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“The sound of the freezing of snow over the land seemed to roar deep into the earth. There was no moon. The stars, almost too many of them to be true, came forward so brightly that it was as if they were falling with the swiftness of the void.”

It was well into July when I read this, the dog days of summer, as you could call them; now it is August when I am (finally) writing this review. Needless to say, I am exhausted by summer and long for the cold and quiet days of winter—the best season. This book was a fitting read for the occasion, taking me to a landscape full of snow, quietude, and even comfy hot springs/onsen as a reprieve. The atmosphere is one of my favorite things about this novel, though Kawabata’s writing left many good impressions. This is the first Kawabata I’ve read, but I am henceforth eager to read more, especially his The Master of Go. Apparently, Snow Country is (rightly) considered a classic of Japanese literature, and was even one of the novels that led to Kawabata’s Nobel Prize. At its core, the novel is one of many contradictions. We have the contrast between the protagonist, Shimamaura, and his beloved courtesan, Komako; one is cold and almost lifeless, and the other is warm and red, almost burning with ardor. The landscape shifts between winter and spring for Shimamura’s visits. Shimamura himself is an urban professional, a white-collar ‘knowledge worker’ who himself acknowledges the quasi-meaningless of his own work; Komako is a relic of the provincial country town setting, eager to get away and make something of herself, but almost entirely stuck in her homespun ways. Then there is the stark beauty of Komako, the centerpiece of the novel and of Shimamura’s desire; it is almost a self-contradiction in itself, since Shimamura veers between obsessive admiration and an inability to even look her in the eye at times. Kawabata’s characters bring the story to life, really, since there isn’t a classic plot. As with most other Japanese texts I’ve read, the plot is a thinly veiled skeletal structure, only there to prop up the actions of the characters and demonstrate their interactions with each other. Komako and Shimamura are our protagonists, but they share significant space with secondary characters—chiefly, Yoko, a young woman who also catches Shimamura’s eye, but also smaller figures, such as the onsen staff and the various boarding families that Komako stays with. The world felt decently populated, and the characters’ relationships were depicted in a dynamic and realistic manner.The novel is punctuated by vignettes, various scenes ranging from Shimamura’s first meeting with Komako to the climax of the novel and its aftermath. At times, the writing style did confound me, just because I am so used to a solid structure from the perspective of western novels. There are, as seems to be usual for Japanese literature, many ideas that are left unsaid or so subtle so as to be missed if you aren’t carefully considering them; thus, I did feel confused or have to re-read some lines a few times to make sense of the broader implications. However, this didn’t detract from the reading experience, but it added a deeper layer of complexity that I grew to appreciate. The scenes were also masterfully descriptive; the setting of an increasingly industrializing and modernized Japan in a mountainous winter onsen town was well encapsulated in Kawabata’s descriptions. Moreover, there is a certain scene in which the tone of the novel achieves its climax with the difference of just one word—truly incredible. The ending seems to come upon the reader somewhat too soon, but its parting image is a thoughtful one; I couldn’t help but wonder about it for quite a while after finishing. Although the overall story of the love affair didn’t strike me as much as I thought it would, the simplicity of Kawabata’s telling of it definitely struck a chord with me. This is likely a novel that will stay with me for a time, and I definitely recommend checking it out.

“It reminds us that as ordinary as we might be, we can, if we choose, take the harder road, walk forth bravely under the indifferent stars. We can hazard the ravages of chance. We can choose to endure what seems unendurable, and thereby open up the possibility of prevailing. We can awaken to the world as it is, and, seeing it with eyes wide open, we can nevertheless embrace hope rather than despair.”

This one got lost in my TBR for quite a while, but I’m so glad I finally got a chance to tackle it! I had an obsessive phase several years ago on reading about the Donner Party, mostly through the Wikipedia article, and watching the American Experience documentary on them. It is such a tragic but also a timelessly captivating story of human perseverance and grit. Brown does an incredible job creating an engaging narrative; as any good writer does, he admits upfront that his account is not going to be all-encompassing. Rather, he takes as his focal point the life of Sarah Graves, one of the pioneers who joins the Donner Party not at their original starting point, but further along on the journey. Brown literally recreates her steps by walking (and driving) her path. His dedication (and uncanny connection to the events in question) is remarkable. The overarching narrative was familiar to me, but Brown clearly did his research; he peppers the telling with small details, like what kind of flora and fauna the pioneers would see, or describing the gentle flow of a river they stop to bathe in. Of course, the narrative is guesswork; yet, given Brown’s extensive research, they are definitely educated guesses. His ability to write about the events and craft a compelling narrative as good as any fictional text is well exemplified here. Moreover, I appreciated his tendency to describe different types of accounts, even when they happened to conflict or contradict. Rather than taking a definitive side, he takes care to let the reader come to their own conclusions at times.If the book has any downfall, it is that the ending comes rather abruptly. We get a nice ‘epilogue’ of sorts of the futures of the surviving members of the Donner Party, but it comes off as very disparate and untethered from the reality of the gruesome events we have just witnessed. Thus, the pacing for the last part of the book waned for me; the first few parts were exciting and gripping, especially with the unsaid expectations of what is about to happen, and yet the ending can’t compete with that level of intensity. I would certainly recommend this book if you are curious about the actual events of the Donner Party and want to get a rich yet varied perspective—Brown’s book has also led me to other primary and secondary sources on the topic which have provided ample further reading.

“To someone standing in the nave, looking down the length of the church toward the east, the round window would seem like a huge sun exploding into innumerable shards of gorgeous color.”

