Calum

I did not know this was second in a trilogy, which says something about how well contained this book is. There are of course plenty of tropes, the selected hero, the love interest, the training montage, the victory from the jaws of defeat. I think that Abercrombie executes well though, with excruciatingly relatable coming of age, with engaging characters, and a fast pacing that left me wanting to know more. Fun quick read.

Brandon knocks it out of the park. It's easy to rattle off the standard criticisms of his writing - the heavy exposition dumps, the told-not-shown characterisation. But increasingly I find that I just don't care, and can even spin those cons into things that I like. The worldbuilding in Roshar is so intricate and exciting that I crave every dump of exposition; each one gives me more to process and ponder. And while it's easy to dismiss the characters as intrinsically talented and therefore uninteresting, I no longer think that I read fantasy for relatable every-person struggles, nor do I think I should. I want to see that I'm reading characters who are exceptional, almost by necessity (spren bond them, after all), and consider what it means to be that way in the face of unimaginable circumstances.

Nor are Brandon's best features missing from Oathbringer. The pacing is continuous and non-stop, even the interludes leave us craving more. Every chapter is a revelation, or a laugh, or a development, or growth, interweaved to be continuously engrossing. I did, after all, get through the 1200+ pages here in a day or so, and it was not exactly forced. If there was one thing I would nitpick at, it would be the increasing prominence of the cosmere in the book. I worry about how an inexperienced reader, or someone who didn't wait out for the book's release, will receive the continuous interjection of terms like Connection, Investiture, Splintering and others. I think more characters than ever before in Oathbringer are involved in the cosmere, and they play much bigger parts.

I am feeling like I find it harder to give praise than to nitpick these days. Still, read this book. And then again, once you've had a chance to appreciate the careful craft in this beautiful, beautiful volume.

What a weekend, getting to storm through this. I think the blurb doesn't really do it justice. Yes, this is a book about a planet where people are ambisexual, becoming male or female during each mating cycle. But I think, perhaps primed by Ursula's introduction, that it's much more an exploration about how we view each other and how we interact, not just on a gendered or sexed basis but in our whole beings. I'll pick out a few moments that grabbed me:p75 - “The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty”. Gethen is home to a cult/non-religion of the Handdara, who prize ignorance, to “ignore the abstraction, to hold fast to the thing” (p 228). This is shocking in part because of anxieties of the unknown (both my own and our societal); I think we trade on certainty a lot and the Handdarata are pushing a view that says uncertainty is actually the root of all our thought and action. Focus on uncertainty isn't new, but I'd kinda felt that it was mostly limited to recognising that some amount of it must be dealt with healthily, not actually fundamental or desired. The second line, which is referring to Estraven's desire not to accept the concept of nationhood, I take as a commitment to the real, whatever that might be, but also a focus on feeling over ideology, a . Not a philosopher, don't know who's already trodden this path, but it feels scary and also reassuring to consider what it would mean to take your actions, like Estraven, almost entirely from what you feel rather than what you think.p101 - “One is respected and judged only as a human being. It is an appalling experience.” It's interesting reading this 1969 text in a day where nonbinary genders are frequently discussed and gender confirmation is an increasingly recognised treatment. Yet despite our critiques of the gender construct, it still resonates to think about how difficult life can be when you don't have your gendered social personae to fall back on. Genly and the Investigators speculate about the effects that ending the binary has had on Gethenian society, from the level of aggression (no war), the greater focus on matters of import (Oscar Wilde: “Everything in the world is about sex, except sex”), the elimination of rape, the reduction in binary views about anything at all. But Therem notes that the I-you dualism is the older binary by far, and still very much present on Gethen. Instead, I think that the exploratory discussions of nonbinary gender and sexuality (homosexuality is noticeably missing on Gethen, unfortunately) in present society actually make the same metaphorical point that [b:The Left Hand of Darkness 118028 The Left Hand of Darkness (Hainish Cycle #4) Ursula K. Le Guin https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1519082793s/118028.jpg 817527] is making. For one, they prove that the binary is illusive; in many significant ways and places we were already somewhat androgynous. Taking the next step; it does feel appalling, terrifying, to abandon our gendered crutches. Most can't or don't want to, I certainly can't, at least not completely. But the striking thing about the Gethenians is just how normal they are, how particularly non-alien. They live and love and cry and die, and they show us that humanity is not gender, that being judged only as a human being is something we can actually do.

Reading the conclusion and understanding the publication order of the series makes a lot of things clearer. The strange transformation of Anyanwu into Emma, the vague reference to Doro here, the unspecified nature of the Clayarks. I think the effect is still somewhat diminished, nevertheless; the series feels like it moves in the wrong direction. Wild Seed is an epic generational tale, Patternmaster instead is merely a vignette into the conflict and society that we expect to have been built up. It is fun to see how the powers shape the society but nevertheless seems somehow disappointing after all of the build-up. There is a balance between theme and worldbuilding, and the latter felt a little lacking.

