2025/189: Breed to Come — Andre Norton

There had always been Puttis -- round and soft, made for children. She had kept hers because it was the last thing her mother had made... Puttis were four-legged and tailed. Their heads were round, with shining eyes made of buttons or beads, upstanding ears, whiskers above the small mouth. Puttis were loved, played with, adored in the child world; their origin was those brought by children on the First Ships. [loc. 2219]

This was the first science fiction book I remember reading, from Rochford Library, probably pre-1975. I don't think I've read it since, though I did briefly own a paperback copy. Apparently the blurbs of newer editions mention 'university complex' and 'epidemic virus': aged <10, I was hooked by the cat on the front.

Furtig is one of the People, who are mutated and uplifted cats. The People have a truce with the Tuskers, and a standoff with the Barkers. All are united in their hatred and disgust for the Rattons, who torture and eat their captives. When Furtig fails to win a mate at the Trials, he heads for the Lairs -- the place where the Demons once lived, and where his relative Gammage has been discovering new technologies. Those who dwell in the Lairs now are the Inborn, even more mutated / uplifted than the People: often they have little or no fur, but their paws are much more handlike and agile. They are learning to use some delightfully retro tech, including tape drives ...

Gammage warns that the Demons might return -- and, quite a long way into the novel, we encounter Ayana, a human, who's on a spaceship nearing Earth. How Ayana and her crew react to and interact with the mutated animals, and with Earth itself, forms the rest of the story, though the focus remains firmly on Furtig and his friends and relations.

I remembered quite a bit about Furtig and his adventures, but very little about the humans (or Demons). One thing that did stick in my pre-adolescent mind, though, was how Ayana recognised what she was seeing. 'Not Putti but cat!'... Ayana is open-minded and well-meaning, but her society doesn't seem that great. The crew of her ship consists of two heterosexual couples, whose various skills fulfil all the requirements of the mission. There are hints that Ayana, at least, was psychologically manipulated into pairing with Tan. When they reach Earth, Tan seems to change -- could it be the plague that killed off the human race, apart from a few who escaped to space 500 years ago? -- and becomes abusive, cruel and physically violent. No wonder Ayana sides with the People.

Breed to Come is a darker story than I remember, but it has a happy ending (at least for Furtig and the People) and some intriguing ideas. And it was the novel that started me on the path to where, and who, and what I am today.

2025/188: A Drop of Corruption — Robert Jackson Bennett

“... they began to exhibit afflictions.”
“Apophenia being the worst, and most notable,” said Ghrelin. “An uncontrollable, debilitating impulse to spy patterns in everything.”
I glanced at Ana, but she only smiled and wryly said, “Oh, I’m familiar with that one..." [loc. 3361]

Sequel to The Tainted Cup, and second in Bennett's 'Shadow of the Leviathan' trilogy. While this didn't wow me quite as much as the first book -- which was so utterly novel in setting and ambience -- it's still a marvellous read. Bennett continues to explore the Empire of Khanum, in this case by venturing outside it. The kingdom of Yarrow trades with the Empire, and is politically unstable: it's also on the coast, a high-risk location because the Leviathans come from the ocean. Much of the Empire's research on leviathans takes place in a facility known as the Shroud, in the Bay of Yarrow.

Engraver Dinias Kol (who can, with the right stimuli, remember everything) and investigator Ana Dolabra (who is wildly eccentric but a brilliant investigator) are sent to Yarrow to investigate the death of a Treasury official. What they uncover is a complex scheme of murder, theft, and insurrection. Ana is delighted, because she's found an opponent whose cunning and misdirection she can respect. Din is ... less delighted, and missing his lover, and worried about the debt he's inherited: he also has to work with a local Apothetikal, Tira Malo, who has greatly enhanced senses and works as a warden. Into the wilderness they go...

This is a novel that works on many levels: a locked-room murder mystery in a world sufficiently alien that the usual deductive process isn't wholly relevant; an examination of kings and why they are not a stable form of government; a story about experimentation and about science... It's great fun, well-paced, and we discover tantalising scraps about Ana's background. (Din is likeable, but Ana is fascinating, and often repulsive.) I'm very much looking forward to the third in the series, due in 2026.

2025/187: The Fall of Troy — Peter Ackroyd

There are many Turks who believe that the capture of Constantinople was a just vengeance for the fall of Troy. The Greeks were at last made to pay for their perfidy. [loc. 2376]

Reread: my review from 2010 is here. I remembered nothing at all about this novel! Apparently I purchased a paperback copy in 2007: as with almost all of his other novels, no Kindle edition is available.

Ackroyd bases his novel on the life of Heinrich Schliemann, who first excavated Troy, and his marriage to a much younger woman, a Greek (famously chosen on the basis of a photograph and 'Homeric spirit'). Ackroyd's fictional archaeologist is named Heinrich Obermann, and he has all of Schliemann's flaws and more: he's avaricious, racist, an intellectual fraud and a bigamist. He goes by his gut feeling rather than solid archaeological methodology, and he refuses to accept evidence which contradicts his own opinions.

We see him from his wife Sophia's perspective: she doesn't love him, but is determined to make the marriage work. She finds purpose in the excavation of the ancient city, and colludes with Obermann's deceits -- until she discovers that he has lied to her, as well as to everyone else.

I liked the way that Ackroyd wove in some of Schliemann's tall stories (smuggling Priam's treasure away from the site in Sophia's shawl) and I found Obermann's fate rather more satisfactory than Schliemann's: hubris and nemesis.

2025/186: Hitwoman — Elsie Marks

...that’s the problem with rich people in the UK – not only are half of them clinically evil, they’re clinically evil bastards who all went to school together and still haven’t grown up. [loc. 2457]

Maisie Baxter works for Novum, a boutique ethical assassination agency. Her boss is the charismatic Gabby Hawthorne (played, in my head, by Helen Mirren); she shares a flat with Beth, who knows nothing about Maisie's job; she's been single for a while, because she can't have a relationship without revealing her secret double life.

But when a man named Will shows up at two of her jobs, and the target is killed before she can take care of business, she becomes suspicious -- not least because, on the first of those jobs, the two of them hooked up for a steamy one-night stand. Will works for a rival agency, but is he the real enemy, or is there something more sinister afoot?

Fun, funny and -- refreshingly -- set in the UK rather than the US, this is classic romcom. I liked Maisie, who is competent and witty and loyal: Will grew on me: the secondary characters, such as Jason the IT guy and Beth the flatmate, felt like people I know. Hitwoman was much-needed light relief after recent reading. Despite its innately violent subject matter, it's a cheering and life-affirming novel, and I hope very much that it's the start of a series.

2025/185: The Rose Field — Philip Pullman

I’m a grown woman now, and it’s about time I heard the truth. Because I know that whatever the imagination is, it isn’t just inventing things. Making things up and pretending they’re real is not enough. [loc. 4915]

Twenty-five years ago, in Oxford in August 2000, I interviewed a best-selling fantasy author, who said (among many more interesting things) that he shared an editor with J K Rowling and that this editor had claimed not to be able to contact Rowling. (I suggested that this might explain the length of the fourth HP novel.) That author was Philip Pullman, and I can't help wondering whether his current editor is having a similar issue with Pullman himself. I found this novel overlong, self-contradictory, sprawling, and ultimately unsatisfying.

Which is not to say it's awful: there were likeable new characters, fascinating side-quests and some intriguing hints at how Lyra's world differs from our own. But a long-awaited reunion was described very briefly; a much-signalled romance fizzled out in the final chapters (which was a relief... but it was still a possibility for most of the book); and there is a conversation which basically negates a pivotal scene in the previous trilogy.

I'm not going to go into detail: others have done so, at length. There was a lot to like (such as Lyra's relationship with Asta; Ionides; the gryphons) and I did get caught up in the story. But there are also a lot of loose threads, unresolved subplots, throwaway resolutions. And one key character from the His Dark Materials trilogy is ... changed, shall we say, by revelations in The Rose Field.

It's six years since I read The Secret Commonwealth, and perhaps I should have reread it before starting The Rose Field. But that is a sad and dispiriting novel: this one was simply disappointing.

Edit to add: I was wrong about the editor issue. Apparently there's an interview with Pullman in the audiobook, in which he says that his editor made him change his original ending. Perhaps that ending would have provided more resolution.

2025/184: Ibiza Surprise — Dorothy Dunnett

I do know the look of a ruby, in the same way that I know sable and ermine and mink. One always knows where one is going, even if one doesn't quite know how to get there. [loc. 2096]

Reread of a novel first read in the 1990s, which I don't think I've revisited since. Certainly I had forgotten all but a few details: melon balls, a corpse on a horse, boring brother.

