2026/095: The Gate, the Girl and the Dragon — Grace Lin

“Jin was carved face upward, looking at the sky. Watching people is not in his nature.”
“Watching people is in the nature of all Gongshi,” Ba protested. “Protecting and caring for people is the purpose bestowed on us by the goddess!”
Jin winced… People! There were so many of them, rushing around and squeezed together in their gray, grubby world... Watching people was the most boring thing ever. [loc. 500]

Jin is a Gongshi, a stone spirit dwelling in a statue: he's also a young lion cub who's passionate about zuqiu, a soccer-like game, and is forever being told by his parents that he's irresponsible. One day, in a fit of pique after a match is stopped just as he was about to score the winning goal, he accidentally kicks the Sacred Sphere, a relic of the Goddess, through the magical City Gate and into the human world. Rushing after it, he finds himself trapped in mundanity -- and nobody can come to his rescue, because the Gate is closed.

Jin was exasperating, but I felt very sorry for him, and was glad when he found a friend. Lulu is a human girl who nobody else seems to be able to see. She's very sad. The two also meet a worm who claims to be a dragon. And, in a secondary plotline, there's a sculptor who wishes his two masterworks would come alive: after all, they were carved from stone that used to be a dragon's pillow.

There's lots of excitement and tension, woven through with retellings of Chinese legends and folklore, but the core of the story is Jin growing up a little, learning to empathise and work with others. I understand the print version is beautifully illustrated -- a shame to have missed out on that -- but the audio was clearly and sympathetically read by Mesmi Chu. (Jin's voice did grate occasionally, but that fitted the character!)

Read because: challenge prompt for 'middle-grade novel by non-Caucasian author' -- this was in the Libro.fm sale and looked fascinating -- and it was.

2026/094: Pandemonium — Daryl Gregory

Jungians saw evidence that archetypes had been seizing human minds since prehistory. In America demon sightings had been recorded since the Pilgrims, but most scholars pegged the start of the modern possession epidemic at the first publicized appearance of the Captain on July 12, 1944. [p. 205]

Del Pierce has grown up in a world where demonic possession -- or, to put it in medical terms, the 'possession disorder' -- has changed the course of history. Eisenhower was killed in 1955 by a man possessed by -- sorry, suffering from the Kamikaze strain of the disorder -- and O J Simpson was shot down in the courtroom by a janitor temporarily hosting the strain known as the Truth. Possession can happen to anybody, anywhere, at any point in their life.

It happened to Del when he was five years old: he was possessed by the Hellion, a Dennis-the-Menace type. Because all the demons are types, archetypes: they have a single story that defines them, and they act it out. Del, though, is starting to wonder if his demon ever left. 

With the help of his brother Lew, and exorcist Mother Mariette (real name Siobhan O'Connell, a cigarette-smoking skinhead nun who's highly reminiscent of Sinead O'Connor), Del attempts to discover the history and origin of the demons. Along the way he meets Philip K Dick (and the demon Valis), and is pursued by the Human League -- no, not that Human League, but an organisation that has interpreted Van Vogt's Slan as a manual for how to rid humanity of demons.

It's a wild ride with lots of nods to genre and a surprisingly poignant denouement. Del's first-person narration made it feel breathless and fast-paced, and this was a quick read for me, which probably helped to keep my disbelief suspended. Then the questions bubbled up. When is this set? (It feels like early 2000s.) Presumably the whole world is affected? (Who knows. We only see America.) Del may have discovered the source of his demon and a few others, but what about the other ninety-odd? And isn't that finale really quite horrible for his family? 

I did enjoy the reading experience, though, despite not finding the characters either likeable or relatable. And I note it's Gregory's first novel (though he's written award-winning short fiction): I will keep an eye out for his later novels.

Read because: a random pick from my TBR, for a change. No challenge, no book club, probably recommended by someone online at some point.

2026/093: When There are Wolves Again — E J Swift

You want to believe the tide is turning. You want to believe you will die in a better world than you were born in. [loc. 2070]

A hopeful novel about the future of the UK, the ecology, and the climate crisis (yes, really!), beginning in 2020 and ending in 2070. It follows the lives of two women: Lucy Gillard, whose ecological awakening comes when she's sent to stay with her grandparents during Covid, and Hester Moore, whose story starts in Chornobyl, where she's making a documentary about a team of vets who care for the abandoned dogs. 

Lucy and Hester do eventually meet, but their paths are very different. Lucy is inspired by Greta Thunberg, becomes an activist, and helps set up an ecological form of peace camp. Hester, who does not get along with people but loves her dogs, wins awards for her documentaries and tries not to let her personal issues get in front of the camera.

There is a lot in this novel, and probably a lot that will not come true. Which is not to say it's wishful thinking: Swift's future seems firmly grounded in the present (or the recent past), though her fascist Albion party are less popular than Reform seem to be... There are other horrors. The Endling Market, where collectors vie to own the last survivor of a species (there are online forums where they discuss the least damaging ways of killing a bird of animal); heat domes that devastate western Europe; extinctions, NIMBYs, bird flus... But there is also positive change. The dissolution of the US; a moon habitat (not American); Net Zero; and an astonishing bequest.

