Sanibel

When I first picked up The Invention of Morel, I wasn’t sure what to expect. It’s sometimes called one of the first works of magical realism, but to me, it felt more like sci-fi or horror — haunting, imaginative, and eerily ahead of its time. Jorge Luis Borges, who wrote the prologue, called it a work of “reasoned imagination,” and I can’t think of a better description. The book is unsettling, thought-provoking, and honestly, perfect.

The story follows a fugitive hiding on an island, where strange things start happening. He notices a group of people—dressed like they’re at a fancy party—but they don’t acknowledge him. At first, it feels like a ghost story, but as the mystery unfolds, you realize it’s something much stranger. At the center of it all is a machine created by Morel, an invention that records and replays moments in time. The narrator becomes obsessed with one of the visitors, Faustine, and things spiral into a weird mix of obsession, longing, and questions about reality versus delusion.

What really struck me is how creepy and modern the book feels, even in 2025. Bioy Casares taps into themes like memory, loneliness, and immortality, but they also connect to things we’re grappling with today—VR, social media, parasocial relationships, AI, even darker topics like stalking or revenge AI porn. It’s amazing that a book from 1940 captures ideas that are still so relevant now. The narrator’s obsession with Faustine reminded me of how people get fixated on influencers or celebrities they’ll never meet, while Morel’s machine felt like an early vision of technology’s power to distort reality and relationships.

This isn’t just a story you read—it’s one you feel. The eerie atmosphere of the island, the narrator’s growing desperation, and the chilling questions about what’s real and what’s an illusion stick with you. It’s also a book that makes you think. Can you love someone who isn’t truly there? Is it worth giving up your life for an illusion? And what happens when we let technology blur the lines between memory and reality?

If you’re into stories that feel a bit like a Black Mirror episode or something out of a Kafka fever dream, The Invention of Morel will hit the spot. It’s eerie, thought-provoking, and unique. It’s short but dense, and you’ll want to sit with it after you’re done. For me, it was a surreal and unforgettable experience.

I picked up Julie & Julia after falling in love with the movie adaptation. The film was such a delightful experience that I craved more—the kind of behind-the-scenes insight that only a book can provide. Before watching the movie, I hadn’t heard of Julie Powell or Julia Child, but after some quick online research, I became fascinated by both women and rushed to the nearest bookstore to grab a copy.

As someone who typically avoids non-fiction, especially biographies and autobiographies, I was initially hesitant. I spent some time flipping through the pages to see if it would truly resonate with me. Before I knew it, I was completely engrossed and couldn’t put it down.

What struck me most about Julie & Julia is how it doesn’t feel like a traditional autobiography. If I hadn’t known about Julie Powell and her blog beforehand, I would have assumed it was a work of fiction—light and captivating, much like an entertaining contemporary novel. The story flows so naturally that I devoured it in nearly a single day.

Some readers have described Julie Powell’s writing as hysterical, but I don’t agree. To me, her style is alive. Her honesty, vivid storytelling, and sharp humor make the book feel authentic and unfiltered. She doesn’t try to present herself as perfect or add qualities she doesn’t possess. Instead, she embraces her flaws and humanity, making her incredibly relatable and likable.

I’m enormously grateful to the filmmakers for introducing me to Julie Powell and Julia Child, two remarkable women with very different yet equally inspiring stories. I wholeheartedly recommend Julie & Julia not only to fans of autobiographies and cooking but also to anyone who enjoys witty, heartfelt narratives with a strong voice. Whether you’re drawn to the culinary world, personal journeys, or simply a good story, this book is a joy to read.

Joe Abercrombie’s The Blade Itself is a character-driven fantasy that subverts traditional genre tropes with flawed protagonists, political intrigue, and sharp, darkly humorous dialogue. Set in a world of shifting alliances and looming conflict, the novel follows three main characters: Logen Ninefingers, a battle-worn barbarian trying to outrun his past; Jezal dan Luthar, a self-absorbed noble more interested in vanity than valor; and Inquisitor Glokta, a former war hero turned ruthless interrogator, now navigating the dangerous world of politics and espionage. Their fates slowly converge under the guidance of Bayaz, a mysterious and powerful mage with his own hidden agenda.

Rather than a traditional fantasy story with a clear overarching quest, The Blade Itself is more focused on its characters and the intricate power struggles they become entangled in. The world Abercrombie builds is rich and detailed, with a dry wit underlying even its darker moments. There is certainly violence, cynicism, and moral ambiguity, but I found myself expecting even more grimness and brutality given Abercrombie’s reputation as a quintessential modern grimdark writer. While the book leans into the messiness of war and power, it balances this with a surprising amount of humor and character-driven storytelling.

Despite its strengths, my experience with The Blade Itself was initially frustrating. I had attempted to read the book twice before and struggled to get past the halfway point. The beginning is slow and, at times, disorienting, with frequent shifts in perspective and little clarity on how the characters or their stories connect. The narrative seemed to lack a clear direction, making it difficult to stay engaged.

However, determined to give it another chance, I persisted. And once I crossed the halfway mark, everything began to fall into place. The characters became more compelling, their interactions more meaningful, and the overarching story started to take shape. By the final quarter of the book, I was fully invested, and upon finishing, I was eager to continue the series.

It is difficult to pinpoint exactly why the first half was such a struggle—whether due to pacing, structure, or the sheer amount of setup required for such a complex world. However, in retrospect, I am glad I gave it another attempt. If you are willing to push through the slower opening, The Blade Itself offers a rewarding and immersive experience, setting the stage for what promises to be an engaging and unpredictable trilogy.