Ibiza Surprise is set in the late Sixties. Sarah Cassells is twenty years old, the daughter of impecunious Lord Forsey, and (possibly) 'the swingiest chick this side of Chelsea'. She has trained as a cook, lives in London in a flatshare, and makes a living by catering extravagant dinner parties. Her primary aim in life is to find someone 'decent' (i.e. rich) to marry. When her father is found dead in Ibiza, Sarah's financial situation worsens. Then, at the funeral, she meets the father of her schoolfriend Janey Lloyd, who invites her to stay with the Lloyds in Ibiza.

Cue mayhem, an unexpected American widow, a famous portrait painter with his yacht and his bifocals (this is Johnson Johnson, the star-at-one-remove of Dunnett's seven-book 'Dolly' series) and Easter in a small Spanish town.

Several things struck me about this novel. Firstly, how recent the war was: less than 25 years since VE Day. It's unremarkable for Johnson (who's in his forties) to explain his facility with firearms by claiming to have done Special Branch work in the war. Twenty-five years! It's longer than that since I first read this novel. And it makes me think anew about my parents and how recent it was for them.

Second, Sarah is frivolous and flirtatious and quite casual about the risk of one of her beaus assaulting her ('he could swim, too, but you can't rape anyone in deep water, or at least if you can you ought to get a certificate' [1306]). She is determined to marry well -- she thinks it's her only hope of a comfortable life -- but is also not averse to 'courtesy snogging' with a man she's just met. And though she sometimes comes across as vacuous, she is brave and intelligent, and surprisingly competent.

And third: this is Ibiza before the nightclubs and mass tourism. I loved the glimpses of local culture, the medieval town and the religious processions, the gilded statues draped with real jewellery.

Murder mystery quite twisty; Johnson quite peripheral and impenetrable; not enough sailing. I think I'd like to reread more of these, in the spirit in which Dunnett wrote them: a holiday (though not, as in her case, a tax-deductible Business Expense).

2025/183: Empire of Shadows — Jacquelyn Benson

The stela was clear evidence for the existence of a previously unknown Mesoamerican culture… and Ellie had the map to the heart of it tucked into her corset. [p. 178]

London, 1898: archivist Eleanor Mallory finds herself unemployed after a suffragette protest. ("Just one little arrest, which they aren’t even pressing charges for!") Awaiting her dismissal, she finds an ancient map concealed by her supervisor. It turns out to be a map to a lost city, and in short order Ellie is off to British Honduras, where she encounters the ruggedly-handsome and frequently-shirtless surveyor Adam Bates.

Needless to say, the path to the lost city of Tulan -- whose myths have influenced both Aztec and Mayan culture -- is fraught with peril, from dastardly upper-class Brits to the natural hazards of the jungle. There are revolutionaries, hidden villages, priests and soldiers, exotic beasties, and ancient mysteries. There is a strong fantasy element, with Ellie dreaming of a long-dead priestess and seeking the legendary Smoking Mirror. And there is Adam, who turns out to have principles as well as a knack for survival.

This is a joyous, unapologetic romcom -- it reminded me, at times, of The Mummy and Romancing the Stone -- with a light-hearted tone: it's also a critique of colonialism and an intriguing riff on the myths and legends of Central America. The history and culture of the local people is woven unobtrusively through the story. Ellie and Adam are both flawed and both likeable: the romance doesn't get very steamy in this volume, but I note that it's the first in a series. A cheering read.

2025/182: Strange Pictures — Uketsu

Adults can draw what they see, the real thing, in their pictures. Children, though, draw the “idea” of what appears in their heads. [p. 82]

Translated from the Japanese by Jim Rion, this short illustrated novel seems at first to be three tenuously-connected novellas. The first begins with a blog on which a man posts some pictures drawn by his wife, who died in childbirth. Each picture has a number... The second story is about a small boy who draws a picture of the apartment block where he lives, and scribbles out the windows of his home. And the third pertains to a grisly unsolved murder mystery, and the implications of the sketch found with the corpse. Gradually, it becomes clear that these are all the same story, or at least all revolve around the same individual.

The pictures (which were clear and readable on my Kindle) definitely added to the story, and drew me into the mysteries: the prose, while simple, flowed nicely. I enjoyed this, though I found some passages disturbing -- even upsetting. And Utetsu makes it easy to sympathise with the villain, who is driven by the need to protect those they care for.

Irritatingly, the Kindle edition starts at 'Chapter One' -- but there is actually an introductory passage before that, which I only noticed when I started to write this review and opened the book in the web browser. Grrrrr. It does cast a different light on the story and provides a lot of insight into the backstory.

2025/181: Murder Most Foul — Guy Jenkin

Even in Deptford, you can’t carry bodies far in daylight... [loc. 1402]

In which William Shakespeare is suspected of the murder of Christopher Marlowe, and makes common cause with Marlowe's sister Ann (formerly Will's lover) to find out who really killed Marlowe, and why. Well-researched, witty historical whodunnit with a credible denouement and some excellent dialogue (Jenkin is an award-winning scriptwriter) and lots of period detail. Also, set in my neck of the woods...

The premise sounded excellent, but didn't quite ring true for me. Perhaps there were too many viewpoint characters -- Will, Ann, Lizzie the Dutch orphan, Bella the spy, the mysterious Widow. Perhaps some of the attitudes were slightly too modern. Perhaps I was just vexed that Marlowe, throughout, was referred to as 'Chris' rather than 'Kit'.

I was drawn into the intricacies of the plot, with all its political layers, and the subtle (and not-so-subtle) references to characters and plot elements from Shakespeare's plays. Will and Ann-without-an-e's relationship was poignant, because doomed. And Jenkin evoked 16th-century London in its stenchful, dangerous glory: an outbreak of plague, anti-immigrant sentiment, filthy streets, squalor.

Despite my reservations and criticisms, I did like it: more, in hindsight, than while I was reading! Jenkin's theory about Marlowe's murder makes a lot of sense, and his dialogue is cracking. I hope it's the first in a series.

An interesting fact I learnt from this novel: cormorants have green eyes!

2025/179-180: Plum Duff and 'The Saint of the Bookstore' — Victoria Goddard

... it had been said -- it had been believed -- that much of the old, deep magic of Alinor before the coming of the Empire was gone.
The Fall of the Empire had made it clear that that magic was only quiescent... [Plum Duff, loc. 126]

Reread, because (as per the final line of my February 2023 review of Plum Duff) the seventh book in the series really is due soon... I note that on first reading, I found this wintry novel, full of solstice cheer and ancient traditions and the threat of the Dark, less enjoyable than the 'cosier, more mannerist' novels that preceded it. I do think it feels as though the scope of the story is expanding rapidly:  but given the miracles and wonders of the previous pair of novels, that makes more sense to me this time around. And I'm more intrigued than before by the two-tailed fox, the hints of the Good Neighbours, and the penalty Mr Dart has paid for his stone arm.

And then to The Saint of the Bookstore, which is really a short story and as such probably didn't count (or wasn't counted) back in 2023. I have a feeling I read it quite a while after the novels. This time around, it felt more powerful. 

Sister Mirabelle of the Linder Church of the Lady is sent to Ragnor Bella to investigate rumours of a saint. Her job is to determine whether it's magic, trickery, or actual miracle. She finds herself in a bookstore, where a young man welcomes her -- and then turns to tending a small girl who stumbles into the shop, barefoot and shivering. Sister Mirabelle assists, and is present when two more young men turn up. The good-looking blond, she notes, has a massive crush on Jemis Greenwing...and their mutual friend, the man with what seems to be a dog but isn't, is well aware of it.

I do love to read familiar characters as seen by an outsider, and Goddard does it brilliantly here, as well as putting some of the events of the series into a wider theological context. I'd be interested to read Sister Mirabelle's report.

I am so looking forward to Bubble and Squeak...

2025/178: Nothing But Blackened Teeth — Cassandra Khaw

One girl each year. Two hundred and six bones times a thousand years. More than enough calcium to keep this house standing until the stars ate themselves clean, picked the sinew from their own shining bones. [loc. 238]

Talia has always wanted to get married in a haunted house: when she announces her marriage to Faiz, their wealthy friend Phillip flies the couple and their friends -- Cat the narrator and Lin her ex -- to Japan, and sets up a sleepover in an abandoned mansion. They have "“booze, food, sleeping bags, a youthful compulsion to do stupid shit... and a hunger for a good ghost story”" [loc. 202]. And they have a setting rich with stories about dancing girls buried in the walls, and a legend of an aborted wedding where the groom died en route.

Cat is an interesting narrator because she's not sane or sober. Talia hates her, because she once dated Faiz; but everyone in the group seems to have dated everyone else. Cat is more sensitive than the others to the ambience of the house, and to the presence there: the ghost whose kiss she feels. And she's the one thinking of ohaguro, teeth blackened with a solution of vinegar and iron filings, like the dead bride.

A novella with a slow start and a crescendo to horrific violence. Is Cat a wholly reliable narrator?

This was a Hallowe'en read which led me down various Wikipedia rabbit-holes: Khaw drops in various Japanese terms without explication, and though one can appreciate the story without understanding every nuance, my need to know distracted me from the story. I loved the prose, though, and the subversion of horror tropes was splendid.