The second volume of this omnibus knocks it out of the park. In the first volume, I had wondered why the story focused so much on Yaichi. Here, it becomes clear that the strategy of focusing on the thoughts that people have as they begin to learn about and encounter LGBT people works. Yaichi's continuing arc is relatable and understandable as he explores both the source of his tensions around Mike and reevaluates they way that he treated Ryoji. The culmination of this maturation is Yaichi's willingness to stand up for Mike and Kana, and his final ability to learn about Ryoji's life in Canada. I still wonder what Mike must be feeling inside, but what he displays is an incredibly admirable unflappability that will bear him in good stead. Kana and Natsuki round out the story and make it apparent that this is not just about Mike and Yaichi, but about the family they are building together. I was really hoping for a cute epilogue where they visit Canada, but I guess there's always something to keep waiting for. Read this for a touching, happy, beautiful conclusion to the story.

This was a daunting read, but proved to be an absolute blast. I started and got stuck pretty early, but on coming back I was able to pick up the vocabulary and names a lot more easily and blasted through the rest in a few days. To be sure, this seems to happen for me a with a lot of books, so it's hard to say if this is Anathem-specific, but the ride that Stephenson takes you on is absolutely worth it.

I tried describing this book to people and struggled to get it into words, so here's my best shot. Anathem takes place on a planet similar to Earth in a lot of ways, but most notably there are orders of monastic scholars called avout that segregate themselves off from the rest of the world. We spend a good chunk of the book just figuring out how this life works and dealing with relatively petty drama, and then the plot kicks into high gear.

The first thing that distinguishes Anathem for me is the reworking of vocabulary for many common things. While obviously presenting some barrier to entry, I found this impressive because not only did the words seem like they could easily have existed in English, they reflected something interesting about how we privilege the words we happen to use. For example, “theorics” is a catch-all term that distinguishes academic/theoretical study from “praxic” or practical/actionable affairs. I found this to uniquely emphasise the thought-action distinction as central to scholarship, as opposed to the more discipline-based division we tend to talk about with phrases such as physics vs applied physics.

The other big difference is that Anathem is a book that follows nerdy scholars, and so if you happen to like literally having characters describe thought experiments to each other this book will definitely appeal. In particular, the book discusses a great deal topics on the philosophy of consciousness and thought. I have no idea what the analogues or bases are for these discussions in real philosophy, but the effect (combined with the vocabulary thing) is to make you strongly question the foundations of why you think the things you think, or what you consider to be true and real. As the book develops, this quickly becomes a feature of not just the style but the plot, but I won't spoil any more.

So we are left with a beautifully put together, rich world with good characters, infused with a heavy dose of philosophy and science. Anathem is a trip, truly, that will keep you thinking.

P.S. If I'd make one nitpick, it's that there didn't need to be a romantic subplot...

Completely engaging. This is a marked divergence from the more fantastical Patternist series; here Butler uses time travel as a completely unexplained mechanic to provide a uniquely sci-fi perspective on first-person slave narrative. In doing so, I think she shows us things about slave America than a contemporary account would not necessarily be able to do.

For me, the most surprising realisation was that even though we're taught about the existence of slave stereotypes, having not read first-person slave narratives before it's startling to see the ways in which characters draw from or step outside of those stereotypes. Sarah is my favourite example of this. She talks Dana down from all sorts of foolhardy choices, so we begin to think of her in an Uncle Tom kind of role, but we learn that underneath she is simmering with more anger and resentment at the loss of her children than Dana, or I, could really understand.

Other interesting points come in the relationship of Dana and Rufus; she is his savior several times over and yet is not just unable to wrest Rufus from the mindset of a white man of his time, but he actively forces her into compliance with his wishes when he sends her to bring Alice to him. Despite her self-loathing, she does as bid (as does Alice), and it is not until she is pushed to killing him that she is freed.

Kevin and Dana's differing relationships to the period are also worth looking at. Dana thinks she should be able to wrest control of the situation, but instead ends up needing to ride it out, and even then she cannot return from the experience whole. Kevin thinks himself able to manage, and does in fact survive for five years and help slaves, but Butler shows us that he doesn't have the kind of awareness of the dynamics at play. His request of Dana to scribe is eerily similar to Rufus'.

Overall, Kindred is incredibly gripping. The pacing is fantastic, episodes slowly building up, the characterisation of the cast is extremely moving, down even to more minor characters like Nigel or Tess. I read this in basically one sitting! If you want to examine our modern relationship to historical slavery, why not literally place a modern character into slavery?

