Bramble Beard

2.5 Stars. Meh. Review to come.

“The Eternaut 1969” is not merely a graphic novel; it is a testament to the eternal struggle of the human spirit against the forces that seek to silence it. Héctor Germán Oesterheld, in concert with Alberto Breccia's stark, surreal art, transforms a tale of survival into a mythic narrative of resistance. Originally written in the 1950s, Oesterheld revisits his creation in 1969, imbuing it with the urgency of a man who has seen too much, felt too deeply.

Imagine, if you will, a snowfall so deadly, it drains the world of life with a touch. The streets of Buenos Aires, usually vibrant, are now silent—death whispering through the falling snowflakes. Yet amidst this silence, a small group of survivors clings to life, fighting alien invaders while the rest of the world looks away. This is no ordinary tale of extraterrestrial menace; it is a lament for those who live under the thumb of oppression, isolated and afraid.

Breccia's black-and-white illustrations, stripped of color, reflect a world stripped of hope. The lines are harsh, unforgiving, just as the regime that watches over them is harsh and unforgiving. This is not a dystopia of the future, but a reflection of the Argentina at the time, where fear ruled and freedom was a dream. As Jeanette Winterson once said in “Written on the Body,” “To lose the love of one's life is something one can bear, but to be unloved by the state... that is an intolerable cruelty.” Oesterheld, who would later be “disappeared” along with his daughters by the military dictatorship, poured his fear, his rage, into these pages. “The Eternaut 1969” is not just a story—it is a requiem for a world on the brink, where ordinary people are crushed under the weight of forces beyond their control, where survival is an act of defiance, and where, despite everything, the human spirit endures.

“After Dark, My Sweet” by Jim Thompson offers a gritty look into lives teetering on the edge. Kid Collins, an ex-boxer haunted by his past, crosses paths with Fay and Uncle Bud. Their ill-conceived kidnapping scheme is less about greed and more about a desperate grasp for control in a world that has left them behind. As their plan spirals out of control, so do the characters, blurring the lines between victim and perpetrator.

Thompson explores themes of manipulation, identity, and the fragility of trust. The characters are caught in a web of their own making, each one trying to escape their circumstances but instead tightening the noose around their necks. It's a story that questions whether we can ever really know ourselves or each other, as we navigate the often harsh realities of life.

Written in 1955, “After Dark, My Sweet” reflects the anxieties of a post-war America, where the dream of prosperity often clashed with the harshness of reality. Thompson's novel, often labeled as pulp fiction, digs deeper into the human condition, exposing the darker side of the American Dream and the lengths people will go to when they feel trapped.

In a distant future where humanity's reach has extended into the cold void of space, Peter Watts' Blindsight invites us into the ultimate existential riddle. A crew of post-human misfits, led by a vampire commander (WTF but it works), ventures into the unknown to confront an alien intelligence that defies comprehension. What unfolds is not just a clash of species, but a confrontation with the very nature of consciousness itself.

Watts crafts a narrative that probes the fragile boundary between intelligence and awareness, between being alive and truly knowing it. In a universe where evolution favors efficiency over understanding, is consciousness a gift or a fatal flaw? “We're not thinking machines,” Watts reminds us, “we're feeling machines that think.” This book strips away the comforting illusions of free will and identity, leaving us bare before the abyss. It asks us to consider the price of progress when the mind itself becomes a tool, an artifact of natural selection with no inherent meaning.

Published in 2006, during a time of rapid technological advancements and growing debates on artificial intelligence, Blindsight feels eerily prescient. Watts, a marine biologist turned sci-fi prophet, constructs his story with scientific precision and philosophical depth. His characters, more machine than human, echo fractured, post-human landscapes. In Watts' universe, the future is a dark reflection of our present fears—about AI, about the unknown, about ourselves.

With the cold precision of a scalpel, Blindsight dissects what it means to be sentient. It's not just a question of seeing but of understanding what we see—or not seeing at all, which is its own form of awareness. Watts dares us to face the truth that in the grand scheme of the cosmos, consciousness might be nothing more than a cosmic joke, a fluke of evolution that blinds us to the real nature of reality.