2025/177: Starling House — Alix E Harrow

It’s something about the way the shadows fell in Eden, after Eleanor died. It’s the way everything soured: the river ran darker and the clouds hung lower; rich coal seams went dry and healthy children sickened; good luck went bad and sweet dreams spoiled. [p. 49]

When Opal's mother died, Opal lied her way into becoming her brother Jasper's legal guardian. In the decade since then, she's been working hard at awful jobs to try to raise enough money for him to go to a decent school. She's haunted by dreams of the car crash that killed her mother, and by half-forgotten fragments of the book she loved as a child: 'The Underland', by Eleanor Starling. And she's strangely drawn to Starling House, the Gothic mansion on the edge of town. 'Town', in this instance, is Eden, Kentucky: a down-on-its-luck, working-class town, blighted by the pollution from the local power plant, and suffering a statistically-unlikely number of accidental deaths.

When Opal encounters the reclusive occupant of Starling House, brooding Goth-styled Arthur Starling, he offers her the perfect job: cleaning and caring for the house. The money will pay for Jasper's education and Opal will get to explore the house that's fascinated her for years. But there's more to the house, and to Arthur, than meets the eye.

Opal is not a reliable narrator, but slowly her story -- and that of her family -- comes together. In parallel there's the story of Eleanor Starling and the house which bears her name. And the house ('a foolish old house with ambitions of sentience', according to Arthur) is wakening under Opal's ministrations, letting in the light. Like Hill House, it dreams, but its dreams are rather more pleasant. Opal isn't the only one who's interested in Starling House, though. Elizabeth Baine, who claims to be from Gravely Power (the company that runs the power plant) encourages Opal to spy and steal. She claims the house is an 'anomalous aperture'.

This is a story about stories: about the variations on a theme of Eleanor Starling, and about the Gravely family, and about dreams, and about homes. Every time Opal discovers another variation on the history of Eleanor and of Eden, her perceptions shift. As well as the obvious fairytale elements ('Beauty and the Beast', though who's who?) there are elements of Greek mythology: the rivers of the underworld, the prohibition on looking back. And there are simpler, uglier stories: 'Once there was a bad woman who ruined a good man. Once there was a witch who cursed a village. Once there was an odd, ugly girl whom everyone hated, because it was safe to hate her. [p. 275].

I am awed by Harrow's ability to make place into character. Starling House is as much a character in the novel as Baines, or Jasper, or Arthur himself. Eden, too, has an ugly kind of personhood to it. The prose is vivid and engaging, and though the focus is mostly on Opal and Arthur, there are some intriguing subplots.

Note that Amazon helpfully tells you that you've finished the ebook before you get to 'SEVEN YEARS LATER: A bonus short story set after the events of Starling House'.

2025/176: Everything I Need I Get From You — Kaitlyn Tiffany

...fans are connecting based on affinity and instinct and participating in hyperconnected networks that they built for one purpose but can use for many others. [p. 270]

The subtitle, 'How Fangirls Created the Internet as We Know It', is somewhat misleading. The Archive of Our Own -- built by (mostly female) fans, currently hosting over 16 million fanworks, proudly cost-free and independent since 2007 -- gets a single sentence. In contrast Tumblr (owned by a succession of big tech companies) is repeatedly lauded as an archive as well as a medium for sharing and communicating. 

The book's focus is very much on One Direction (1D) fandom, and the author's personal experience is part of the story. She explores how fandom can be a coping mechanism, a creative outlet, a way of life: and she doesn't shy away from some of the more troubling aspects of fandom, such as outspoken fannish certainty that (for instance) two members of One Direction were in a committed relationship. The prevalence of this notion affected the band, as well as the multitude of believers.

Tiffany discusses 'affirmational' vs 'transformational' fandom (terms she attributes to a Dreamwidth post from 2008): affirmational fandom celebrates the source for what it is, transformational fandom transforms it. She describes how fans use and abuse the internet and associated technology to connect and communicate, to celebrate, but also to protest and organise. The Black Lives Matter activism on various high-profile blogs is one instance of the latter: Tiffany also cites the ways in which fans use technology to circumvent local restrictions, for example spoofing IP addresses to upvote a band's singles for the Billboard charts. (Guess which band?)

My vague sense of disconnection with this book clarified on page 126, when the author says 'My mother was born in 1965'. Aha! Tiffany is very much part of a younger generation of fandom than mine: digital natives, people who grew up with the internet and with internet fan communities.

And, the excesses of 1D fandom aside (there is a thorough exegesis of the Harry Styles Vomit Shrine), I think that quite a lot of the themes discussed in this book also apply to old-school SF fandom. At the start of the book, Tiffany says 'Before most people were using the internet for anything, fans were using it for everything' [p.7]. Like many of my readers, my initial reasons for getting online included the urge to connect with other people who liked the same books. And in those long-ago days of Yahoo Groups (closed, apparently, in 2020) and that newfangled thing called LiveJournal, I discovered my tribe.

Hello, tribe.

2025/175: Love in the Time of Cholera — Gabriel Garcia Marquez

All that was needed was shrewd questioning, first of the patient and then of his mother, to conclude once again that the symptoms of love were the same as those of cholera. [loc. 1023]

Love in the Time of Cholera is the long and rambling love (or 'love') story of Fermina Daza and Florentino Ariza. They fall for one another as teenagers, and have a romantic correspondence by letter and telegram -- but never a conversation. When Fermina sees Florentino again after an absence, she realises she feels nothing for him, and rejects him. Instead she marries Doctor Juvenal Urbino, a young doctor determined to eradicate cholera, and they make a life together.

Meanwhile Florentino embarks on a life of promiscuity. Six hundred and twenty two affairs, plus casual (and not always consensual) liaisons too numerous and nameless to count. His worst conquest is saved for last: his young ward América Vicuña, who's a teenager when Florentino is in his seventies. "...he won her confidence, he won her affection, he led her by the hand, with the gentle astuteness of a kind grandfather, toward his secret slaughterhouse". [loc. 4548]

Still, he has to pass the time somehow until Fermina's husband dies: then he will 'have' Fermina. (The thought that she won't 'have' him never seems to enter his daydreams.) Between affairs, he becomes President of the Caribbean Riverboat Company, which destroys the ecology of the local river system in its insatiable greed for firewood to stoke the boilers. A metaphor, you say?

Though this is not a long novel in terms of page count, it felt interminable. Fifty years of Fermina's marriage (culminating in Dr Urbino's death while trying to catch his pet parrot): fifty years of Florentino's sexual predation. It's a sweeping saga that explores love in its many forms, and how an individual's definition of and perception of love changes as they grow older. But it also 'explores' racism, promiscuity, paedophilia, murder and suicide, misogyny, illness... 

If we knew nothing of Florentino's story -- only that he reappears after Dr Urbino's death, and helps the widowed Fermina come to terms with her grief -- it would be a glorious romance. Sadly, I can't stop trying and failing to balance that romance with América Vicuña's fate.

I have never quite got around to reading Marquez, and I wonder if I would have appreciated this book more in the 1980s, when it was published. But surely even then I would have found the behaviour toxic? I will read One Hundred Years of Solitude at some point: I'm told there's more magical realism and less sleaze. Not yet, though. It'll wait.

“Love is the only thing that interests me,” he said.
“The trouble,” his uncle said to him, “is that without river navigation there is no love.” [loc. 2768]

2025/174: My Name Isn't Paul — Drew Huff

I don't want to be a sentient empathy-filament-abomination, so I only eat human food. [loc. 65]

Paul Cattaneo is dead: to begin with. He's been replaced by a Mirror Person who wears a 'skinsuit' replica of Paul Cattaneo's body. His friend 'John O'Malley' (formerly Noonie) is another Mirror Person. 'We are forty-something blue-collar human men. We aren't fuckin' bugs.' Unfortunately, (a) they are bugs and (b) they will soon go into heat, which involves fornicating with another Mirror Person, finding a human in whom to deposit the eggs, and watch the larvae feed. So, yes, fuckin' bugs.

This is the story of 'Paul', a.k.a. Uxon, who's consumed by self-loathing, mourning a friend's suicide, and trying to deny his own nature. It's about being a person as well as being an eldritch abomination: about Paul's relationship with Paul Cattaneo's wife (who spotted the change in the man who was pretending to be her husband, because he no longer beat her) and about how the other Mirror People -- refugees from another dimension, probably -- rally round to support him when he goes off the rails. It's about living in the 'wrong' body and rejecting the biology of that body.

It's a neat idea, but perhaps would have worked better as a novel than a novella. Some truly icky scenes (there are content warnings at the start of the book, hurrah!) and multiple viewpoints. For me, this was interesting rather than engaging, but your mileage may vary.

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for the advance review copy, in exchange for this full honest review. UK Publication Date is 18th November 2025.