Odi et amo, Ken Follett. This book was a gift, so I persevered. Though I enjoyed some aspects of it, it is not without significant flaws. First of all—this took me about half a year to finish reading, give or take a month. Despite that, I was able to keep track of characters and events decently well, for the most part, though of course my brain was wont to forget specific details. Aside from that, its length betrays a plot that is cyclical and predictable and characters that are somewhat static and stereotypical. Despite that, Follett’s descriptions of medieval English life and, in particular, the cathedral building that is the star of the show are incredibly immersive. I’ve a weakness for the medieval period, though I haven’t studied it formally, and a weakness for beautiful architecture, though I couldn’t tell you the first thing about what separates Gothic from Romanesque. Yet, that matters little because here, Follett weaves an atmosphere that, though it may very well be riddled with inaccuracies, somehow feels fitting. Follett preceded this book and the rest of the series with a body of work primarily in the thriller genre, and it shows. His writing style can be rather simplistic; on the one hand, it is easy to get through this book. On the other hand, he often spends dozens of pages focusing on the wrong things. For instance, he has a tendency to drop an intense male gaze on all of the female characters—their anatomy is singled out as an object of some male character in nearly every scene, not to mention the countless scenes of rape and unnecessary sexual acts. I would at least understand if they served a purpose plot-wise, but Follett’s attempts to integrate especially the sexual assault parts of the plot feel very lamentable; surely we are past such tactics? I couldn’t help but cringe at, for instance, a victim of rape objectifying herself as a sexual conquest for a certain protagonist who almost felt like a wish fulfillment self-insert. But enough on that, as other reviewers have discussed this point to death already, and have expressed it much better than I could.The plot itself is fairly repetitive; you are rooting for certain characters, and things seem to be going well for them—until they aren’t. Rinse and repeat. It does follow that standard thriller format, I suppose, since I was almost ‘on the edge of my seat’, in a slightly lukewarm sense, waiting for the next series of events and to see how our characters would finally prevail (for there was no question of them prevailing in my mind). I will say, I did appreciate Follet weaving in major historical events; I’m woefully ignorant about medieval English history, especially during the years of the civil war covered here, and it was a nice way to become familiar with some of the major players and events that take place. There is a particular event and figure who makes an appearance in the last third or so that I was quite intrigued by, and his inclusion in the story also provided some added intrigue to the plot. Of course, some things happen almost cartoonishly, being convenient (or not) for particular characters, but after a while you sort of get used to it.The cast of characters is quite large, and I do think Follett does a decent job keeping track of them and their various storylines. Since we’ve got a generational storyline, it is fascinating seeing characters grow and develop into their ideals and goals. Our main characters shift throughout the story, but the changing spotlight is a bit too generous at times. With the character of Jack, for instance, his actions seemed largely forgivable and perfect from the narrative’s point of view; ditto on some of the other viewpoints, like Tom. William of Hamleigh was an almost laughably cartoon-level evil villain, though the book did succeed in making me despise him absolutely with every fiber of my being. Even reading from his perspective felt scummy. Female characters like Ellen, Martha, or even Aliena are given decent page-time, but nothing comprehensive; and aside from Aliena, they are one-dimensional and usually subservient to the male characters, even with Aliena’s own goals for a majority of the novel.This novel may not be of the highest literary merits, but it is still quite a feeling of accomplishment having finished it—or at least having stuck with it all the way through. I likely will read the next volumes in the series, partly because I’m curious about what happens with Kingsbridge, and since I’m already aware of the drawbacks specific to Follett’s writing style. I wouldn’t necessarily recommend this to most people unless you are willing to overlook and forgive quite a lot of literary sins; but for cultivating a medieval atmosphere and high-stakes revenge narrative, it can scratch a slight itch. I came to love and hate parts of this novel, but at the conclusion, I did feel quite relieved to finally have finished it. However, it did leave me wanting for a book that goes more into the mechanics and procedures for building Gothic cathedrals… or even just a halfway decent historical fiction novel about the events in question. I’ve got my eye on some other books that may fit that role—we’ll see.

Note to self: Stop waiting several weeks to write reviews because you will undoubtedly forget everything…

Once again, I was easily drawn into Addison’s fantasy worldbuilding and deft story-telling. This short novel also focuses on one of my favorite characters from the world of the The Goblin Emperor, and that is the ‘investigative cleric’ with a dark and mysterious past, Thara Celehar. I remembered his story being rather bittersweet and sympathetic in the previous book, so I was excited to see him developed further and featured in his own volume.

The Witness for the Dead sees Thara in his element as an othala in Amalo, a small backwater type of town where he has been placed by the archprelate of Amalo, I believe, seeing him uncover the stories behind some unfortunate murders that have occurred. Full disclosure, I got confused (and still am slightly) on the distinctions between the prelacies of Ulis and Amalo with respect to the strict hierarchy and overlapping power squabbles. As with the previous book in this world, Addison is quite inventive with language and terminology, which helps the world feel authentic and lived-in; however, it also makes things difficult when you’re a reader trying to place what’s going on.

The narrative is formatted like a standard murder mystery, with Celehar investigating some recent murders. This part is fairly formulaic, but it does decently introduce some important secondary characters and demonstrate Celehar’s approach to his work. The secondary characters do add a lot to the novel; not only does it fill in the world, but it is fascinating watching Celehar interact with various types of people—which also gives the reader some insight into his own state of mind. The characters are also fairly well-developed, with their own personalities, and in some cases provide a good contrast to our protagonist.

Above all, the book is incredibly atmospheric; Addison’s strength seems to be in crafting the world and its inhabitants. The story exists almost as a backdrop to the worldbuilding, though that is not to say that the plot is lacking in any way. The plot is there and plods along, but its purpose isn’t to amaze. Rather, it feels like accompanying Thara Celehar in almost a slice-of-life way, but with more significant stakes. I appreciated the chance to be back in the world of Ethuveraz and learn more about the various strata of its society. Also—let’s be honest, Thara is a delightful character, and it is impossible not to enjoy reading about him.

Thirteen was used to hardship, whereas in the Capitol, all they’ve known is Panem at Circenses.

Finally, I have finished the original trilogy of The Hunger Games! Since I had seen Part 1 of the movie (I finished everything but the last three chapters before watching Part 2), much of this book was of little surprise to me. There is somewhat less action here than in Catching Fire, since a lot of the first part is mostly Katniss reacting to the events of the previous book and recuperating from all that has occurred. However, where Mockingjay shines is its turn towards the political machinations that underlie the narrative and the goals idealized by the rebels against the Capitol. As such, the focus necessarily shifts away from the characters, though we do get some interesting reversals of expectations here. Certain characters are shadier, feel a bit unfamiliar compared to before. However, much of our main cast from the previous book, whom I enjoyed reading about, are either dying, not present, or not in the right state of mind for this book. Katniss herself is an emotional wreck, and this makes it more of a harrowing read. She certainly has a lot going on here, and I don’t envy her. Some characters also get an unfair treatment from Collins; I don’t understand her rationale for some of the roles certain characters end up playing. The narrative certainly has some plot twists, but by nature of either not being a teen or having been aware of the overall lore, the twists unfortunately didn’t come as much of a surprise---they were easily anticipated. Perhaps for a more seasoned audience, these twists were telegraphed a bit too heavily. Either way, I appreciated the message that Collins was sending through this story. I also wish the pacing were better throughout the novel. The first two-thirds are rather slow-going and start to ramp up only towards the end, and then the final third part of the book goes all-out in resolving the plot and tying everything together. It does fit the classic narrative/conflict development pattern, but the climax could have begun earlier than it did.As with the other books, the themes are quite stark in Mockingjay. I especially liked how Collins depicts the effects of trauma and PTSD from war; after all, in her own understanding, the series is a war story. We get nothing if not a brutal depiction of the effects of the rebellion, the subjugation of the Districts, and the overall conflict to control Panem—especially for the kids/teens. Katniss feels powerless, to be sure, but that is by design; she is involved in a plot whose origins lie in the adults around her. The adults of Panem have a lot that they should be held accountable for. The ending and epilogue were a bit cheesy, but Collins still manages to keep it gritty. Although I do dock a million points for her canonically making the source of the name ‘Panem’ from the Latin ‘panis’, which in-universe becomes so silly. As far as YA dystopias go, this series is definitely much better than most of them. Am I glad I finally read and finished it? Yes. Of course, now I have to go read the prequel and see whether that lives up to the hype as well.