In Orbital, Samantha Harvey explores the vast unknown, while remaining tethered to the kaleidoscope of human experience. Set in the near future, the novel follows a group of astronauts orbiting Earth as they reflect on life, love, and the ephemeral nature of humanity. The narrative seamlessly moves between the personal, the cosmic, and the terrestrial, exploring the fluidity of identity in ever-changing contexts.

Harvey's lyrical prose enhances the meditative quality of the setting, and it's here where Orbital both shines and stumbles. The themes of loss, time, and the search for meaning are deep, but the circular narrative sometimes feels more exhausting than insightful. For a short book, there's a lot of filler posing as profundity.

While the novel's ambition is to explore the vastness of space and self, I found the lack of narrative momentum made it hard to invest deeply in the characters. Orbital is beautiful, but frustratingly elusive - bright and shiny like a star, and just as distant.

Once upon a time there was a lit­tle princess who was still too young to wipe her­self af­ter she went to the lava­tory, and the woman as­signed to look af­ter her was too lazy to do it for her, so she used to call the princess's fa­vorite black dog and say, “If you lick her bot­tom clean, one day she'll be your bride,” and in time the princess her­self be­gan look­ing for­ward to that day.

“The Bridegroom Was a Dog” by Yoko Tawada is a surreal novella that opens with Mitsuko, a schoolteacher, recounting a bizarre fairy tale to her students. In the story, a princess promises her hand in marriage to a dog that licks her bottom clean. As the lines between her tale and reality blur, Mitsuko encounters a mysterious man with canine qualities, leading to a bizarre affair framed by the townsfolk's gossip. Tawada's narrative seamlessly weaves together elements of folklore, magical realism, and contemporary life, all tinged with dark undertones.

Al­though he didn't have a job — didn't do any­thing, re­ally, ex­cept take care of the laun­dry, cook­ing, and clean­ing — he was never bored enough to re­sort to read­ing or watch­ing tele­vi­sion, and his prin­ci­pal hobby was smelling her body;

Exploring the intersection of fantasy and reality, Tawada delves into the transformative power of storytelling and the fluidity of identity. She challenges the boundaries between human and animal, teacher and student, myth and truth, and loneliness and connection. Through her unique narrative style, Tawada invites readers to question the nature of reality and the roles we play in our own stories, blending a child-like interplay of strangeness and acceptance. Thought-provoking, layered, and freaking weird.

“Stoner,” by John Williams, is a quiet storm of a novel—an unassuming portrait of a man's life elevated to the realm of the extraordinary by its sheer ordinariness. Set against the backdrop of an early 20th-century Missouri, it follows William Stoner, a man who drifts into academia almost by accident and finds himself ensnared in a life of subdued passions and unspoken regrets. Stoner is a character drawn with such restraint that his very lack of dynamism becomes its own kind of tragedy—a life half-lived, where the mundane becomes monumental.

At its core, “Stoner” is a meditation on the quiet desolation that can define a life lived within the margins. The book's exploration of failure—personal, professional, and existential—is haunting. Stoner's steadfast dedication to literature, even as his personal life crumbles, speaks to the tension between ambition and mediocrity, and between the desire for meaning and the harsh, indifferent reality. Williams writes with a precision that cuts to the bone, peeling away the layers of Stoner's life until all that's left is a man standing at the precipice of his own existence, gazing into the void.

Yet, as much as I admired the novel's quiet power, there's a sense that its bleakness borders on oppressive. The stoicism that defines Stoner's character sometimes feels like a cage, locking the reader into a world where hope flickers only briefly before being snuffed out. Still, there's beauty in this desolation—a beauty that resonates long after the final page is turned. As Williams wrote, “It's the beauty of human endurance, of lives that go unnoticed but are no less significant for their obscurity.” This novel is a testament to the power of literature to illuminate even the darkest corners of the human soul.