2025/173: Slow Gods — Claire North

They like to make sure I am observed. When no one is looking, that's when I forget to be ... acceptable. Normal. Part of this world. [loc. 1116]

This is the first-person account of Mawukana Respected na-Vdnaze ('Maw'), who's born into poverty and debt in an uber-capitalist civilisation known as the Shine. When the Slow -- a huge, ancient construct that is something like a god -- sends a message warning of a future supernova that will destroy all life within a radius 100 light years, the Shine suppresses the warning. People are afraid, and furious: there is civil unrest: Maw is imprisoned, sentenced to what's effectively slave labour, and then forced to become a Pilot.

Pilots are necessary to interface with machine navigation in order for spaceships to travel through 'arc-space', where the darkness seems alive and aware, where people are haunted by hallucinations and the sense of presence. ('Various words are ascribed to the 'otherness', the unknowable 'thing' waiting in the dark. Common ones are: uncanny, malign, sinister, slippery, clawing, cruel, malevolent, mischievous...' [loc. 1686]) Most Pilots go mad or die after a few trips. Maw dies, it seems, on his first trip: but it isn't permanent. The darkness has somehow got inside him.

But he is useful. Other worlds are taking the supernova warning seriously: organising the mass evacuation of hundreds of worlds; reacting to the certain deaths of the billions who can't be saved; racing to preserve cultural treasures. Maw, the Pilot who's lasted longer than any other, is at the heart of it all.

I read Maw as being on the autism spectrum even before his first death: he talks about 'always doing something a little bit wrong', about not really having emotions but picking up on the feelings of others, about not getting the hang of smalltalk. Whatever happens to him in the dark changes a great deal about him, but at heart he is still an imperfect person -- or an imperfect copy of one.

This book has a plethora of pronouns: he and him, she and her -- but also, in the Shine, hé and hím, shé and hér, for individuals who exemplify the current concept of 'man' or 'woman' (the Shine does not accept other gender identities); qe and qim for AI individuals; xe and xer, te and ter, and more. There's an amusing interlude about pronouns and about how different cultures assign them differently and for differing periods. "So... the important thing is your genitals?" blurts one character when this is explained.

There are, to be fair, a lot of infodumps, signposted as Interludes: this is a huge and cosmopolitan universe, with many civilisations and many inhabited planets. Most of the non-AI characters are more or less humanoid, but there are aquatic and avian sentient species too. There are also sentient, organic, plant-based spaceships, like the splendid Pride of Emni. The universe-building is a delight: each culture, each society, distinct and idiosyncratic. I was reminded, at times, of Iain M. Banks' Culture: at other times, of Ursula Le Guin's gift for depicting a society.

I loved Slow Gods, even through the misery and cruelty of the first few chapters. I like Maw as a character, though I can see why he needs constant supervision so as not to become 'dysregulated'. I like his quan (AI) companions, especially Rencki, and his gentle let's-not-call-it-love affair with a curator (whose gender is never specified, because irrelevant). I like that Maw gardens, and that he learns to accept himself. I love Claire North's writing: every new project of hers is a surprise, with a different flavour and a different focus. (See Ithaca and the rest of the 'Songs of Penelope' trilogy; The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August, Touch, The Sudden Appearance of Hope.) And I am quietly joyful that, amid the genocide and murder, the slavery and war, this is a novel about life as a miracle and love as its guiding principle.

I don't know how you're meant to be this small in a universe this big, this insignificant in a galaxy where every decision matters, where every life is precious. I don't know how to feel so huge and so loud inside, and so small and quiet before the dark. [loc. 4061]

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for the advance review copy, in exchange for this full honest review. UK Publication Date is 18th November 2025.

2025/170-172: Whiskeyjack, Blackcurrant Fool, Love-in-a-Mist — Victoria Goddard

Perhaps it was not the blind malignancy of fate making my life so complicated. Perhaps it was me. [Whiskeyjack, loc. 4159]

Rereads to sustain me through a bad cold and the aftermath of my birthday celebrations: I can think of few better remedies.

Whiskeyjack (original review here) introduces layers of complication, curses, several people who are not who they say they are, and Mr Dart's magic becoming more obvious to those around him. After reading Olive and the Dragon, Jemis' mother's letter has new poignancy.

Blackcurrant Fool (original review here) is the one where they all go to Tara: there are highwaymen, kittens, dens of iniquity, and Jemis' toxic ex-girlfriend. Also a devastating denouement, and some healthy post-colonialism. In some respects this is my least favourite of the novels, though it can't be because of the setting...

Love-in-a-Mist (original review here) is a country-house murder mystery, with a unicorn, the revelation of the Hunter in Green's identity, coded messages in the personal ads, and a missing heiress. I think this might be my favourite so far.

Even just rereading my old reviews is making me want to plunge on to the currently-final novel, and the novellas... but I will save those for especially awful days between now and Bubble and Squeak.

2025/169: Careless People — Sarah Wynn-Williams

...the board gets into a conversation about what other companies or industries have navigated similar challenges, where they have to change a narrative that says that they’re a danger to society, extracting large profits, pushing all the negative externalities onto society and not giving back. ... Elliot finally says out loud the one I think everyone’s already thinking about (but not saying): tobacco. That shuts down the conversation. [loc. 3242]

The subtitle is 'A Story of Where I Used to Work', but it's being sold under the strapline 'The explosive memoir that Meta doesn't want you to read' -- with good reason, as this article indicates: "Meta has served a gagging order on Sarah and is attempting to fine her $50,000 for every breach of that order.". I quit Facebook a while back (though I did miss it in the first year of the pandemic, when so much of everyone's social life was online) but if I hadn't, I would have deleted my account well before I'd finished reading this book.

Wynn-Williams survived a shark attack when she was a teenager: there's probably a metaphor about working for Facebook here, but instead it made her want to do something with her life, to make a difference. After working for the New Zealand government's diplomatic service, she identified Facebook as a powerful political force, pitched a global policy role, and was hired. Six years later, she was fired for toxicity and poor performance. Or so say Facebook. The book says something rather different, about a company with a toxic culture, a lack of accountability and a determination to grow at any cost.

I engaged with Careless People on two levels: firstly, as someone who's worked in an environment where unreasonable demands were a daily occurence; secondly, as someone who had suspected Facebook of unethical behaviour, but hadn't realised its extent. I recognise that desire to change things from the inside, the desperate hope that things will improve. I recognise a culture where the employee's personal life is regarded as something less important than work. One horrific passage about the birth of the author's first child:

Dr. Veca reaches over and gently closes my laptop. She says, “It’s a very special thing to give birth to your first child. I don’t think you should be working through it. Sheryl will understand.”
“She won’t,” I say. “Please let me push Send.” [loc. 1457]

To make it worse, 'Sheryl' is COO Sheryl Sandberg, author of Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead, which encourages women to assert themselves at home and at work -- though apparently not to any extent that might inconvenience Sandberg personally. Sandberg strikes me as a hellish boss, and Wynn-William's other superiors aren't much better. After the author's second pregnancy, there's a surreally negative performance review on her return from maternity leave, where she's told that colleagues found her 'challenging to engage with': “I mean, you know, I was in hospital, in a coma and near death, but I accept that this did make it hard to engage with me at times.” [loc. 3540].

It may sound as though I care more about the author's personal experiences than about the incredible damage Facebook has done to global culture and politics. Yes and no. I found Wynn-Williams' narrative easy to relate to, though magnitudes worse than anything I have experienced myself. And Facebook's crimes have been documented extensively: supporting the junta in Myanmar (while having one (1) employee -- actually a contractor in Ireland -- who was fluent in Burmese); funding and supporting Trump in the run-up to the 2016 election; supporting the Leave vote in the Brexit referendum; providing data allowing cosmetics advertisers to target girls between 13 and 17 who've posted and then deleted a selfie; misleading Congress about the extent of its (illegal) operations in China; supporting right-wing governments, viewed as less likely to impose restrictions on Facebook's operations in their countries...

Careless People is a gripping read about a company whose actions affect billions of people. It provides an insider's view of Mark Zuckerberg and his singleminded (blinkered?) drive to make his company more and more powerful. That it's also an engaging and often humorous account of one woman's loss of faith in her employer is a bonus. (And yes, she could have left: there's only so long you can keep telling yourself that you have more power to change things from the inside. But given her medical issues and the cost of US healthcare, her desire to keep her health insurance is relateable.) I suspect Wynn-Williams will not be called for interview at any tech company any time soon: but I look forward to the biopic.

...working on policy at Facebook was way less like enacting a chapter from Machiavelli and way more like watching a bunch of fourteen-year-olds who’ve been given superpowers and an ungodly amount of money... [loc. 131]

2025/168: Stargazy Pie — Victoria Goddard

“—- This is all very civilized and delightful,” Mrs. Etaris burst in, rushing back at us like a dark blue sheepdog herding her flock, “but I’m afraid we really should be going inside if we don’t want our friends and neighbours to be sacrificed to the Dark Kings." [p. 345]

First in the Greenwing and Dart series: reread, to remind myself just how miserable, unwell and generally detached Jemis was when he first returned to Ragnor Bella (the dullest town in Northwest Oriole) after the debacle of his final term at Morrowlea. Original review here... 

