossing. Finally, a special kudos to John Picacio for absolutely killing it on these book covers.Previously, Xiala and Okoa were some of my favorite characters (besides Serapio), but in the second volume I felt that they were underused. Xiala, in particular, seems rather directionless and even more clueless than before. Some of her chapters are instances where Roanhorse decides to infodump some of the worldbuilding—and in order to do that, Xiala plays the role of an empty vessel who lacks information and needs to be filled in. I understand that there is a tricky balance of managing the world and finer plot details, but I often found myself wondering how Xiala got to be in a certain position in the storyline, or what her purpose in the narrative was. Such instances were rather dull, no matter how interesting the infodump was. Okoa similarly played a smaller role than before, and though he still has a few highlighted moments, he felt quite irrelevant to the major plot. Sure, he had the potential to be important, but he just wasn’t. It was rather disappointing. Other characters, minor in the first book, finally get fleshed out in time to shine—and here, I found the character list at the beginning of the novel very useful. We see a few returning faces, but plenty of new ones, as well. The narrative focuses on Naranpa and Serapio in particular, and we fortunately get to see a lot of great development in their storylines.I will give the plot a bit of a pass since this is the second in a series. Much of it revolves around the various factions and groups getting together towards a certain goal and a certain place; now that the climax of the first volume has landed, it is time for its consequences to be felt. However, since not much was actually happening, the pace went a bit slowly and meandered at times; occasionally I felt a bit lost as to what was going on. Nevertheless, it was still enjoyable reading about the various exploits of our characters, mundane or serious, and there are definitely several serious, character-defining moments in the book. I’d say the strengths of the second volume lie in its character development rather than plot development, as here, we truly get a deeper look at some of the main players, their motivations, and particularly their struggles. All in all, it is a solid setup for the final volume, but on its own, the ending was slightly anticlimactic. (Perhaps in a clever way, I will admit.)The book also deals with some heavy themes and character considerations, such as: what does it mean to lack purpose, especially when your purpose has been all that defines you? What makes a place a ‘home’, and a relation ‘family’? What is the right price to pay for knowledge? Do the ends truly justify the means? How much of a sacrifice do we owe the gods—and indeed, do we owe the gods anything? Where does one’s humanity begin, or one’s divinity for that matter—or do they run together? One of my favorite aspects of this series is that each character is quite morally grey, neither fully benevolent nor malevolent, but each striving to obtain their own ends in their own ways. At times, these ways may clash, but perhaps they need not. The worldbuilding with respect to the gods and the magic system also gets a few hints of backstory and potential for development here, but much is still shrouded in mystery. I love that Roanhorse takes care to imply specific, minor details—such as the fact that the Tovan spoken by different clans has slightly different lilts and phonology, and that a non-native speaker might need time to acclimate. It adds immensely to the sense of a ‘lived in’ world.Despite the few misgivings I have, it was an exhilarating experience being back in the Meridian, and though slow-going at times, I was glad to see the plot progress and to uncover more about our characters. Serapio is still in sore need of some tenderness and kindness, and I can only hope that he receives it in the next volume. I am also curious to see how the various machinations established in this volume will play out—I am not entirely confident I understand everyone’s intended outcomes, but I know it is going to be a complicated mess regardless. I am right in line for the next volume in the series to see what happens next—and likely to have some of my questions answered, but to come up with just as many more. I have a lot of complicated thoughts when it comes to this book, but perhaps it is only because it is so endearing to me that I can be as critical as I am—I would certainly recommend this series to any fantasy fan, and if you’ve read the first book, then what are you waiting for?Favorite quotes:※ ‘Some have called me a fool for seeking to master the wild magics. But they have called me a fool only once, and the plaints of the dead matter not. —From The Manual of the Dreamwalkers, by Seuq, a spearmaiden’※ ‘Duty is a fine thing for those whose shoulders are stooped to the yoke, but it smothers those born to the wing.—Exhortations for a Happy Life’※ ‘“We are but fevered stars,” he intoned, like an orator on a stage. “Here a little while, bright with promise, before we burn away.”’※ ‘He had only wanted to be seen for a moment. Recognized as a man, not a god.’

‘The sun was rising. They were facing east. The water, she realized, wasn’t that bad. The waves, you got used to them. With time.’

