Haunting, gentle, and somehow, serendipitously, just the perfect followon to [b:Anathem|7914507|Anathem|Neal Stephenson|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1328123532l/7914507.SY75.jpg|6163095] and to two books on schizophrenia—but it would take way too long to explain why.

Some writers have incredible imaginations; some, compassion; some, talent; Clarke has them all and more. She drew me in from the opening quotes, even before the opening pages, and kept me hooked. The way she invents a baffling weird world, shoves you into it, uncomprehending, but also gives you just enough to navigate along and make gradual sense of it. The ambiguities that keep you wondering, then revisiting your understanding of the story. The charm and wonder with which she infuses it all.

There were times when the narrative gimmick (first-person journal) felt contrived, enough so to jostle me out of the story: “hmmm, I need some exposition here.” And her villains—as in her other books—are just eversoslightly more sociopathic than seems absolutely necessary. No matter: this was delightful and memorable and (for me, today) oh so timely.