This time around I appreciate Mrs Etaris much more (and wonder whatever became of her previous assistant, 'a quite lovely young man'). I'm also fascinated by the offhand mentions of life before the Fall. ('Whistle a few notes and anyone could call light into a dark room, mage or no, before the Empire fell' (p. 144)).

Anyway! A fish pie (and the Honourable Rag eating herring eyes); aphrodisiacs and a Decadent dinner party; the mysterious Miss 'Redshank'; Jemis as apprentice bookseller; and all manner of delicious references to life in Ragnor Bella.

I may now need to read another one...

2025/167: Book of Cats — Ursula Le Guin

He sent his life forth as the crippled tree
puts forth white flowers in April every year
upon the dying branch. He knew the way.[loc. 93]

A birthday gift from a dear friend: it comprises Le Guin's 1982 'The Art of Bunditsu' (a “tabbist” meditation on the arranging of cats, with Le Guin's sketches of her cat Lorenzo); two sets of poems, some of which brought tears to my eyes as they dealt with the deaths of beloved cats; and various cat-letters, anecdotes and blog posts. Even in these small pieces her prose is perfect and precise: I share her love of cats and her preference for treating them as individuals. Beautiful.

2025/166: Death of the Author — Nnedi Okorafor

The rusted robots in the story were a metaphor for wisdom, patina, acceptance, embracing that which was you, scars, pain, malfunctions, needed replacements, mistakes. What you were given. The finite. Rusted robots did not die in the way that humans did, but they celebrated mortality. [loc. 989]

Nigerian-American Zelu, at the start of the novel, is thirty two years old, paraplegic after falling out of a tree twenty years ago, a creative writing tutor, a novelist, and single At her sister's destination wedding, the last three of these change: she loses her job, her latest litfic novel is rejected, and she hooks up with Msizi. And, sitting on the beach in tears, smoking weed, she decides to write a novel about 'a world that she’d like to play in when things got to be too much, but which didn’t exist yet'. This novel -- extracts from which are intercut with the Zelu-focussed narrative -- is called Rusted Robots: it's a story of AIs ('NoBodies') and humanoid robots ('Humes') in Nigeria after the extinction of humanity, and it is wildly successful.

Not that her family believe her when she tells them she's scored a million-dollar book deal. Instead, they accuse her of being high (accurate, but not the point). Though they've protected and supported her since her accident, they also harbour very traditional Nigerian attitudes to disability: 'more interested in who was to blame than they were in how she lived her life.' They infantilise her, patronise her, try to prevent her from making choices about her own body. It's hardly surprising that Zelu is angry with everyone -- family, fans, random strangers -- though her anger does sometimes make her difficult to like.

This is a novel about family and culture, storytelling and identity, technology and how we use it. There's plenty about the publishing industry and the film industry: Zelu is horrified by and furious at the movie's Americanisation (Ankara and Ijele, her protagonists, become Yankee and Dot) and thoroughly fed up of all the fans clamouring for the sequel. There's also a strong theme of how humans use technology, and whether a 'mechanism' can truly create. And it's a novel about disability and how it shapes self-image, as well as how others behave. Having read Okorafor's account of her own disability (Broken Places and Outer Spaces) it was interesting to see how she fictionalised aspects of her experience.

Death of the Author is suffused with Nigerian, and Nigamerican, culture (including the nightmarish masquerades). Okorafor doesn't rose-tint Zelu's visit to Nigeria, which is quite a different sort of nightmare. It's clear that Zelu's success gives her a lot of options that others, especially of her background, don't have: and she is refreshingly selfish about her ability to make her own choices.

A slow novel, and one which, rather than having a dramatic denouement, simply ... ends. I really liked the different character voices -- there are excerpts from interviews with Zelu's family members, as well as from Rusted Robots -- though I wasn't wholly convinced that Zelu's novel would be that successful. (But who understands popular taste, eh?) I'm looking forward to discussing this for book club: there's a lot to think about here.

I have come to understand that author, art, and audience all adore one another. They create a tissue, a web, a network. No death is required for this form of life. [loc. 6522]

2025/165: Bee Sting Cake — Victoria Goddard

The heart of culture is taking the time to do the unnecessary in the most picturesque manner possible. [p. 204]

Reread, after reading Olive and the Dragon... my original review from the 2023 Nine Worlds rabbithole is here. This is a delightful novel with mystical bees, a baking competition, and a dragon (which may or may not be the same dragon met by Jemis Greenwing's mother Olive). There is also an inheritance, an Imperial Duke, and Jemis beginning to relax.

After this I obviously needed to reread the first in the series, Stargazy Pie... especially as there is a new Greenwing and Dart novel, Bubble and Squeak, coming in the next few months! (Also, these cosy fantasy mysteries are perfect for autumn... though they always make me want to eat cake.)

2025/164: The Atlas Complex — Olivie Blake

The point is there are no villains in this story, or maybe there are no heroes. [p. 11]

Concluding the trilogy which began with The Atlas Six (which I liked a lot) and continued with The Atlas Paradox (which I liked less). Sadly the trend has continued. Having tried and failed to read The Atlas Complex last year, I have screwed my courage to the sticking point (= reread the first two novels) and got to the end.

Lots happens, including a great deal of philosophising, some daring escapes, a plethora of melodrama and some entertaining interpersonal friction. Some people have happy endings. Some people get together romantically and / or sexually. Some people have changed dramatically (though not necessarily credibly) since the first book. Some people die -- or perhaps they don't. If a death happens off-page is it real? If a death happens on-page is it real? 

There is an ending. And then another. The Atlas Complex feels as though it can't commit: as though it needed at least one more edit to chip away the loops and possibilities and reveal something definite and climactic.

NB: 'Rhodesian', used here to mean 'like Libby Rhodes', is a word that will jar anyone old enough to remember the previous name of Zimbabwe.

I wish this had been the finale that the first novel promised. But I will keep reading Olivie Blake's work, because when it's good it's fabulous.

"How many god complexes does it take to change a lightbulb?”
“Six. Five to agree on one to die,” said Tristan. [p. 251]

2025/163: The God of the Woods — Liz Moore

“But also,” said Barbara, “if he hadn’t disappeared.” She did not finish the sentence.
“Then what?” said Tracy.
“Then I wouldn’t have been born,” said Barbara. “That would have been better, I think.” [loc. 4153]

Told from multiple viewpoints in two timelines, this is the story of the Van Laar family and their children: Bear, who goes missing aged eight in 1961, and Barbara, who goes missing aged thirteen in 1975. Are the disappearances linked? Were the children abducted? Murdered? Did they run away? One could make a good case for the latter: the family, though extremely wealthy (they own the woods, and the neighbouring campsite from which Barbara vanishes) is riddled with secrets and dysfunction. Barbara has been 'acting up', using makeup and painting a wild mural on her bedroom wall: her mother Alice is addicted to Valium and alcohol, and still doesn't quite believe that her son Bear is dead. Peter, father to Barbara and Bear, has high standards and little time for his wife.

This is a complex thriller, with themes of misogyny, class and scapegoating. I liked female cop Judyta (who's very much belittled because of being a woman, but who is key to solving the mystery) and TJ, who runs the summer camp and is distinctly queer-coded. Louise, the counselor who first notices Barbara's absence, is a working-class girl with a rich fiance and a history of abuse. Tracy, who's 12, is befriended by Barbara and asked to keep her secrets... Each of these women, as well as Alice, and Maryanne Stoddard whose husband died of a heart attack during the search for Bear and was subsequently blamed for the boy's disappearance, has to deal with sexism, powerlessness and injustice.

It's also a very interesting comparison of parenting values: between the 1960s and the 1970s, as well as between working class and upper class families. (There's a really chilling line in Alice's narrative about 'part of a mother’s duty was to be her daughter’s first, best critic'. This resonates...)

Ultimately, while I was caught up in the story and its complex relationships, I didn't find the resolution wholly satisfactory. Barbara's conclusion just wasn't credible, even for 1975. But the ways in which blame is apportioned and withheld, the ways in which gossip and bias affect everyone in the story, were very well done: and the multitude of narrators, in two different timeframes and out of sequence, maintained their individual voices and never became confusing.

I'm still thinking of the title, The God of the Woods, which refers to Pan and thus to panic. Though there are scenes of panic, it's not a defining characteristic of the novel. But a lot of people do lose their way, mostly metaphorically: and not all of them find the right path again.

2025/162: Magic Lessons — Alice Hoffman

A streak of independence and a curious mind meant trouble. In Martha’s opinion, a woman who spent her time reading was no better than a witch. [loc. 3165]

Prequel to Practical Magic (which I haven't read since the last millennium), The Rules of Magic and The Book of Magic (which I don't think I've read at all), this novel explores the roots of the curse on the Owens women.