I put this book off for too long, but now I know better than to hesitate when it comes to Emily St. John Mandel. I read Station Eleven in 2020 and it was one of those rare, powerful reads—but I wondered if that were partly due to the timing (being a pandemic read) or not. Well, this book didn’t quite achieve the same effect, but it was still enthralling in all the right ways.

The Glass Hotel centers itself on a Ponzi scheme, modeled after the infamous Madoff scheme. I had not really heard of this, or if I had, it was never something I paid attention to, so the details in the story didn’t feel too rehashed. As usual, SJM excels in bringing together a cast of disparate characters who are all connected by a central event—in this case, the Ponzi scheme in place of Station Eleven’s pandemic. I did find it interesting how certain characters get limited amounts of page-time, like Paul, for instance. However, the book does intentionally focus on our protagonist, Vincent, and the mastermind behind the scheme—a certain Jonathan Alkaitis. SJM tends to write characters in a beautifully complex way; none of them are endearing or positive in the traditional sense, but all are varied shades of grey, with questionable motivations and desires. You don’t always want to root for the characters, but at times, you may be surprised by what reactions they can elicit. The decision to do a Greek tragic chorus-inspired chapter for a certain group of people was genius.

The plot does meander a fair bit, in typical SJM style, but it was slightly more confusing than Station Eleven to piece together. Perhaps it is because the events here were less linear in time than in the former book. Some reactions to certain events didn’t always make sense, and understanding the back-and-forth nature of the time-jumping narrative did require some effort. Much of the beginning sections of the novel were also quite confusing, but going back through them after finishing, they made a lot more sense in context—they were even brilliant, in some ways. However, the plot does proceed in a fairly reasonable manner; if not entirely believable, it is at the very least plausible.

One of the central themes of this book is defining the ambiguous moral line between doing terrible things and being a bad person; what could compel an ordinary, average person to do something so evil? The novel hints that perhaps the line is closer to us than we are ready to admit. Other avenues in the book include: the examination of a certain kind of passive life—whether you let life happen to you, or if you control the reins of your journey; the various ways we are connected to other people, biological or not; and the fleeting, sometimes untrustworthy relationship we have with our memories. There is a lot of interesting food for thought here, and delving deep into these themes will be satisfying for any curious reader.

After reading this, I am getting a better sense of SJM as an author, and this book has definitely solidified her status as one whose works I will always reach out for. I definitely need to try her other novels soon. I wholeheartedly recommend her books to anyone who appreciates contemporary literary fiction and doesn’t mind somewhat unconventional plot threads. To paraphrase what one critic said, SJM has a talent for bringing the extraordinary down to the level of the mundane, all the while showing us what it reveals about human nature and ourselves.

Favorite quotes:
※ ‘There’s the idea of wilderness, and then there’s the unglamorous labor of it, the never-ending grind of securing firewood; bringing in groceries over absurd distances; tending the vegetable garden and maintaining the fences that keep the deer from eating all the vegetables; repairing the generator; remembering to get gas for the generator; composting; running out of water in the summertime; never having enough money…’
※ ‘There is exquisite lightness in waking each morning with the knowledge that the worst has already happened.’
※ ‘He’d seen the shadow country, its outskirts and signs, he’d just never thought he’d have anything to do with it.’
※ ‘Once he was proud of himself for evading his fate, but more and more lately he feels it moving toward him, his fate approaching from a long way off.’
※ ‘Give me quiet, he thought, give me forests and ocean and no roads. Give me the walk to the village through the woods in summer, give me the sound of wind in cedar branches, give me mist rising over the water, give me the view of green branches from my bathtub in the mornings. Give me a place with no people in it, because I will never fully trust another person again.’

This is my first time reading Catching Fire, and maybe you could say it’s a bit overdue. Having seen the movie helped somewhat, because I had an idea of what to expect, though some of the deviance was also surprising. In the second book, we do get a sizeable dose of that mid-trilogy slump—the first two-thirds of the book largely felt like rehashes and dull aftermath summaries following the first book. Much of the interesting action happens in the last third, so the pacing was off, but there are some redeemable qualities to that last section. The book does end on somewhat of a cliffhanger, so I also understand that Collins is setting up some suspense and anticipation for the third book. In spite of that, I’m taking a break with another book for a while before continuing with the series. (It helps that the movie version goes a bit further.)

One aspect in which this book improves over its predecessor is the inclusion of a greater cast of characters, which is necessitated by the plot. One would think the resulting new faces we receive might be an unwieldy amount, but Collins manages to focus the reader’s attention to the ones that have significant roles and hinted-at backstories. Thus, the new characters we get to meet add a lot to the world and the unfurling of the plot. Finnick Odair, of course, is a fan favorite in any medium, but I also appreciated meeting characters like Wiress, Beetee, and Johanna. They felt distinct, though their strengths and attributes were formulaic; but it was a nice change of pace from the repetitive Gale-Katniss-Peeta drama. (Which was no less of an eye-roll in this volume, by the way.) I also want to give a shout-out to Plutarch Heavensbee, who should win an award for having a badass name and also being such an intriguing character. Peeta gets slightly more fleshed out in this book, but Katniss’s limited perspective is not always favorable.

As I mentioned, the book gets off to a very slow start. Not much happens plot-wise until the last third or so of the book, which I forgive slightly since it is the second book of a trilogy. Still, you would think we might at least get some worldbuilding or additional information from the duller parts, but it is more or less Katniss’s ruminations after the Games in the previous novel and a recapitulation of life in District 12. Of course, there are some changes afoot in the District and in Panem at large—we get hints to that throughout the novel, and manage to see some of its consequences as well. Even so, I didn’t much feel that Katniss was impacted by much of that until a certain event occurs; even then, it felt heavy-handed.

Once again, the first-person perspective felt like it narrowed the scope of the novel and prevented the reader from truly grasping all that is going on in Panem. For a dystopian book though, this means that a lot of the dystopian ‘content’ ends up being rather… not quite arbitrary, but lacking in context. The themes are hinted at, but not fully explored. Perhaps there is more to come in the third book, though. I did appreciate the shifting focus of Katniss’s motivations and self-conception about her role in the larger events; she seemed to have finally matured a bit and considered the possibility of thinking outside of her own life for a brief moment. She isn’t a perfect protagonist by any means, but in this book, she at least gave me more reasons to be sympathetic. On that note, the portrayal of dealing with traumatic events and uncertainty were well done.