I especially liked that this novel doesn't attempt easy answers. It gives both sides of the argument about rewilding schemes; it balances the vast expense of space missions against their role as a beacon of hope. And there is a great deal of kindness -- and respect -- from humans to other humans, from humans to animals and birds.

Also really refreshing to read a novel where there are no romantic subplots. There are male characters (I liked Lucy's grandfather, and could relate to Hester's brother: and Jerome is proof that people do change) but they're not the focus of the female characters' lives. And When There Are Wolves Again is realistic about the people -- like Lucy's parents -- who don't believe in climate change, don't think the ecology is important, cling to their old habits even when those habits become deeply unfashionable.

This has prompted me to push Isabella Tree's Wilding up my TBR, and to visit a couple of rewilding sites. And to be slightly more hopeful than I've been in recent years.

you think about what you said to the farmer: is it about autonomy? And what he said in return: it’s about respect. It must be possible to have both. To nurture a space of one’s own in the knowledge that this too is transitory, communal. Shared between humans and non-human animals. There were languages for this, once. There were words, before the conceit of ownership consumed everything else. [loc. 2170]

Read because: The heat, the heat! I knew this was a novel about the climate catastrophe, so it felt like perfect reading in the June 2026 UK heatwave. I didn't expect to like it as much as I did. I dunno, you wait ages for a great SF novel and then read two in the same week...

2026/092: The Last Hawk — Elizabeth Wein

Emil had told me to get out. But like a pilot in a damaged plane, I had to keep flying blindly before I was able to land. [loc. 784]

Ingrid Hartman has been deemed 'a disgrace to Germany' because of her stammer, and her failure to greet an SS officer with 'Heil Hitler'. Her widowed father urges her to get a job at the gliding school where she helps out: Ingrid, at seventeen, is already one of the best glider pilots there. The plan keeps her out of the way, and her friend Emil, a Luftwaffe pilot, recommends her as assistant to test pilot Hanna Reitsch. 

Hanna is doing a series of air shows to inspire German youth -- and she has an ambitious plan to create a 'Leonidas Squadron' of suicide pilots. (“I am volunteering as a pilot for the manned glider bomb,” read the pledge... “I fully understand that this mission will end in my death.” [loc. 660]). Ingrid's loyalty to Hanna is shaken, especially when she hears about conditions inside the factories where the 'manned bombs' are being built. But Hanna won't believe the stories...

A short but vivid novel, with lots of period detail (as I've learned to expect from Wein): fake coffee made from acorns and barley, Ingrid's devotion to Saint-Exupery's Wind, Sand and Stars, the aviator chocolate (Scho-ka-cola, with cola and caffeine) that Emil gives Ingrid. (I have now tried this: it's ... invigorating.) Wein's note at the end details her research -- she based Emil on the pilot who shot down Saint-Exupery! -- and also gives resources and reassurance for stutterers.

Read because: I rate Wein very highly as an author, and this was the last of her books aimed at less-confident readers (after White Eagles and Firebird, which I 'read' as an audiobook) that I hadn't read. It initially didn't seem that The Last Hawk had as much weight as the other two novels, but I think that's simply because it has neither personal tragedy nor a twisty revelation.

2026/091: Baba Yaga Laid an Egg — Dubravka Ugrešić

As we grow older, we weep less and less. It takes energy to weep. In old age neither the lungs, nor the heart, nor the tear ducts, nor the muscles have the strength for great misery. Age is a kind of natural sedative, perhaps because age itself is a misfortune. [loc. 2704]

A book of three halves. Part One ('Go There, I Know not Where – and Bring Me Back a Thing I Lack'), set mostly in Zagreb, is the first-person narrative of someone who might be the author, coping with her own ageing and with her widowed mother's dementia (and with their relationship). There's a young female folklore student who seems determined to make the narrator into a mother figure, too. This is the most realistic and thoughtful section of Baba Yaga Laid an Egg, dealing honestly with the indignities of old age and the ways in which the self remains unchanged.

Part Two ('Ask Me No Questions and I’ll Tell You No Lies') deals with the visit of three old ladies to a 'wellness spa' in Czechoslovakia. The three have lived through the worst of Yugoslavian history (one has spent time in prison) and each has her story to tell. They're contrasted with three men: a masseur with a permanent erection, a doctor who seeks the secret of immortality, and the cynical owner of the spa.

And the third part ('If You Know Too Much, You Grow Old Too Soon') is presented as a 'Baba Yaga for Beginners', the author being the folklore student from Part 1. Her name is Aba Babay... Lots of mythology, some of it rather reductive and some of it absurdly Freudian: old women, it turns out, are monsters all over the world (though some are kind to the deserving, or to children). 

I cannot say I engaged with this novel, though I did enjoy the triumphs of the three crones in Part 2, and I admire the craft of Part 1. It's a sobering reflection on ageing (though I do not feel I will ever be as old as the crones, if I live to be a hundred: my life has been easier).