The novel begins in Essex, England ('Essex County', hmm) in 1664. Maria is found as a baby, abandoned in the snow, with a crow keeping her company. She's taken in by spinster and wisewoman Hannah Owens, who teaches her the 'Unnamed Arts' -- herbalism, midwifery, and the importance of loving someone who will love you back. These are troubled times, though, and solitary women are suspect: Hannah is labelled 'witch' and killed. Maria, grieving, finally meets her birth father, who promptly sells her as an indentured servant. Maria (and her faithful crow Cadin) are off to Dutch Curaçao, there to work for five years before she can gain her freedom. 

Sadly, she forgets the important lesson about love and -- despite Cadin's best efforts -- falls in love with, and pregnant by, a man who hastily sets sail for New England. Maria journeys from Curacao to New York, and then to Salem: she's imprisoned, her daughter lost, and she lays the family curse: 'To any man who ever loves an Owens... let your fate lead to disaster, let you be broken in body and soul, and may it be that you never recover.' 

The meat of the novel explores Maria's pain and grief, her growing powers, the hard lessons she has to learn, and how she finds her way to a happy ending. Another thread of the story concerns Maria's daughter Grace, denied her heritage and discovering it for herself in ways that disturb those around her.

I found this a rather slow read. Maria is not always a likeable protagonist -- though those she helps adore her, even naming their daughters after her -- and I didn't engage with Faith. I mourned a bird more than a human character. The recipes and notes about magic were fascinating, though: and the underlying philosophy, of love and openmindedness and honesty, appeals to me.

These are the lessons to be learned. Drink chamomile tea to calm the spirit. Feed a cold and starve a fever. Read as many books as you can. Always choose courage. Never watch another woman burn. Know that love is the only answer. [loc. 5059]

2025/161: Bliss and Blunder — Victoria Gosling

Sometimes he’ll be mopping the floor and listening to a couple of the regulars, and he knows it’s not from now. It’s from before. What’s more, time is supposed to be sequential, right? One thing happening after another. Things further back receding, more recent things feeling, well, more recent. Not for Wayne. [loc. 1637]

The Matter of Britain meets Jilly Cooper! The setting is the medieval town of Abury, in Wiltshire: the characters drink at the Green Knight, where Vern the landlord has an odd agreement -- 'anything you gain you give to me' -- with Wayne the barman. Arthur is a tech billionaire, Lance is a veteran with PTSD, Gwen is an influencer, Mo was adopted from a Bangalore roadside, Morgan is ... vengeful. 

The novel opens with the celebration of Arthur's fortieth birthday, a grand gala where several old friends appear unexpectedly. Gwen can't concentrate on the festivities: she's being blackmailed. Could it be the Invisible Knight again? There are flashbacks to when they were all teenagers together in the 1990s: alliances forged and broken, grudges taking root, Arthur already making his mark as a tech genius, Morgan the target of the bullies on the school bus. And then forward again, to 'Right Here, Right Now', and an attempt on Arthur's life, the reconsideration of an old murder, the risk of a computer virus that'd wipe out civilisation.

I loved this: the resonances with Arthurian myth, the surprising but thoroughly credible identity of old John who props up the bar, the way the characters' opinions and perceptions evolve as they mature. The focus was on the women as much as the men: Morgan bemoans the fact that there are 'no epic poems, no legends, no bardic songs, no Romeo and Juliet, that exist to explain it to her. The record is nigh empty, as though women never adored each other, never went into battle, never fought the monster, never wept and bled, killed and died for each other, who separated, didn’t feel the other’s absence like a missing limb.' [loc. 1037] For me, her relationship with Gwen felt like the core of the novel. And it is a novel about how women -- whores or saints, quest objects or evil sorceresses -- behave, are expected to behave, are punished for not conforming.

I liked the love poem (or is it a confession?) hidden in the comments of a piece of code ('/* Until I found, beneath her fairness/Putrefaction. [she] died choking on roses/Embracing the lover she earned, Death*/' [loc. 2367]) and the nomenclature of the viruses and worms Arthur creates/defeats: Wasteland, the Black Prince...True, there were a couple of false notes: 'pay a ten-pound bill with a hundred-pound note' (sorry, not in this universe); 'the comet goes over a little after ten' (comets don't visibly move). But they are forgiveable in the wit and flow of the whole.

Appreciating this novel definitely requires more than a passing acquaintance with Arthurian mythology, but it's thoroughly rewarding to spot all the little references and hints. Bliss and Blunder interrogates the original stories, highlighting misogyny and re-examining canonical relationships. And it's fun: a cracking read which I galloped through.

2025/160: Olive and the Dragon — Victoria Goddard

Olive had dreamed of the next days a hundred times, for all it was no necessary tragedy for any of them, seeing fragments play out of a hundred different choices.
No necessary tragedy, if she chose aright.[loc. 61]

A novella set well before the beginning of the 'Greenwing and Dart' series, Olive and the Dragon focuses on Jemis Greenwing's mother Olive (deceased before the series proper) and her gift of seeing possibilities and probabilities. She is the heiress to the Woods Noirell, too, and she has not taken up her inheritance. There are some hard choices to make, and her son's futures have so many perils. And she has been summoned by a dragon...

I loved this, and it made me want to reread the entire series (in preparation for a new novel at the end of the year). I also found myself fixing on tiny details: Olive knows that bad times (the Fall) are coming; there is a visible companion to the Morning Star; the fairytale logic of who was and was not invited to a child's naming-day. And I think we see this same dragon again, elsewhere. 

I love the Nine Worlds, and especially Alinor, and the Woods. And, my love rekindled, I do need to reread at least some chapters of Bee Sting Cake.

2025/159: They Called Us Enemy — Justin Eisinger, Steven Scott, George Takei

Following the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, over a hundred thousand Japanese-Americans (the majority US citizens) were relocated to internment camps. George Takei's family was among those affected, and this is his account of what it was like, as a small boy, to be taken away from everything he knew. At the time it was a great and often joyous adventure, but as a teenager he raged against his father for not standing up to the authorities. Only in later life did he come to understand how his parents did whatever they could to protect their three children. 

There's a lot here about memory, and about how differently children understand the world -- especially when they are being protected from the worst of its injustices. The Takei family lost almost everything (George Takei's mother, much to her children's disgust, managed to smuggle a sewing machine to the internment camp) and had to rebuild their lives from scratch when they were finally released. It's to Takei's credit that he pokes gentle fun at his younger self, and refrains from judgment on the war games. (All the little boys wanted to be the American soldiers, not the Japanese.)

Takei also shows us the appalling decisions that the interned Japanese had to make: whether to serve in the US military, which Japanese-Americans had been prohibited from doing earlier in the war; whether to 'renounce' loyalty to the Emperor of Japan, which most of them had never had in the first place. And he shows us just how long it took the United States Government to make amends for any of it. In 1988, 'restitution payments' were announced to survivors of the internment camps: Takei received his cheque, and letter of apology, in 1991. In 2000, surviving members of the all-nisei 442nd Regiment had their medals upgraded to the Congressional Medal of Honour.

I found this very moving, and it made me wonder anew about my own family history. (My father, another 'enemy alien', was interned in France during the Second World War due to his dual Franco-British nationality. He was thirteen, and his mother died in the camp. He never talked much about it.) And, as Takei emphasises, 'old outrages have begun to resurface'. This is an important and educational book, beautifully drawn by Harmony Becker: Takei is using his voice and his popularity to draw attention not only to old horrors but to new ones.

2025/158: The Summer I Ate the Rich — Maika Moulite and Maritza Moulite

...what I am doing is only leveling the playing field. I have claimed my power for myself just as these wealthy people have done time and time again. And I will not feel bad about it, even if I am bending the rules to my will. [p. 319]

Brielle Petitfour is seventeen, Haitian-American, a gifted cook who's planning to start up a supper club in order to pay the bills. Her mother Valentine is in constant pain, and her health insurance won't pay out for the medication she needs. Brielle's father is out of the picture, and isn't the father of her half-sisters in Haiti, who form a Greek chorus (they're named after the Muses) to contextualise Brielle's family history. Brielle's best friend Marcello, also a chef and helping with Brielle's supper club, is expected to go into the family business: his grandmother runs a funeral parlour, which for complicated reasons is popular with the wealthy of Miami.

All of these factors -- plus a second-hand phone, a road accident and a teenage romance -- come together when Brielle's mother loses her job, and Brielle's supper club (with recipes including ingredients purloined from Marcello's family's business) becomes a sensation.

Brielle makes no bones (haha) about being a zonbi: she's not the lumbering brain-craving monster of American horror (though the opening scene is a detailed description of preparing cow brains for dinner) but an individual with an acute sense of taste, a gift for butchery, and a certain amount of innate magic. Her 'intention' not only makes her cooking delicious, but it can influence those who eat her meals. And she's extremely attuned to the chasm between her life and the lives of the rich families who employ her mother, compete to host her supper clubs, and hoard their wealth rather than helping others.