I am incredibly surprised how underrated this is compared to Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. Vuong’s novel has over 170k ratings, whereas this novel has a meager amount of 8k ratings. That is not to diminish either—the former didn’t work for me and this one did, but another reader may have a completely different experience; both novels are important testaments to the Vietnamese-American experience, and valuable as such. Nguyen’s prose is perhaps simpler and more standard, but it nevertheless manages to pack quite the emotional punch I was first looking for in Vuong’s novel. I was so immersed in the story that I stayed up past dawn to finish reading it (from the mid-point, not the beginning), which itself is evidence as to how much I enjoyed this book. This is a remarkable novel that has helped me understand and emotionally connect with the Vietnam War and the experiences of Vietnamese-Americans who are marked by this event, whether personally or intergenerationally (not sure that is a word, but too bad).The setting for the book takes you from late-1970s Saigon in Vietnam to New Orleans in the US. We are following Hương and her two sons who flee Communist-controlled Vietnam in the hopes of a freer and better life for themselves—except, for reasons unknown to Hương (and to the reader, to a degree), the father does not manage to follow. Nguyen deftly portrays the experience of a single woman, a young woman of 25 years at the time she flees her homeland, and how she deals with finding herself in her new home, acclimating to a new culture, and raising two boys. The demands force her to mature and become responsible for much in a short amount of time. It felt quite personal in the way that Vuong’s novel did, but within the clear limitations of fiction—Nguyen obviously isn’t a single mother fleeing Vietnam, but his ability to write through the eyes of one is impeccable. It was fascinating reading about both a decade and a location I am quite unfamiliar with; so unfamiliar, in fact, that the climactic event towards the end of the novel took me by surprise, despite occurring in my lifetime. (Honestly, I felt dumb for not seeing it coming.)The characters are multifaceted and dynamic. Though the narrative gives us snippets of each character’s perspective in certain years, the narrative does not feel like it has too many gaps. Sure, it would be nice to spend more time in each character’s head, but this is a flaw of novels with multiple POVs, and not necessarily of this novel itself. Despite the switch in perspectives, the progression felt natural and flowed well. I found myself relating to almost all of the characters in different ways, though Hương was by far my favorite—her coming into herself as an American immigrant and confident in herself was beautiful. Tuấn and Bình/Ben, her sons, were also cleverly written characters. I agree with many others that some of Ben’s actions felt irrational and detestable, but that only furthered the realism of the book—human beings aren’t predictable, and our lives are messy. We often make bad choices or try to make the best of a bad situation. Ben was the exemplar of that, and his struggle to discover himself through various lenses was quite compelling; it also helped that a lot of his feelings about being ‘abroad’ and crafting a new identity for himself, as well as his overall motivation, echo my own experience at the moment. Tuấn’s perspective did seem a bit short in the novel, but you still get a sense of a character arc from him, which I appreciated. It was interesting seeing the ways in which the family reflected my own—and in that sense, I related a lot to Ben, being the younger sibling growing up fully in the adopted homeland.For a debut novel, it is quite an ambitious one, but by narrowing the focus to a single family in a particular moment, Nguyen is able to hone in on the accompanying emotions and themes that define such a narrative. Among these, the theme of identity struck me a lot while reading, as well as the concern of what we owe to our family. Each character struggles with identity, whether not fitting in with broader society or in the family unit, and the characters have a tumultuous relationship with each other. Yet the narrative emphasizes that they are still a family—and the conclusion of the novel demonstrates that well. Another important theme is displacement, and what it means to have ties to a particular land (or water). I pondered the meaning of the title, and it is a clever one, but it took me nearly towards the end to begin putting the pieces of meaning together. (That is my own shortcoming, not the novel’s.) Most importantly, the novel is an important reflection on the experience of many real Vietnamese refugees who were displaced by the war and forced to carve out an immigrant’s existence in unknown and reluctant homelands—and in spite of which, they nonetheless thrived. Especially in the current political situation, this kind of story is much needed.There are definitely some parts that fall short, but that is to be expected when a novel has to keep up with so many moving parts. Some minor details felt out-of-place or shoddy (e.g. was France already using euros in 2000? I think not; was it commonplace for a working class person to have a cellphone in 1999?). The father’s age and some timeline details didn’t quite seem logical (was he just 17 when the first child was born?). Ben’s relationship with the high school graduate felt a bit awkward and like it should have felt more meaningful than it did; Tuấn’s final relationship with a certain someone also felt a bit weird given their history, though not improbable. Aside from relationships, the end of the novel feels more like an abrupt lurch than a satisfying conclusion, but we’ve already seen that this novel doesn’t follow every norm of a standard narrative. The impetus for the novel is partly the the author’s own search for identity, which is perhaps why it is so evocative. Though a work of fiction, Nguyen nevertheless is skillful in making an impressionable and touching work that will leave the reader contemplative and inspired.Favorite quotes:○ ‘Forgetting, she was so sure, was easy, the easiest thing that could be done; we forget all the time—we forget names and addresses, the color a childhood dress, the name of a favorite song. We could forget anything and everything, if only we tried, if only we made the effort.’○ ‘If war had taught her one thing, it was that ideology—how you believed the world should be, what you would die to uphold—was always flawed, and though innocent on its own, it could lead to tragedy.’○ ‘His immigration to Paris was a story made of flesh and bones written by himself, and no matter how horrible things turned out, he was the one who wrote it. That was the important part—to be the writer of his own story.’

