Jay
A great retelling that takes a quintessential Greek myth centered on violent divine retribution and inverts it into a tender narrative about psychological healing and processing trauma.
Where the novel truly shines is in its subversion of the monster slayer archetype. Reminiscent of John Gardner's Grendel, Wiswell deconstructs the traditional monster-hero dynamic. Heracles has the physical strength and cunning to kill the monsters but always pauses, seeking to recognize the monster's humanity. By ascribing modern moral frameworks to this ancient world, Wiswell reconstructs heroism around empathy and emotional intelligence rather than sheer violence.
The prose is highly engaging, relying on a mix of modernity and classical mythology. While some might balk at the use of slang, this stylistic choice successfully brings the gods down to the smallness of humanity. It is funny, and it perfectly honors the original oral tradition of mythology, which was likely just crude and accessible to everyday people.
The middle sags, the pacing drags, and a deeply entrenched thematic flaw regarding its power dynamics left me feeling a bit short. I had trouble getting past the frustrating irony: mortals are ultimately still just playthings for the gods, utilized primarily for moral lessons.
While Heracles is dynamic in processing his personal grief and building a "found family, his core moral worldview remains static. His unwavering empathy is utilized merely as a catalyst for the oppressor’s moral education giving Hera the true dynamic character arc. Heracles does amass a monster army, but it is a paper tiger that could never overthrow the divine hierarchy; Hera only yields out of her own internal guilt.
The novel ends with a tragic reset of its narrative arc. Heracles finds healing, but he literally ends up right back where he started: still praying to Hera, the very source of his trauma. Wearing the Lion is a great read that beautifully processes individual guilt, but it fundamentally fails to challenge the systemic power dynamics underpinning the tension. The oppressor becomes slightly more responsible, but there is no true accountability for her actions.
A great retelling that takes a quintessential Greek myth centered on violent divine retribution and inverts it into a tender narrative about psychological healing and processing trauma.
Where the novel truly shines is in its subversion of the monster slayer archetype. Reminiscent of John Gardner's Grendel, Wiswell deconstructs the traditional monster-hero dynamic. Heracles has the physical strength and cunning to kill the monsters but always pauses, seeking to recognize the monster's humanity. By ascribing modern moral frameworks to this ancient world, Wiswell reconstructs heroism around empathy and emotional intelligence rather than sheer violence.
The prose is highly engaging, relying on a mix of modernity and classical mythology. While some might balk at the use of slang, this stylistic choice successfully brings the gods down to the smallness of humanity. It is funny, and it perfectly honors the original oral tradition of mythology, which was likely just crude and accessible to everyday people.
The middle sags, the pacing drags, and a deeply entrenched thematic flaw regarding its power dynamics left me feeling a bit short. I had trouble getting past the frustrating irony: mortals are ultimately still just playthings for the gods, utilized primarily for moral lessons.
While Heracles is dynamic in processing his personal grief and building a "found family, his core moral worldview remains static. His unwavering empathy is utilized merely as a catalyst for the oppressor’s moral education giving Hera the true dynamic character arc. Heracles does amass a monster army, but it is a paper tiger that could never overthrow the divine hierarchy; Hera only yields out of her own internal guilt.
The novel ends with a tragic reset of its narrative arc. Heracles finds healing, but he literally ends up right back where he started: still praying to Hera, the very source of his trauma. Wearing the Lion is a great read that beautifully processes individual guilt, but it fundamentally fails to challenge the systemic power dynamics underpinning the tension. The oppressor becomes slightly more responsible, but there is no true accountability for her actions.
Great book, but a hard read. Stephen Graham Jones’s The Buffalo Hunter Hunter is a heavy, visceral book that wrestles with the bloody legacy of American history. As such, it is deliberately not a comfortable read. (Spoilers below).
I generally find nested narratives overused, but the execution here is powerful. The story unfolds around a modern academic, Etsy, reading the 1912 journal of her ancestor, which in turn transcribes the confession of a Blackfeet vampire named Good Stab. It is a "story within a story within a story" format. Initially, it felt cluttered and I found it hard to navigate, but this forced me to slow down and actually sit with Jones's fantastic prose, especially when working through the archaic language. The structure is completely load bearing; removing the modern frame would turn this into a standard historical fantasy. A simple "what if vampires came to the American West in the 1800s". Instead, the frame grounds the atrocities of the past in the present, forcing you to recognize that the sins of your ancestors are still with us today.