I liked this a lot. Brielle is a charismatic and relatable character whose morality, while different from the norm, is well-defined. She's loyal to friends and family, resilient, and capable of standing up to a hell-boss. I wasn't wholly convinced by the romantic element of the novel, but I really enjoyed Brielle's progress from powerless teenager to agent of change. "I know that I’ll be able to help out more than just my family. Because no matter what anyone says, there’s always more than enough to go around." [p. 382]

In an afterword, the authors (who are sisters) describe the genesis of the novel in their own experience: their mother, like Brielle's, had a pain pump that beeped every few minutes when it was empty -- which is auditory torture for anyone already experiencing chronic pain. They also write about the origins of the zombie myth and how it's been appropriated by American culture. As Brielle says in the novel, "It stems from the fear of slavery. That your existence of forced labor will continue far into the afterlife, white masters lording over you even in the next plane." [p. 28].

2025/157: Saltwash — Andrew Michael Hurley

English delapidation was... the blistered formica on the tables of a seafront cafe. Derelict gift shops and thrift shops with whitewashed windows. A pub with steel plates over its doors. Cracked, pebble-dashed sheters along the promenade, roosted by gulls. [loc. 168]

I've enjoyed Hurley's previous novels (The Loney, Starve Acre, Devil's Day -- I note that I read all those in the space of two months!) but found Saltwash thoroughly depressing: bleak, nihilistic and devoid of joy. The setting (the eponymous Northern seaside town in November, delapidated and down on its luck) is dispiriting, and the protagonist is dying of cancer and raddled by guilt. Unreasonable guilt, in my opinion.

Tom Shift has gone to the Castle Hotel in Saltwash to meet his pen-pal Oliver, whose erudite and theatrical letters have been one of Tom's few recent pleasures. He's perturbed to find that there is some sort of annual get-together happening at the hotel: none of the other guests (all elderly and/or ill) will 'spoil the surprise' but everyone is excited about the prize draw. Apparently it offers some form of deliverance from remorse, tying in with the novel's tagline: 'ALL WILL BE FORGIVEN, IF ALL CAN BE FORGOTTEN.'

Hurley's exploration of character is exceptional: there's little straightforward description, but Tom really comes to life on the page, with a difficult childhood and a long life behind him. Oliver, too, is a vivid character, who is not at all as Tom expected. However, I simply didn't accept that Tom's burden of guilt was rational: and if there was supposed to be something literally marvellous happening at the climax of the novel, it wasn't obvious enough.

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for the advance review copy, in exchange for this full honest review. UK Publication Date is 23rd October 2025.

2025/156: Dreamhunter Duet — Elizabeth Knox

'I was finished. I wanted time to stop, and to let me stop with it. And I wanted revenge.
I ... said to the land, 'Bury me, and rise up. Rise up and crush them all.' [loc. 5131]

Rereads, after reading Kings of This World -- which is set in the same alt-Aotearoa-New Zealand, rather later than the Dreamhunter duet, which begins in 1906. My original reviews from (OMG) 2005 and 2007 are here: The Rainbow Opera and The Dream Quake.

The link points to the first of two volumes: the second has only just become available on Amazon.

I remembered much more of the first book than of the second. I was struck this time round by the powerful narrative of Lazarus Hame, a convict, as recited to Laura the dreamhunter: the alternate history that he describes is quite chilling. I also noted the lack of an indigenous population in Southland: this is a version of New Zealand (South Island only) that was not inhabited by the Maori, though there are indications of a relatively amicable entente between the European colonists and the Shackle Islanders. 

There is a Place where dreamhunters can go to experience location-specific dreams, and bring them back to be shared at Dream Palaces. In the first novel the origins of the Place are a mystery: in the second, the genesis of the Place is explained -- though it is distinctly non-linear. There is something (several somethings) that might be a golem. There is tragedy, teenage romance, and government corruption; despair and redemption; joy, and the Biblical story of Lazarus and the song he heard in the tomb.

I am still thinking about these books, aided by this spoilery blogpost from the author. (And I am now tempted to reread everything else that Elizabeth Knox has ever written.)

I love the emotional precision and clarity of Knox's writing, and the sense of time being flexible and traversible: and I love the importance of love in many forms and expressions. And I love the complexity of these books. 

2025/155: Sabella — Tanith Lee

There are genuine ruins (beware tourist traps) here and there. Thin pillars soaring, levelled foundations crumbling, cracked urns whispering of spilled dusts -- all the Martian dreams that old Mars denied to mankind. [loc. 53]

Another reread, when I was (unsuspectingly) coming down with a migraine: I last read this in the last millennium, and had forgotten much of it. It's a short novel, an SF vampire romance set on Novo Mars -- like original Mars, but pink rather than red, with rapid sunsets and mutated earth-import flora and fauna. 

The novel opens with Sabella Quey receiving an invitation to her aunt's funeral. There's an ominous bequest (her aunt was a devout Christian Revivalist, and knew about Sabella's unsavoury youth) and a gorgeous young man who tracks Sabella back to her isolated home, and does not question her about her aversion to sunlight, or the bottles of red juice ('pomegranate and tomato juice... my physician makes it up for me') in the fridge.

Later comes Sand's brother Jace, in search of his sibling: perhaps in search of Sabella herself. He's certainly suspicious, and rightly so. Sabella is a vampire, a blood-drinker, and though she tried to save Sand he died. His wasn't the first death she's been responsible for, either: she learnt early on that sex was a great way to get what she needed, but she couldn't risk her partners telling the truth about her.

What I remembered from this book was the gorgeous desert-scapes, the 'blood stone' which goes red when she's replete, the brothers Vincent, the Bradburyesque vibe. What I'd forgotten was the SFnal explanation of Sabella's vampirism, and the pervasive, repressive religion : the sexual violence which Sabella endured as a teenager, and (ugh) the submissive elements of her most successful relationship. I do love Tanith Lee's prose style here -- not to mention her dialogue -- and I'm tempted to reread more of her SF romances (The Electric Forest, in particular). I have a sense that her later novels are more Gothic, more decadent and lush and voluptuous: this early work feels remarkably wholesome, though still very sensual.

2025/154: I Who Have Never Known Men — Jacqueline Harpman (translated by Ros Schwarz)

I ... have no memories of my own childhood. Perhaps that’s why I’m so different from the others. I must be lacking in certain experiences that make a person fully human. [loc. 1546]

We first encounter the nameless narrator near the end of her solitary life, determined that her story will not die when she does. Gradually we discover her history: that her first memories are from an underground prison where she, and thirty-nine adult women, were held captive for years. She can't recall anything from before the prison, and none of the women can tell her much: just screams, flames, a stampede... The guards are all male, and don't speak to or interact with the prisoners, except to pinish them for talking, for touching.

Then a siren blares, the guards flee, and the women escape. (It is not as simple as that.) They find themselves in an empty world; they find other bunkers, where all the prisoners are dead; they argue about whether this is Earth, about why they were imprisoned, about what happened. And eventually there is only our narrator, much younger than the others, alone in a refuge of her own.

In some ways this is a bleak novel: in others, it's surprisingly uplifting. I admired the narrator's pragmatism, and her ability to fantasise. It's clear that she does love, and does suffer, even if not in the same ways as the older women. (I could make an argument for her being something other than human, but that interpretation feels too glib.)

Translated from the French, this was a novel for the Prix Femina in 1995. Jacqueline Harpman was a Belgian Jew whose family fled the Nazis (many of her relatives died in Auschwitz): later in life she became a psychoanalyst. I'd like to read more of her work.

The reader and I thus mingled will constitute something living, that will not be me, because I will be dead, and will not be that person as they were before reading, because my story, added to their mind, will then become part of their thinking. [loc. 2358]

2025/153: All of Us Murderers — KJ Charles

"Gideon and I have nothing to be ashamed of. Or perhaps I do. Perhaps all of us Wyckhams are murderers, by Act or proxy or inaction or just heredity..." [loc. 2943]

Zebedee Wyckham is invited to visit his cousin's remote country house. Expecting a warm welcome from a cousin he only vaguely remembers, Zeb is horrified to find himself thrust into the company of his relations: his estranged brother Bram, Bram's wife Elise, Zeb's cousin Hawley, a new-found young cousin called Jessamine -- and, worst of all, Zeb's own ex, Gideon, who he hasn't seen since they both lost their jobs due to Zeb's behaviour. 

As if the company weren't bad enough, the food is vile, there are rumours of ghosts walking the hallways, and nobody can leave. There's a family curse (of course), a legacy to be bestowed upon whoever marries Jessamine, and a huge garden full of ominous follies: the cousins' grandfather, Walter, was a notorious Gothic novelist, and the house he built reflects his work. As do the events playing out there...