Translated by Ellen Elias-Bursać, Celia Hawkesworth and Mark Thompson, who between them have (according to the Internet) managed to render Ugrešić's wordplay into English without losing the humour.

Read because: I'd enjoyed other volumes in the Canongate Myth series (for instance, Where Three Roads Meet, The Penelopiad, Ragnarok ) -- when I discovered that this was set in Croatia and written by a Croatian author, it fitted a prompt in 'The Storygraph Reads The World Challenge' nicely.

2026/090: The End of Everything — M John Harrison

Several [fallen trees] could be found in a single glade, many with younger trees growing from the earth caked in their ripped-up root balls, so that it looked as though a different species was springing out of the carcass of the original. Birch from beech, Marnie thought. Holly from ash. A sense of horror overcame her. [50%]

The setting is the Kent coast, some years after what may be an alien invasion by the iGhetti. Humans are waging an ineffectual war against the invaders, who are rumoured to originate from the astral plane; who manifest as 'tall writhing bursts of light'; who may not have noticed that humans even exist. There are three protagonists. Richard Tennent is a mudlark who, at the beginning of the novel, has just found an iGhetti artefact in the surf. Marnie, his aunt, lives near the beach, in the shadow of the wing of a crashed aeroplane, and may be suffering dementia. Hampson, to whom Tennent tries to sell the artefact, is a collector who obsessively chronicles his experiments with similar artefacts. (If I add that the artefact is humanoid and apparently sentient -- and the most likeable character in the novel -- you can probably imagine some of the more horrific consequences.)

But there is a great deal more than inhumanity in this novel. Europe, and possibly the rest of the world, has vanished ('How do you misplace a continent?' Marnie writes on a protest-adjacent sign) but people still queue to board ships and head out in the hope of something new. This future England (and it's a very English novel, with old men dreaming of Agincourt and the Battle of Britain) is full of people who have adjusted, not entirely without complaint, to life in the ruins, where 'bad patches' can produce timelooped experiences or affectless states of mind. The infrastructure has collapsed, and mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. And because nobody in the novel understands what is happening, neither do we -- though it's possible to piece together an extremely unsettling version of the narrative.

Intrigued by a review which mentioned the iGhetti's appearance in an earlier short story, I found 'The Crisis', which contains some passages very similar to passages in The End of Everything, though may be a different iteration of the same scenario.

Excellently read by Russ Bain: I highly recommend the audiobook, though am not wholly convinced by the voice he uses for Marnie.

Read because: I have enjoyed many (though not all) of Harrison's previous novels, and the mudlarking aspect of this work intrigued me. And now I am on my third listen...

...we pretended our scientific epistemy was still serviceable... the apocalypse seemed to withhold itself, quicky becoming just another historical continuity. That is to say, we got used to it. [40%]

2026/089: The Most Secret Memory of Men — Mohamed Mbougar Sarr

...just because you’re wounded doesn’t mean you have to write about it. It doesn’t even mean you have to consider writing about it. I won’t bother bringing up ability. Time heals? Wrong; it kills. It kills the illusion that our wounds are unique. They’re not. No wound is unique. Nothing human is unique. Everything becomes terribly banal over time. There’s the conundrum; but somewhere in there, literature has a chance to emerge.

Translated by Lara Vergnaud, and read by multiple narrators: Ayesha Antoine, Chris Thompson, Kyle Gabbidon, Masimba Ushe, Musu-kulla Massaquoi and Nile Faure-Bryan. (Not all the female-viewpoint chapters are read by women.)

It's a novel 'about' a lost Senegalese author, T C Elimane, and his infamous novel The Labyrinth of Inhumanity -- at first lauded by the French literary establishment as the work of 'a Negro Rimbaud', and later reviled as plagiarism. (This aspect of the novel mirrors the career of Malian author Yambo Ouologuem.) And it's also 'about' the narrator, another young Senegalese writer named Diégane Latyr Faye, living in Paris and hanging out with other African writers, bemoaning the lack of success of his own first novel, which sold 79 copies.

 One day he encounters another compatriot, the outrageous author Siga D, who lends him her copy of The Labyrinth of Inhumanity and tells him to visit her when he's read it. He is rivetted by Elimane's prose and desperate to learn more about the man -- and his subsequent conversations with Siga D (not to mention a visit home) help him to unravel the mystery of the author's disappearance. Via Argentina, wartime Paris, Senegal and Amsterdam, Elimane's legacy is discoverable.

I found parts of this novel hard going: for instance, there is a deeply unsettling scene featuring the depredations of soldiers in wartime. And Faye's sex life did not enthrall me. But the magic realism, the long feuds and deceptions of families, the ways in which lives are shaped by wars, racism, religion, colonialism... those aspects of the novel kept me listening. Faye is sometimes ridiculous, sometimes pompous, and sometimes very relatable: and I appreciated his growth over the course of The Most Secret Memory of Men.

Read because: a challenge prompt for Senegal. Looking for something that fit the prompt, I found this novel -- which won the Prix Goncourt, the first win by a sub-Saharan author -- and was intrigued by the sample chapters. Unlike some books I've read purely to fulfil a prompt, I have no regrets about having read this.