‘Only one thing was shameful in a storyteller, and that was when he was boring, unable to frighten or delight his audience.’

Publicaton date: 15 May 2022An exciting, new translation of Witold Makowiecki’s classic series, Out of the Lion’s Maw is a children’s adventure story centered in the ancient Mediterranean, but will greatly appeal to all ages who have an inner curiosity and zeal for exploration. The prose is simple but elegant, and craftily translated from Polish; while reading, I didn’t get the sense that I was reading a translation. The narrative also immerses you in ancient Greece—unlike many modern historical fiction books, this one doesn’t convey any ‘modern’ biases, so you truly feel like you are embedded in ancient culture. Makowiecki’s knowledge of classical history and society is quite commendable. The plot follows a fairly standard hero’s trajectory, but it does contain plenty of surprises and ‘twists’ that will keep you wondering what might happen next.This volume of the series focuses on Nehurabhed and Melicles, though the story gradually shifts its focus from the former to the latter. I did find that a bit confusing initially, but Melices’s character grew on me. His earnest nature and desire to right wrongs, driven by his own experience as a slave, were well-captured on page. Side characters, such as Kalias, were also fun and dynamic. I also found it surprising that Makowiecki’s narrative explicitly centers those in the fringes of Greek society—a foreign priest, a hero’s mother (who is given entirely due credit for his reputation and success), slaves, and people with disabilities. Nowadays such a book might be vehemently criticized for ‘pandering to the woke crowd’, but here it feels earnest and respectful—not to mention it stays within the realistic norms of the time period. I do wish that Nehurabhed’s character got a little more screen time, as he sort of retreats into the shadows in the second half; but I understand that this is likely to focus on Melices’s growing maturity and development.As a storyteller, Makowiecki does a great job of delighting his audience and keeping them entertained. I was well immersed in the world of the book, and though the characters took time to grew on me, I was ultimately invested in their stories. The ebook edition is rendered beautifully with Greek vase-style art and modern fonts—even some of the big publishers don’t put as much effort into their ebooks. There were a few typographical errors and mistaken words, and the use of footnotes seemed an odd choice (assuming they are not in the original), but my reading experience was still quite enjoyable. I am excited to read the next volume in the series when it is released. Despite the success of recent series like Percy Jackson, there is a dearth of historical fiction set in the ancient Mediterranean in the English language (especially ones that incorporate such a wide expanse of cultures and areas). Not only does this story delight, but it will take you from the shores of Carthage to Egypt and even all the way to Ionia. Glory to Melicles!Disclaimer: Thank you to Tom Pinch and Victory Editing NetGalley Co-op for the ARC of this book.Favorite quotes:○ ‘The immeasurable depth of the sea beneath your feet; the immeasurable depth of heavens above your head. A gust of wind hardly moved the sail. The dark masses of water shifted like a great slithering beast under the boat, rocking it softly, gently.’○ ‘But one thing was certain: today, they had regained control of their lives. With the rudder of their life in their hands again, they could now face the world, work, and fight to shape their fate.’