Zeb, who has what we'd now call ADHD ('It's always stop fidgeting and pay attention, as if that wasn't what fidgeting was for' [loc. 2348]: I feel seen!) and his family don't have a high opinion of him. Nor does Gideon, for quite different reasons. But unravelling the tangle of scandal, death, disappearances and injustice is a task for two.

Excellent explorations of class, neurodiversity, toxic families and the roots of the family's wealth: All of us Murderers has a distinctly KJ Charles flavour (I was reminded, at various points, of Think of England, Masters in this Hall, and Death in the Spires) though I think is more explicit about the appalling ways in which the rich acquire and maintain their wealth and status. That makes it a darker novel than many of this author's works, but there is plenty of humour and a modicum of reconciliation. And a delightful epilogue which felt like a frothy meringue after the horrors of the main narrative.

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for the advance review copy, in exchange for this full honest review. UK Publication Date is 7th October 2025.

2025/152: Giovanni's Room — James Baldwin

As for the boys at the bar, they were each invisibly preening, having already calculated how much money he and his copain would need for the next few days, having already appraised Guillaume to within a decimal of that figure, and having already estimated how long Guillaume, as a fountainhead, would last, and also how long they would be able to endure him. The only question left was whether they would be vache with him, or chic, but they knew that they would probably be vache. [p. 53]

I read about James Baldwin's life and work in Nothing Ever Just Disappears, and it sparked the urge to read one of his novels: Giovanni's Room is perhaps the best-known: a short novel about an American, David, who goes to Europe to 'find himself', takes up with Giovanni but fears and rejects his own sexuality, and ends up with emptiness. David's first-person narrative begins, he tells us, on 'the night which is leading me to the most terrible morning of my life': the morning on which Giovanni will be executed. 

Gradually, we discover that David has been sexually attracted to other men since his teens; that he and Giovanni, a bartender, met in a gay bar to which David had gone with an older gay friend; that David's fiancée Hella is travelling in Spain; that Giovanni's eponymous room in a cheap boarding-house is chaotic and filthy, and comes to symbolise everything that David is trying not to be.

Baldwin packs a great deal into this short novel: issues of race, class, toxic masculinity, traditional gender roles, the transactional nature of gay sex in the bar scene... Ultimately I think it's about David's inability to accept (or even recognise) his own feelings. He loves Giovanni but won't admit it even to himself. ('With everything in me screaming No! yet the sum of me sighed Yes.') He keeps trying to assert his heterosexuality at the expense of his homosexuality: and in the end he is left with nothing, nobody.

Not a cheerful novel, but a masterpiece of first-person narrative: a narrator who doesn't really know himself, and doesn't seem to believe in the reality of other people.

What’s the good of an American who isn’t happy? Happiness was all we had.’ [p. 165]

2025/151: Is a River Alive? — Robert Macfarlane

...the Mutehekau Shipu’s mode is, surely, purely flow, I think, and its grammar of animacy is one of ands and throughs and tos and nows, of commas not full stops, of thens not buts, aura not edge, of compounds and hyphens and fusings, silver-blues and grey-greens and mist-drifts and undersongs, process not substance, this joined to that, always onrushing, always seeking the sea and here and there turning back upon itself, intervolving, eddying in counterflow to cause spirals and gyres that draw breath into water, life into the mind, spin strange reciprocities, leave the whole world whirled, whorled. [loc. 4333]

If a corporation can be treated as a person, why can't a river? Macfarlane explores three river systems -- the Rio Los Cedros in Ecuador, the Mutehekau Shipu in Canada, and the three rivers braided through Chennai -- and combines poetry, spirituality and adventure in a philosophical discussion of what constitutes 'life' and how a river is part of the 'polyphonic world', important and valuable not just for how it can be exploited but for its own intrinsic qualities.

The book starts in Cambridge, with the chalk springs at Nine Wells: and ends there, with Macfarlane imagining his children remembering him there after his death. The book describes three expeditions: to the Ecuadorian rain forest (with a spiritual mycologist who seems connected to the fungal world, and can locate and identify hitherto-unknown species of mushroom with uncanny accuracy), to Chennai (with activist and author Yuvan Aves) to explore the dead rivers of the city and their ecological importance, and to Canada to kayak down the Mutehekau Shipu (with 'the only person in history to have been buried alive on opposite sides of the planet', geomancer Wayne Chambliss) and fulfil the instructions of Rita, an Innu poet and activist. 

Macfarlane is very aware of the natural world around him -- even in Chennai he finds joy in turtle eggs and an 'avian Venice' -- and open to the ideas of his friends and companions: his accounts of conversations are fascinating. And there's an underlying theme of the Epic of Gilgamesh: 'Gilgamesh and Enkidu’s hesitation on the edge of the Cedar Forest is the moment when human history trembles on the brink of a new, destructive relationship with the living world. They might still turn back. They might leave the forest and the river intact and alive. They do not.' [loc. 1505]

Things I learnt from this book:

• 'lacustrine': 'of, relating to, formed in, living in, or growing in lakes'
• 'the Three Gorges dam project on the Yangtze River in China impounded so much water that it has measurably slowed the rotation of the Earth' [loc. 507] -- discussion of this.
• Ecuador was 'the only place where rain continued to fall during the ice ages' [loc. 1254]

The spiritual and poetic dimensions of this book will not appeal to all readers: but there's solid science (50 pages of notes and references) and a refreshing sense of the author's humility and openmindedness, which I found inspiring. A beautiful and accessible read: I'm tempted to buy the paper version just to see the author's photos in colour.

Irritatingly, the Kindle version told me I'd 'finished' well before the 'Acknowledgements and Aftermaths' section, which details further developments in the stories of each river. The Mutehekau Shipu has received legal protection, multiple Rights of Nature cases have been fought and won in Ecuador, and various songs co-written by Macfarlane and his fellow travellers are available.

2025/150: The Last Gifts of the Universe — Riley August

I have been viewing her last stand wrong. Like so many things, it is an issue of translation... It is not a stand — defensively — but a stance. A position. The last one they give to their loved ones, or the world, before they die. [loc. 1776]

Scout and Kieran are siblings, and Archivists -- interstellar archaeologists, searching for whatever killed every other civilisation humanity has ever found. Together with their adorable, plot-relevant ginger cat Pumpkin, they land on yet another dead planet (where Scout, breaking the rules, plants some seeds: 'it doesn't have to be dead forever') and find a recording made by one of the last survivors of an ancient civilisation. In turn, that leads to other planets, and a breakneck race against Evil Corporate Verity Co, who want to secure any data for themselves.

It was the cat that lured me in, obviously: but I kept reading because -- despite some clunky metaphors ('so irreversibly damaged that the data print amounted to Wingdings': really, centuries from now, people still remember Windows fonts? Why?) -- it's a sweet and thoughtful exploration of grief and loss: not only the dead civilisations and the woman in the recordings, but Scout and Kieran's mother, who's recently died.

Pumpkin is a delight, and so is Scout's love for him. The bond between the siblings, with its amiable friction, feels very real. And Scout is, subtly and in passing, revealed as trans: which does not change anything about the plot, except that the Verity Co. mercenary can show off her research with a simple deadnaming.

The SFnal trappings might not stand up to hard scrutiny, but the emotional arcs are solid. Also, cat in space! "...cats are magic in any universe." Truth.

2025/149: Sir Hereward and Mr Fitz: Three Adventures — Garth Nix

Self-motivated puppets were not great objects of fear in most quarters of the world. They had once been numerous, and some few score still walked the earth, almost all of them entertainers, some of them long remembered in song and story.
Mister Fitz was not one of those entertainers. [loc. 137]

Two novellas and a short story featuring Sir Hereward, mercenary knight and artillerist, and his former nursemaid Mister Fitz, a sorcerously-animated puppet who is centuries old and wields arcane magic needles. They roam a fantasy landscape (more Restoration than medieval) and are tasked -- by the Agents of the Council of the Treaty for the Safety of the World -- with destroying specific extra-dimensional entities ('godlets') which may manifest as Lovecraftian horrors or as apparently-benign forces enriching their domains at the expense of neighbouring fanes. If the godlet is on the list, out it goes.

Sir Hereward is young, something of a dandy, the only male offspring of the Witches of Har 'these thousand years', and an admirer of women, especially those with facial scars. Mister Fitz is the competent one, who would roll his eyes a lot if they were not painted on. In these stories they encounter a leopard-shifter, some malevolent starfish, and a pirate crew. Godlets are expelled, villains dispatched, and ladies considered. 

Great fun, with an ambience reminiscent of the Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser stories by Fritz Leiber -- and very good at plunging the reader into the middle of a well-built world without describing it in any detail. (The gradual revelation that the battle-mounts are not horses, for instance.)

Irritatingly this version is no longer available from Amazon -- they instead guide me to an expanded version with eight stories rather than three. I confess I am tempted, because I'd like to know more about the origins of Sir H and Mr F... but I don't want to pay again for the content I already own.