I have had some of the third book spoiled for me already, but it will be fun to see the payoff of the events in this book and how it all plays out. At this point, I’ve only seen the first of the two movie adaptations of Mockingjay, so there is still some suspense I can look forward to. It will also be interesting this time to compare what and how the last parts of the next book were adapted. So far, as the forerunner of early 2000s era YA dystopian series, The Hunger Games holds its own fairly well.

Another great volume, in which we see the aftermath of the immense events from the end of the first volume. Since the TV series ended at Volume 1, I was also curious to see what happens next—though it seems the show went out of order, as some of Volume 2’s events were also mixed into the show earlier than in the comics. Our characters are reeling, trying to move on from what has happened, and all the while, more subplots and movements are underway. In some ways, this was an innocent volume, as we see Mark begin college and make progress with his girlfriend, all the while juggling being Invincible. Yet, at the same time, you can tell he is maturing a bit, watching the adults in his life struggle in their own reactions to the events of the last volume and having to step into some fairly big shoes.

Where does Invincible find his support and will to persevere when the going gets tough? Is he actually invincible? He partially discovers that in this volume; we explore the question of who has his back, and who he can rely on when things get tough. The narrative also takes the chance to develop some side characters, such as Mark’s girlfriend, Amber, and his best friend, William. We see hints of the backgrounds of the other characters, including Atom Eve and Robot; my edition contained the special edition ‘origins’ comics, which were a really enjoyable read. There was also a special piece of Allen the Alien, who is a gem of a character.

This volume has made me even more excited for the second season to come out—and I know we have no definitive date yet, and that animation is hard, intense work, but I do wish they would give us more than a teaser trailer already. In the meantime, hopefully my hold for Volume 3 will be processed soon! Luckily, the waiting time seems to be shorter as you go up in volumes.

This is a decent debut novel from Isabel Cañas, who is a curious figure herself (she studied Near Eastern Languages and Civilizations). To begin with, I empathized with the notion of writing a historical fiction novel based on your heritage and experiences growing up as the child of immigrants/abroad, thus at once being tied to a culture that you have no connection with. I got the sense that a lot of this novel is a product of Cañas attempting to carve out her space within her heritage and its history for herself, and that is only commendable. Overall, while this novel marked some flaws and inconsistencies to be expected in a debut, and although I had some personal gripes with it, I enjoyed reading it and I think Cañas, at the very least, succeeded in sketching out some ideas and themes for the narrative.

The characters could have been developed more; there were hints as to background and motivations, especially in the case of Andrés; the dual perspective helped in that respect, though it can usually be difficult to maneuver for new authors. Cañas does well with distinguishing the narrative voices, though at times, Andrés’s voice felt slightly short of being convincing. I’m not sure what I would attribute that to—perhaps just the way his thoughts were characterized. It’s now been a while since I read it, since I’m writing this review so late, and the details are fuzzy. But I didn’t really feel any strong inkling towards what Beatriz’s character was fulfilling. Her qualities, such as being the daughter of a rebel general, were repeated throughout the novel but not expanded as much as I would’ve liked. And this is a refrain particular to me, but I felt that the romance was extremely unnecessary and overdone. Can we leave ‘Sexy Priest’ with Fleabag and call it a day? We don’t need a million imitations of the same concept.

The narrative is fairly straightforward; it is inspired by Rebecca, a book I still have not managed to read. Despite that, the overarching structure of its plot was familiar, and so the ‘twists’ weren’t that surprising. The supernatural element added a nice gothic element to the novel, but it was almost peripheral in the narrative—we don’t understand how or why these supernatural forces are at play, exactly; we just know that they are, and that a certain character can have dealings with them. On that note, without getting into spoiler territory, some aspects of the plot felt like they were unfinished, and some minor subplots had loose ends. The ending was rather abrupt. I do give credit to the atmosphere—it wasn’t entirely the perfect gothic setting, but it did manage to have moments that were a lot ‘scarier’ than Mexican Gothic, for instance. I wasn’t terrified out of my wits, but I was unsettled and I appreciated that the author wasn’t afraid of entertaining the darkness in her story.

All in all, I enjoyed reading this novel, but it wasn’t a perfect five-star read and I did have some issues with it. Still, it was a promising debut, and I’m curious to see what else Cañas writes—perhaps in the vein of more original fiction. She clearly has a lot of interesting ideas, and notes in the afterword to the novel that one of the major conceits of the novel (and a key purveyor of its ambiance) was inspired by her own experiences as a child. That sort of thing tends to lead to the best type of writing, so I’m eagerly checking out her next book.

This was my first read by Banana Yoshimoto, and it was a great introduction reading two short stories during a sort-of reading slump. Both stories share common themes of grief, close relationships, the ambiguous morality of certain actions, and fascinating storytelling. Overall, I liked the first story better than the second, just because it felt more cohesive in its atmosphere and message. The second story was kind of all over the place in comparison. The first story also intrigued me with its narrator more than the second, whose narrator was fine but nothing remarkable.

The themes are quite strong here—there is stark discussion of grief, death, and losing loved ones. I don’t think I can really relate to the narrators, but Yoshimoto is skilled in making the reader feel compassion for their struggles regardless. There is also discussion in both stories about memories and the role they play in our grief, as well as how memories can shape our ideas of loved ones. It did make me reflect on the role memory plays in my own relationships, for good or bad.

At times, the translation did feel a bit stilted and somewhat barebones. I could hear echoes of what the original must sound like compared to the much more clunky English. But such is the peril of reading in translation. For the most part though, it does the trick. The narrative style was quite enjoyable in spite of that; light and sometimes punchy, it was refreshing, which is perhaps more incredible given the subject matter. The stories can be somewhat ethereal, intemporal; and they are most definitely reflective and poignant.

I was much more compelled by the first story, so I will split my rating down the middle for the book overall. It makes me more excited to check out Kitchen and other works by Yoshimoto.

Invincible: Ultimate Collection, Vol. 1

This book hails itself as one of the greatest superhero stories of all time—and though I don’t read a lot of those, I am inclined to agree. After watching the animated adaptation some time ago, I figured I would give the original comic a try. I definitely appreciate that choice, and my library for providing me this lovely ‘ultimate collection’ copy, because the comics were a blast.

True, the adaptation does certain things better than the comic—and don’t shun me just yet. I think some of the subtleties, like character development and backstory, get more breathing room in the show. The comic is fairy fast paced, to the point where some plot elements felt like they were arranged quite haphazardly; I suppose that is partially an effect of any serialized story.