Williams wrote “Stoner” in the 1960s, during a time when America was awash in political upheaval and social change. Yet, the novel eschews the turmoil of its era, instead offering a narrative that seems to resist the very notion of historical significance. Interesting to note is the book's posthumous rise to fame. After it's publication, “Stoner” languished in obscurity until a revival in the early 21st century brought it the recognition it deserves. It's a reminder of how art can transcend its time, finding new life and relevance in a world that had once overlooked it. In Stoner's quiet rebellion against his own insignificance, there's a universality that speaks to us all—echoing a line from Camus, who wrote in The Myth of Sisyphus, “The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man's heart.” And so, we find meaning in the struggle, in the quiet persistence of life.

In “Leonard and Hungry Paul,” Ronan Hession crafts a world that breathes in the quiet spaces. Leonard and Hungry Paul are two men who live on the edges of life's grand narrative, content with their own modest rhythms. Leonard, a writer of children's encyclopedias, is adrift in the quiet aftermath of his mother's death, while Hungry Paul drifts through his days with the unhurried grace of one who has made peace with the world. Their story is one of friendship, simplicity, and the understated beauty of a life lived quietly.

The novel is a study in contrasts, exploring themes of contentment, the delicate balance of human relationships, and the profoundness of the mundane. In a world often dominated by noise and chaos, Leonard and Hungry Paul stand as symbols of quiet resistance, reminding us that true meaning is often found not in loud proclamations or grand gestures, but in the gentle, almost imperceptible shifts of daily life. Against the backdrop of a noisy world, the stillness of their lives highlights the fragility of human connection, especially in Leonard's nervous romance—a budding relationship that mirrors the awkward dance of two souls finding their way to each other. Steeped in the anxieties of new love, this romance is achingly real, marked by overanalyzed conversations, constant self-doubt, and wondering. Hession allows it to unfold naturally, letting it breathe, stumble, and grow in its own time.

Published in 2019, on the cusp of a world that would soon be plunged into a collective introspection, “Leonard and Hungry Paul” resonates with a kind of timelessness, an antidote to the frantic pace of contemporary existence. In a time when the world was on the brink of unprecedented global change, this novel serves as a quiet reflection on the value of stillness and the overlooked beauty in the everyday.

4 out of 5 stars: “A quiet exploration of friendship and the beauty of the mundane, though though occasionally disrupted by its own introspections.”

“The only way to deal with this world is to laugh at it.” – Voltaire

Christopher Buehlman's The Blacktongued Thief is a delightful fusion of dark fantasy and sharp wit, a novel that embraces the traditional trappings of the genre while imbuing them with a refreshing, often surprising humor. The narrative follows Kinch Na Shannack, a thief who stumbles into a grander adventure than he ever anticipated, traversing a world rife with danger, magic, and complex moral questions. Buehlman's world-building is nothing short of fantastic; every detail, from the shadowy forests to the bustling cities, is meticulously crafted, providing a rich backdrop against which the story unfolds.

One of the novel's standout features is the interplay between its characters. Buehlman excels in creating dynamic, believable relationships, where the dialogue feels natural and the humor arises organically from their interactions. This is a world where the stakes are high, yet the characters' banter provides a much-needed levity that makes their journey as entertaining as it is perilous. The humor while rarely subtle, never detracts from the gravity of the narrative, but rather adding a layer of complexity that keeps the reader engaged. This balance is reminiscent of the work of Joe Abercrombie, yet Buehlman brings his own voice to the genre, one that is both thoughtful and sharply observant.

The audiobook, narrated by Buehlman himself is, in a word, delightful. If you're torn between the physical copy and the audiobook, let me save you the trouble—go with the audiobook. I find myself picking up my earphones more and more, and the book less and less as the story went on. Buehlman's voice breathes life into his words, capturing the humor, tension, and emotional nuances in a way that makes the story even more compelling.

5 out of 5 stars: “A darkly humorous and richly detailed fantasy, with dynamic character interactions and a standout audiobook performance that elevates the story to new heights.”