When a novel has the premise that everyone on Earth is going to die in two years, it's strange to feel that it's somehow timely. Yet I certainly thought it was apt for current affairs when reading the rapid reaction, or sometimes failure to react well, of the characters in this book when confronted with an all consuming crisis. At least for someone who loves detailed descriptions of propellant use, the most exciting and heartening parts of the novel are the technical challenges in keeping people alive. The most disconcerting are the political dynamics that threaten to upend the entire project. At a time when I'd love to think that we can exert some collective, coordinated action to address pressing problems, it's a reminder that there's a lot of potential and a lot of challenges remaining.

As a story, Seveneves benefits from tremendous imagination and beautiful description of the unfamiliar environments and the ways that characters navigate them. The characters themselves are sometimes hard to follow (there are many!) but it's compelling enough to keep you page-turning. I think if there was one weakness, it'd be that the neatness is just a bit overdone. By the end, it feels like everything tied together in a way that could be amazing, but feels a little bit forced. I take it as a reminder that while plotlines can resolve themselves in an elegant way in fiction, it rarely will in reality.

I've been reading too much serious/mostly serious fantasy recently, because I'd forgotten how fun and funny a wacky Gaiman adventure can be. [b:Neverwhere 23462649 Neverwhere Neil Gaiman https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1454334106s/23462649.jpg 16534] is sprinkled with dry puns and sly references that constantly keep me chuckling, giving Gaiman credit for the gotcha. But it's also host to great pacing and worldbuilding that keeps me engaged for a charming tale of growth. We end up learning to how to live once you fall through the cracks of London and of life, and then letting yourself stay fallen. What does it take for you to come back when you hit your lowest lows, literally in this case? I don't know that my personal answer will include facing off against a terrible foe, but maybe it'll be something close.

This novel is masterful. Roy's prose is poetry, or near as. With coinages, imagery, and heartbreaking emotion, she transports you to rural Kerala and places you among the cast of the novel across the generations they span. I've just put the book down, and am attempting to extinguish the lingering feeling of oppressive, impending doom that has sat with me throughout the book. More incredibly to me, I enjoyed it, as someone who tends to avoid doom and its impending arrival at as many opportunities as possible. Roy boldly tells you what is going to happen in the very first pages, and unfolds the path to get there beautifully, keeping you entranced not by suspense but with the weight of inevitability. I didn't think it would work until I read it.

Inevitability is not just the feeling of the book, it's also a theme. There is history, and there is History. We might take the former as a set of facts, and the latter as facts personified, empowered to affect the ways in which we live. The titular God of Small Things is a the personal tragedies that fall victim to History, when the things we want and need are unreachable because of History's designs and strictures. How free are we, when we live amidst ideology, tradition, family, society? Are we free to live, to love? I won't say this novel gives me hope that we are. I don't even think it makes it clear that we will be; this is a tragedy and History can be ruthless with those that rebel against it. What it does do, is remind me that we should be, because the cost of living constrained thus is far too high a price to pay.

Decent conclusion to the trilogy. I think the additional viewpoints started to become unwieldy by the end, since we're now looking at a lot more people and the story can no longer be as tightly woven as in the first two. I felt the pacing also suffered a bit, having to climax multiple times as the succession of villains was taken down. Koll and Raith were highlights here for me, with some genuine internal turmoil that was painfully precise.

For once, I'm recording my impression immediately after finishing a book. The reason is that basically the end of the book left me with a surprising amount of energy and desire for action. I'm sitting here questioning how much I should believe that, but it's hard not get caught up in Conroy's characters' feelings. Leo's triumph and nice, novelistic ending is not one that I necessarily think I can achieve, but it still manages to leave me feeling good. I'd say this is typical of the book as a whole, where an entire cast of characters appears and moves around in a way that - while not predictable exactly - lends itself to feeling like it's on rails, with just a hint too much deus ex. I don't feel that seriously harms the novel though for me; I take it with an understanding of suspension of disbelief and the enjoyment is conscious rather than consuming.

Beautiful and haunting, meditation on ability, parenthood and intergenerational relationships. Every other page has a turn of phrase that is liable to wow. Lightness and heaviness mix freely in a brief novel that doesn't overstay its welcome.

I wish I'd managed to see this staged. In text form, there's certainly something missing from a piece that is supposed to get us over the taboo of saying vagina out loud, only to read it silently and then not say vagina out loud. It's awesome to see how important the monologues were to the interviewees and the author regardless; a lot of the power remains, even for someone with zero experience of vagina possession. The paperback does come with explanations/backstory that rivals the length of the associated monologue at points, which is interesting but breaks the flow; I'm curious as to whether staged productions include these/whether more monologues have been added since the publication of this book.