What Invincible does exceedingly well, though, is the same in both media. Get ready for a story that will subvert your idea of superheroes. In this world, superheroes are a mundane part of ordinary life, just are the catastrophic, existential threats that plague Earth. Fortunately for us boring humans, individual actors and groups, like the Guardians of the Globe, are there to save the day. How much loyalty can we expect of these guardians and whose interests do they have at heart?

Yet, the nice thing about Invincible is that it shies away from only pandering to big picture type questions. At its heart is the story of Mark Grayson, who is essentially just a teen, living his life. Okay, that admittedly sounds really cliché, but the story doesn’t neglect to display the complexity of Mark’s inner life as well—worrying not just about his grades and college prospects, but also about his budding superpowers and coming into himself as a young man. He is written in a fairly believable way, too—not as a mini adult, but as a teenage boy who is far from having all of the answers, aside from his ideals. (And where do kids typically get their ideals, hm?)

All in all, this was a great hype read for the upcoming second series of the show. I will continue to read the comic volumes as my library deigns to provide them to me, but I can’t belie my preference for the animated show. Steven Yeun, Sandra Oh, and J.K. Simmons truly bring these characters to life in the best way. (Not to mention that incredible soundtrack…)

And one has a right, perhaps, to feel a satisfaction those content to serve mediocre employers will never know – the satisfaction of being able to say with some reason that one’s efforts, in however modest a way, comprise a contribution to the course of history.

Ever since reading his Never Let Me Go, Kazuo Ishiguro has been one of my favorite authors. I always meant to read his other works but never got the chance until now—and The Remains of the Day did not disappoint. This novel looks at the inner life of a classic English butler, known to the reader only by his surname ‘Stevens’, and his reflections through a weeklong motoring trip in the western English countryside. It explores questions not only of servitude but of how loyalty to our values can corrupt an individual, how much one can trust the narrator when he is not forthcoming, and the pangs of losing the opportunity of what may have been. The richness and complexity of the novel lies largely in the characters—of course, the primary character is Stevens, the butler, but his companion Miss Kenton is also a central figure. Looming in the background, and subtly influencing the way Stevens thinks and how he values his role of a butler, are his former employer, Lord Darlington, his current employer, Mr Farraday, and his father, Mr Stevens Sr. Since this is an experience benefited by not knowing too much from the outset, I can’t say too much, other than the fact that the characters were quite vivid in their characterization and their relationships with each other. Ishiguro is a master of crafting emotion and purpose into his characters, even in seemingly stiff figures like Stevens.Moreover, the novel is told in first-person narration, which is tricky for many writers to pull off—but as usual, Ishiguro does it with ease. He invites the reader into Stevens’s mind, as if one were having a private conversation with the character; all the same, the reader is not entirely privy to Stevens’s thoughts beyond what he decides to convey, and less so the overall course of events that he is relating to us. The more you get into the story, the more intriguing of a narrator Stevens turns out to be. The narrative style reminds me a bit of Japanese novels, where you get long stretches of meandering thoughts from the narrator—but it is also a quintessentially British novel, for obvious reasons. I think Ishiguro himself declines to characterize his novels as epitomizing any country, and so they are universal in a sense, but the classic figure of the butler, he does note, is a very British one.The descriptive elements of the novel were perfect for me—enough to set the scene, but not so much that it becomes overbearing and crowds out the other elements of the novel. Some writers really can’t cap a lid on metaphors and purple prose descriptions that eat up several pages at a time. Ishiguro gets straight to the point, and concisely—the novel is slim, but that hardly stops it from packing quite the emotional punch. As for the plot, it may seem like little happens in the novel, and on one level that is true—the ‘plot’ is largely recollections from Stevens. And yet, one can also say that much happens in the novel—but perhaps it isn’t as directly expressed. The burden of acknowledging and understanding what happens falls to the reader. I won’t deny that it is perhaps a bit mysterious, but this is a novel that will definitely leave you thinking and feeling long after it is over. This is a stunning novel and has cemented Ishiguro in my personal canon.I also highly recommend Salman Rushdie’s review of the novel: ‘Ideals, Ishiguro shows us, can corrupt as thoroughly as cynicism.’Favorite quotes:※ ‘A great butler can only be, surely one who can point to his years of service and say that he has applied his talents to serving a great gentleman — and through the latter, to serving humanity.’※ ‘Mr and Mrs Wakefield, however, appeared to be as keen on the inspection as Mr Farraday and as I went about my business, I would often catch various American exclamations of delight coming from whichever part of the house they had arrived at.’※ ‘Year after year goes by, and nothing gets better. All we do is argue and debate and procrastinate. Any decent idea is amended to ineffectuality by the time it's gone half-way through the various committees it's obliged to pass through. The few people qualified to know what's what are talked to a standstill by ignorant people all around them.’

There is one civilization we know of, and it is still around, and kicking—for now, at least. Why should we be suspicious of our exceptionality or choose to understand it only by assuming an imminent demise? Why not choose to feel empowered by it?