The nesting isn't just structural; it is a thematic clash of mediums. Etsy’s first reaction to receiving this diary is to try to profit off of it. However, in one of her final acts, she destroys the journal. She isn't just trying to destroy the evidence of her ancestor's crimes; she is returning the truth-telling to Good Stab and the oral histories of the Blackfeet.
Where the novel truly shines is its brutal deconstruction of the "righteous vengeance" trope. Good Stab is an immortal who could have focused his power on systemic change or killing everyone involved in the massacre. Instead, his trauma manifests in extreme, localized cruelty. He tortures a single preacher for a century by feeding him prairie dogs, and senselessly murders his innocent children. Jones strips away the comforting myth of the "noble victim". There is no moral high ground here. Trauma is ugly, and the resulting cycle of violence is morally bankrupt. I kept waiting for a point for the cycle to break, for there to be a way out. But that's not what this book is doing.
Ultimately, the book's grotesque body horror acts as a profound postcolonial metaphor. The victims cannot simply kill the "heroic" image of their colonizers; they must expose them as the literal monsters they were. In the novel's climax, the act of severing the monster's head perfectly symbolizes our modern attempt to intellectually condemn the logic of colonialism. Yet, the body remains. This is a brilliant representation of the inherited privilege reaped from that colonialism, which simply cannot be buried or erased.
And this is why the nested story structure is so vital. The Blackfeet know that Arthur is a monster because they literally made him one. Using his own words to contextualize him and trying to create emotional distance by academizing his atrocities doesn’t change the truth when you choose to directly confront it. You might want to bury it, or cling to a DNA test to absolve yourself of 1/32nd of your guilt, but there you are: reading a land proclamation about having this meeting on stolen land, and feeling powerless to soothe your guilt.
It should be uncomfortable.
Great book, but a hard read. Stephen Graham Jones’s The Buffalo Hunter Hunter is a heavy, visceral book that wrestles with the bloody legacy of American history. As such, it is deliberately not a comfortable read. (Spoilers below).
I generally find nested narratives overused, but the execution here is powerful. The story unfolds around a modern academic, Etsy, reading the 1912 journal of her ancestor, which in turn transcribes the confession of a Blackfeet vampire named Good Stab. It is a "story within a story within a story" format. Initially, it felt cluttered and I found it hard to navigate, but this forced me to slow down and actually sit with Jones's fantastic prose, especially when working through the archaic language. The structure is completely load bearing; removing the modern frame would turn this into a standard historical fantasy. A simple "what if vampires came to the American West in the 1800s". Instead, the frame grounds the atrocities of the past in the present, forcing you to recognize that the sins of your ancestors are still with us today.
The nesting isn't just structural; it is a thematic clash of mediums. Etsy’s first reaction to receiving this diary is to try to profit off of it. However, in one of her final acts, she destroys the journal. She isn't just trying to destroy the evidence of her ancestor's crimes; she is returning the truth-telling to Good Stab and the oral histories of the Blackfeet.
Where the novel truly shines is its brutal deconstruction of the "righteous vengeance" trope. Good Stab is an immortal who could have focused his power on systemic change or killing everyone involved in the massacre. Instead, his trauma manifests in extreme, localized cruelty. He tortures a single preacher for a century by feeding him prairie dogs, and senselessly murders his innocent children. Jones strips away the comforting myth of the "noble victim". There is no moral high ground here. Trauma is ugly, and the resulting cycle of violence is morally bankrupt. I kept waiting for a point for the cycle to break, for there to be a way out. But that's not what this book is doing.
Ultimately, the book's grotesque body horror acts as a profound postcolonial metaphor. The victims cannot simply kill the "heroic" image of their colonizers; they must expose them as the literal monsters they were. In the novel's climax, the act of severing the monster's head perfectly symbolizes our modern attempt to intellectually condemn the logic of colonialism. Yet, the body remains. This is a brilliant representation of the inherited privilege reaped from that colonialism, which simply cannot be buried or erased.
And this is why the nested story structure is so vital. The Blackfeet know that Arthur is a monster because they literally made him one. Using his own words to contextualize him and trying to create emotional distance by academizing his atrocities doesn’t change the truth when you choose to directly confront it. You might want to bury it, or cling to a DNA test to absolve yourself of 1/32nd of your guilt, but there you are: reading a land proclamation about having this meeting on stolen land, and feeling powerless to soothe your guilt.
It should be uncomfortable.