The Uninhabitable Earth by David Wallace-Wells is an important read, and was labeled by my library as one of the ‘Best of the Best’. This is not an overstated title, and I do suggest that everyone ought to read this book. It deals primarily with an overview of the current science on climate change, as well as the various predictions and models we have for understanding what our options are for moving forward. There were many moments where I had to stop and take notes, or just take a moment to exhale, because this book pummels you with the bleakest climate realities—and it does not pull its punches one bit. On the other hand, the author is a bit of an optimist, I suppose; in a weird way, the book ends on a somewhat hopeful note, at least as much as can be expected after all of that despair.This won’t be a long review, because there isn’t too much left to say. The book is definitely meaningful and impactful; yet, at times, I found its message repetitive and poorly expressed. Much of this hinges on the fact that a lot of what is outlined is tentative—based on the unknowable course of future human actions. The other is that the book’s prose is sometimes stilted; I had to re-read some sentences several times to make sense of them. I’m used to reading high-level texts full of academic jargon, but this was different from that, and I’m not entirely sure why—perhaps due to this author’s particularly convoluted writing style. So, I do wish that this book could have been more compelling on that front—it isn’t a great sign that it made me want to fall asleep on occasion. Nevertheless, I greatly appreciate what this book has done on collecting sources and statistics about climate change in one place; I look forward to going through my notes for things to read up on later. I wouldn’t necessarily recommend this a primer to climate change, but it is a great read if you’re already familiar and want to get a more specific picture of how dire it is, and how much more horrific it can become.Quotes:※ ‘Seventy percent of the energy produced by the Planet, it's estimated, is lost as waste heat. If the average American were confined by the carbon footprint of her European counterpart, U.S. carbon emissions would fall by more than half. If the world's richest 10 percent were limited to that same footprint, global emissions would fall by a third.’※ ‘And cultural resistance has grown so rapidly that Whole Foods now advertises its house brand of seltzer as “GMO-free sparkling water.”’※ ‘That so many feel already acclimated to the prospect of a near-future world with dramatically higher oceans should be as dispiriting and disconcerting as if we'd already come to accept the inevitability of extended nuclear war—because that is the scale of devastation the rising oceans will unleash.’※ ‘But accusations of individual irresponsibility were a kind of weaponized red herring, as they often are in communities reckoning with the onset of climate pain. We frequently choose to obsess over personal consumption, in part because it is within our control and in part as a very contemporary form of virtue signaling. But ultimately those choices are, in almost all cases, trivial contributors, ones that blind us to the more important forces.’※ ‘95 percent of the world's population is breathing dangerously polluted air.’※ ‘In 2018, one paper calculated the global cost of a rapid energy transition, by 2030, to be negative $26 trillion—in other words, rebuilding the energy infrastructure of the world would make us all that much money, compared to a static system, in only a dozen years.’※ ‘Climate change does threaten the very basis of life on this planet, but a dramatically degraded environment here will still be much, much closer to livability than anything we might be able to hack out of the dry red soil of Mars.’※ ‘Innovation, in many cases, is the easy part. This is what the novelist William Gibson meant when he said, “The future is already here, it just isn’t evenly distributed.” Gadgets like the iPhone, talismanic for technologists, give a false picture of the pace of adaptation. To a wealthy American or Swede or Japanese, the market penetration may seem total, but more than a decade after its introduction, the device is used by less than 10 percent of the world…’※ ‘But to the extent that we live today under clouds of uncertainty about the future of climate change, those clouds are, overwhelmingly, not projections of collective ignorance about the natural world but of blindness about the human one, and they can be dispersed by human action. The question of how bad things will get is not, actually, a test of the science; it is a bet on human activity. How much will we do to forestall disaster and how quickly?’

Three books in one year by a single author has to be a record for me; I am usually a lot slower at getting through an author’s publications. But Francesco Dimitri’s writing style is just so captivating, and his philosophical outlook on life so endearing; I could not help but move on to his English debut. This book definitely felt like it could have used a bit more touching up, with more of that slightly awkward feeling of reading a debut work. Granted, Dimitri has written in Italian previously, and it is no easy feat to master the craft of writing in a second language, but I still want to note that this is how it felt as a reader.

The Book of Hidden Things is set in southern Italy, Puglia, a region that Dimitri is intimately familiar with. Nobody writes southern Italy like him—he gets all the details that make you feel as if you are exactly there and interacting with people who truly live there. The love he has for the sense of the place is not lost on the reader. We follow a group of friends who are all tied together by an enigmatic friend, Art, who disappears at the outset of the story. What starts off as a standard mystery novel becomes something more, as elements of crime thrillers, magical realism, and light fantasy weave their way into the narrative.

This was a book that gripped me from beginning to end, as was the case for Dimitri’s other book, Never the Wind. Dimitri tells the story at a breathtaking pace, while also being mindful of slowing down individual scenes so that the story feels like it is actually lived in. I will admit that some elements of the plot took me by surprise, and not necessarily in a positive manner; yet my overall enjoyment of the story was not too affected by this. In classic Dimitri style, a lot of the plot revolves around things that are just at the realm of believable, at the edge of our material world; this is a liminal space, where things may or may not happen. The story especially shines in these spaces as it cultivates a sense of wonder.

However, the plot does have some loose ends that never quite make the story feel complete. The blurb makes a great emphasis on the ‘arcane manuscript’ that the friends discover relating to Art’s disappearance, and yet it is not a huge feature in the novel. I was expecting it to play a much larger role than it eventually did. Some other minor plot points also aren’t tied up so neatly by the end, leaving me wondering what the point of including them was—especially because, in one instance, I was only reminded by a character wondering out loud what became of it.

Since the novel revolves around four friends, the role of the characters is heightened—they are our narrators, with the book using three friends as perspectives to reveal the story to the reader. A few chapters in, I found myself pleasantly surprised by the fact that my growing distaste for a certain character’s perspective evolved into discomfort and hatred—and the gradual realization that this must have been a deliberate choice on the author’s part. It takes skill to lull the reader with a false sense of security, making you feel that you could sympathize with a character, only for said character to be revealed as someone morally dubious. The friends each invoke a different archetype, whether that is the selfish, aimless man who is down on his luck or the deeply loyal and spiritual friend who will always stand by his friends. A great strength of this cast is that each is deeply flawed, for different reasons; but these flaws enrich their role in the narrative and contextualize their actions.

Art himself, the enigma and character whose disappearance serves as the central force of the novel, is a murky character. We do not get his perspective, and his presence in the novel is as liminal as some of the more magical elements. His perspective is given largely through flashbacks experienced by the other characters, his best friends. These are extremely clever bits of storytelling where the characters have a chance to reflect on their rose-tinted childhood memories and question how well they really knew Art and how deep their friendship extends. This adult-looking-back-on-childhood motif was also used by Dimitri in Never the Wind, where I found it had a great effect; here, it is less strong, but it does enhance the framing of the story.

The supporting characters can be a bit one-dimensional; I would that Dimitri had either limited the amount of supporting characters or otherwise further developed the characterization of the ones involved in the main plot beyond these sort of cliched stereotypes. Of course, the novel tends to focus on its protagonists, but the supporting roles in this story are still rather important to the outcome and deserve to have been interwoven with the narrative more neatly.

Like his other works, the novel concerns themes of liminality and the supernatural; the unknowable forces of nature; the boundary between the sacred and the profane; transitions from childhood to adulthood; and the thin line between reality and unreality. All of these things, and their related counterparts, are big parts of the magical realism of this book. It isn’t fantasy in the sense of magic playing a huge role in the narrative; if you are expecting that, this is not going to work for you. Rather, the magic tinges instances of ordinary reality, our everyday experiences and relations, with a hint of the extraordinary. Much like one can find wonder in the mundane, the magic in this story serves to enhance the realities of human nature—both good and bad.

For example, nature and the countryside might be considered characters in their own right in this novel. The winds have names and temperaments; the sea and natural phenomena are characterized and encountered—and eventually interacted with, in a way. Not only do these natural elements play major roles in the story, but they serve as a juxtaposition, e.g. between urban and rural, artificial and natural, and the knowable and unknowable. I am reminded of how meteorologists can track weather patterns but only to a limited extent; the further out the prediction, the less its validity. Here, the forces of nature are felt and occasionally seen, but one cannot quite grasp them entirely.

What is real or not? This novel plays with that notion quite a bit. Since I’m a seasoned Dimitri reader at this point (heh, if three books can count for that), I felt more certain on how to interpret the ambivalence that the author presents in the novel. Yet, even with that extensive background into Dimitri’s way of thinking, I still was somewhat unsure about the (un)reality of various events throughout the novel. Though I am fairly confident in how I knew that ending was coming.

There are, unfortunately, some weaknesses to the novel. Many other reviews have remarked on the gravest of these, chief of the complaints being that the book is misogynistic. I understand why, as throughout the novel, there are some gratuitous scenes and some unpleasant characterizations of women that did not make sense with what we know about them. Moreover, as others have pointed out, there aren’t any female characters in the novel who stand on their own two feet—except one, who is a side character; the rest are treating as objects of sexual gratification beyond anything else. Some of the characters act in ways that are rather childish, acting on their hormonal impulses when they are meant to be in their mid-30s in the present timeline. It was off-putting. At first, I was willing to give Dimitri some benefit of the doubt—perhaps it is a certain character’s perspective he wishes to convey in writing in this way, and we are intended to despise the way he thinks. However… the ending revealed that this is not entirely the case, and it is not strictly limited to the one character.

The ending, that reveal of the final twist, was… strange, and not in a pleasing way. It is disturbing, in the same sense which I experienced at some of the more horrifying parts of Never the Wind; but here, it is perhaps more insidious, because it concerns human nature in the context of friendship/relationships. As a reader, I understood that the protagonists were flawed, but I did not truly grasp the extent to which they were depraved, in various ways; even the one character who seemed fairly blameless seems to have his own demons, though not quite as extreme as the rest. Is the novel trying to make a point about this hamartia that permeates the primary characters? Or is this a sign of Dimitri honing his writing craft and relying on sleazy tropes more frequently seen in pulpy crime fiction?

I hope, somewhat selfishly, that it is the former, because I am a fan. But I am not willing to discredit the notion that it may very well be the latter. In either case, I think this criticism of the work is merited, but one which is rectified in Never the Wind. We do still have some gratuitous hints in the latter, but it is much more toned down; at this point, it seems like this is just part of Dimitri’s own worldview as it concerns women and the sexual. If so, it is unfortunate and not one that I agree with.

Despite the drawbacks, I flew through this book and was loath to leave its mystical atmosphere; reading Dimitri makes me feel like I am in Italy, and his descriptions are evocative without drowning the reader in too much detail. The landscape was not quite as central in this one as in Never the Wind; here, the characters and their flaws and secrets are front and center. This book is a mystery, but a labyrinthine one, where you may not necessarily end up in the center. Dimitri still seems to be getting his footing as a writer in this novel, but the core elements and themes that are important to him still manage to shine through. This is certainly not a novel that will work for everyone, and perhaps not most people; but it still managed to enthrall me in the mystery and wonder and complexity that I have come to expect of Francesco Dimitri.

Favorite quotes:
※ ‘We think we are in control of our lives, but we aren’t. Most of the time we don’t know what we are doing and, sheeplike, we follow something, call it fate, or the subconscious mind, or the whims of a dumb moped.’
※ ‘It might all be a coincidence, but Art taught me not to believe in coincidences. What we call a coincidence, he would say, is a system we don’t understand yet.’
※ ‘Mauro looks at the olive grove, then at me. “Don’t you hate it sometimes? Being a grown-up. Get a job, get a better one, pay taxes, pay more taxes, same old, same old. We are only alive at weekends; the rest of the time, we’re hamsters in a wheel And we can never quit spinning, ’cause there’s always another bill, another mortgage, another, what the hell, another brat to keep the wheel turning.”
“It is what it is. Once upon a time you had to go get mammoths, now you go get credit cards. On the plus side, we don’t have to risk our neck every day.”
“Yeah but at least with hunting you knew what you got.”’
※ ‘This place triggers bad memories, but that’s all they are memories, things in the past, holding no power anymore. It’s the present that can jump up and bite your ass.’
※ ‘In the grown-up world, brawn is futile. So is brain, ultimately. The one and only thing you need, the ultimate strength and source of power in this country, is an understanding of how to make bureaucracy work for you. No matter how much I find this depressing, I have been shown over and over again that it is exactly the case.’
※ ‘This deeply religious part of the world, harsh and scorched by the sun, belongs to the saints. They are junctions between the profane and the sacred, the seen and the unseen. The Hidden Things, if you will, and us. The saints and their places of worship mark the boundary between two different lands – exactly like drystone walls.’
※ ‘The junctures between the Hidden Things and us brim with enlightening stories, and enlightening stories are rarely happy. Suffering, more than any other state of mind, allows us to glimpse beyond the obvious, the everyday, the expected.’
※ ‘Wherever there is a boundary, wherever it is said that you are not allowed to walk any further, any intelligent person will be moved to do just that. Hic sunt leones? Here are the lions? Let me see them.’
※ ‘When you are young, you are immense—then you shrink. Everything is possible at five, but what is left for you at forty? With every choice you make you renounce all the choices you could have made instead, and so you become smaller and smaller, each choice consuming you a little, burning your possibilities, until nothing is left of you. Death is a progressive shrinking that brings you from vastness to nothingness.’

I finally got around to reading this one! I was in a gothic fantasy mood, and it seemed like the right time to tackling this book; I knew I wanted to go in with enough energy and enthusiasm to really dive into the world Bardugo creates. We find ourselves at Yale, but amid secret societies, surreal magic, and dark intentions abound. It didn't quite fulfill all of my expectations, and I feel that some of the hype was overblown, but Ninth House was still an enjoyable read.

The plot and the ‘murder mystery’ that is central to it are the more interesting aspects of the book. There are two major running narratives—one that surrounds our protagonist through her secret society activities, and the other that relates to an important character. The structure of the novel is such that we get alternating timelines; at first, this was a bit jarring. By the end, I grew used to it, and we eventually ‘catch up’ with the flash-forward established in the prologue—but this meant that much of the book kind of… dragged on. We spent much of the book just getting there, which made the events of the prologue seem more distant. There is creating a sense of intrigue and anticipation by having a nonlinear narrative, but when most of it dawdles in the past, it gets old fast.

The pacing was quite strange too; the book picks up after we catch up to the prologue, but a lot of the ‘past’ narrative events range from scenes where Alex is grabbing lunch with her roommates to intense occult scenes with Grays, and there is often a switch between the two. I didn’t always see the point of the narrative showing us Alex’s ‘university’ life; yes, it is a consequential part of the story, but these scenes didn’t convince me of the characters’ motivations or development.

To return to the narrative, the twist elements in the story were… a little frustrating. It isn’t that they were predictable; I didn’t predict them so much as go, ‘Well yeah, that’s a reasonable consequence of what we learn happened previously.’ (Well, to my credit, I did pinpoint the most likely candidates for the Big Bad(s), and I was spot on.) The issue is that we just don’t know a lot of what happens until Bardugo decides to remove the wool from our eyes. So, they are not really twists in the traditional sense as they are Bardugo pulling a fast one on the reader… several times. A clever narrative can contain foreshadowing and red herrings and be selective in what it chooses to reveal while still managing to swing an enjoyable plot twist; Ninth House just decides the reader needs to know truly little, so that they can be ‘shocked’ when the plot is revealed to them. Do you see the difference?

Moving on to the characters, the story is revealed through the eyes of two characters: Alex Stern and Daniel Arlington; both are given weird names/nicknames for some reason. There are in-story reasons for both, but it still felt slightly forced. Alex is a hardened young hooligan who, because of her ability to see ghosts, is given a spot in one of Yale’s watchdog secret societies. Darlington, as he is known, is her mentor who lives and breathes for these societies and the town of New Haven. I found the latter a more compelling character, perhaps because his heart tended to be in the right place, and his backstory is well accounted. On the other hand, Alex is written as an unlikeable character, though the narrative does attempt to make her sympathetic to the reader; she is a criminal, brash, and yes, she has suffered and will continue to suffer, but my sympathy is bogged down by the fact that Alex continues to be morally repugnant. Also, many of the characters in the book do not get detailed development or characterization beyond a superficial level, which is perhaps a consequence of this being the first book in a series.

The side characters—for instance, Pamela Dawes and Detective Turner—are both welcome additions to the cast, as they add some complexity to the interactions they have with our protagonists. Alex’s character dynamic is intended to be fleshed out by her backstory, but because we get it piecemeal and largely towards the end of the book, I found myself caring less than the author likely intended. Moreover, her story heavily focuses on trauma and its aftermaths; a laudable theme for any author to tackle, but I feel that Bardugo does a lot of ‘telling’ rather than ‘showing’, with the effect of Alex’s trauma becoming merely a plot device and a bit theatrical. We never really see Alex grapple with the aftermath of the various traumas, aside from repetitive cliches about how hard her life is and how jaded she has become. The narrative also gives Alex a generous helping of plot armor, which didn’t really help my estimation of her.

When it comes to the meat of the novel, the business of secret societies, the occult, and the much raved-about ‘dark and gritty’ aspect of the novel, I also found it lacking. To this reader, the nine societies were incredibly confusing, and I constantly had to remind myself what their domains were. Apparently, at least some are based on real societies at Yale—go figure. That doesn’t change the fact that Bardugo’s utilization of them is opaque from the get-go; this is common enough in speculative fiction, especially with an in media res narrative, but I also found myself wondering what the point of having all of these different societies was—rather than populate the narrative in an enlivening manner, they made it feel crowded.

The occult and magical elements were also stereotypical. We don’t get much in the way of explanation of magical abilities or events; just that they happen, and we need to take the narrative’s word for it. I would have liked to see some more worldbuilding here, as well as an illustration of the deeper costs of the magic—for instance, we see climate manipulation, prophesy, and offensive magic used to harm people alike, but these are told to us and occasionally shown, but not with much depth. Alex’s abilities to see ghosts marks her as ‘different’ and unique, but we don’t get much explanation for that either—or some of the things that are revealed towards the end only make matters a bit more confusing. This book felt like a standard college story with a few magical powers thrown in, so I suppose it works as ‘urban fantasy’, but the fantasy itself was run-of-the-mill.

Finally, a few words on the ‘dark’ and ‘gothic’ aspects of this dark academia/gothic fantasy book. I remember first hearing about how this book was one of the grittier options in dark academia books, and that it didn’t pull its punches. Several times I came across scenes that I could clearly tell were written by Bardugo purely to shock or discomfort the audience. I went into the book hoping that it would inspire the uneasiness or fear you may get from gothic or horror books; but often the scenes in this book just made me feel… bemused.

The prognostication scene we get at the very beginning, for instance, was almost comical; being versed in the classics, I felt as if she took this particular element common in ancient cultures out of a certain context, in which it was very normalized, and randomly transported it to another context entirely—see how that can be comical? Of course, it is a horrific action, but the stakes never felt like that. Other graphic scenes in the novel were just that—graphic but didn’t necessarily feel ‘scary’ or ‘dark’. Rather, the effect was as if Bardugo were trying to come up with the vilest things she could think of to stun the audience. Well, it was hardly the worst I’ve seen or read, so it missed the mark for me. Certain scenes felt gratuitous, which went counter to the message Bardugo tried to preach—not trying to spoil, but if you’ve seen some of the other reviews, you’ll likely know what I’m referring to. The violent scenes were standard by the measure of the crime thriller genre, and nothing really made me surprised or shell-shocked so much as doubtful about how realistic some scenes were.

Bardugo’s writing style also seems to have devolved, somehow. I really enjoyed her work in the Six of Crows duology, but here, she starts writing with unfinished sentences, dangling modifiers, and overall, in a fashion that is currently trendy in YA books, and which annoys me immensely. She also tends to drag on when doing descriptions; honestly, some scenes have several pages just describing the layout of a room. As someone who doesn’t visualize books, I feel that the book could have been much more concise, and packed a stronger punch, if Bardugo reined herself in on descriptions. This, coupled with some other tendencies I’ve noticed among the characters and the plot, made this book feel very YA. If that is the case, then it could perhaps merit the description of ‘dark and gritty’, but as I mentioned above, it doesn’t quite reach the benchmark in the realm of adult fantasy. Her attempt at discussing mature and serious themes also felt more like YA, with it being superficial and preachy, in a black or white manner; I wish she would have given these subjects the nuanced and complex treatment they ought to have received.

I know I’ve spent a good deal of my paragraphs complaining about various things in this book, but it truly wasn’t something I hated. There were good parts—when the story finally gets going in the present timeline, the pacing becomes more appropriate for the story. The denouement was slightly stilted, but it did provide some much-needed answers. Certain side characters were endearing enough, or at least made me curious to see how they end up in the second book. The plot itself kept me intrigued for at last part of the book, so I will give credit where it is due. The setting of Yale and the secret societies did fall flat, and I’m not sure it really merits the designation of dark academia, but I can see why this book gripped the book community so intensely when it came out. Some parts of the book worked for me, and some parts didn’t, but largely, I was missing that glimmer of enchanting setting and gripping complexity that I expected from Bardugo’s other works. Well, at the very least, I will try the Alex Stern series again with its sequel, so don’t accuse me of being too unfair.