Alex

An engaging series of interconnected stories that really delivers on the variety of neuroses that seem especially particular to night owls such as those who make up the protagonists of these tales told exclusively in the midnight hours across Tokyo.

A slightly disappointing ending, where the catharsis of the multiple layers of stories built up throughout the book is somewhat flattened. But, otherwise, a pretty solid pallete cleanser to offer that classic bit of Japanese slice-of-life fiction in between heavier reads.

A beautiful book with an equally beautiful story, turning a classic murder ballad “The Two Sisters” into a more liberated and progressive tale.

There's not much I can say without just retelling the existing short tale, but I did want to highlight particularly enjoying the very active narrator and the use of literal, actual grammar as a magic system. I could read an endless amount more of El-Mohtar's writing of both as is.

The writing, the story, the characters, the mechanics of everything from basic letter-writing to the fundamentals of the multiverse, are all deliberately opaque, obtuse and often difficult to parse and follow. Which, in some ways is as much a positive as it is a negative, but it does make it a challenging read.

But, look beyond the sci-fi window dressings - with it's Douglas Adams heavy inspirations - and this is as classic a love story as it gets. Romeo and Juliet across all of time and space.

The story unfolds primarily through letters written by the two protagonists at the leading edge - and on either side - of a Time War that, even to them, seems to have no real meaning or intended end beyond war itself. Steadily the two develop an unrequited love from their existing rivalry and mutual respect. As they do, the story quickly develops from being one that's almost entirely exclusionary to the reader - filled with concepts, names and forms that are referenced but never explained - to one almost everyone can relate to in some fashion.

Once the story has its hooks in you, it's impossible to put down, though it does take a while to get there. But, the non-linear, timey-wimey nature of the story's core also encourages repeat reading, and I think it honestly would be even better as whole the second or even third time through.

As a prequel to Legends & Lattes, technically you could read these two books in any order - but I'd definitely encourage reading Legends & Lattes first, because as much as I enjoyed it, Bookshops & Bonedust is such a stronger book that the best way to fully appreciate both is to allow the more favourable comparison between them.

There's a bit more action and depth to the story this time around, but even though it follows Viv on her pre-settling-down days, there's more than enough of the same cosy almost-Stardew-Valley style vibes that made Legends & Lattes work at its best.

The cast of characters here are also a lot more developed and engaging than most of Legends & Lattes' crew. I found myself quite sad to see Viv necessarily have to say goodbye to all of them by the end to move forward to where we later meet her in the other book. Hopefully the third book can see at least a few returning faces.

I could appreciate a lot of the building up of Viv's homestead in Legends & Lattes but have to confess to being left a bit cold over her coffee obsession given that I cannot stand the stuff. Bookshops, on the other hand, I can - and did - get very much on board with the journey presented here as Viv helps an ailing book store find its feet again with some charming modernising twists on the fantasy setting.

(More of a 3.5, really).

For a 700-odd page book, probably the most surprisingly strong element of Wings and Ruin is the pacing. Almost the entire first half is dedicated to a slow, tense build-up towards inevitable war, punctuated with the immediate fallout of the events of the previous book's climax, and various fanbaiting twists of the knife in vengeance towards a ‘ship' now firmly sunk.

And then, almost impossibly as if by surprise, all hell finally breaks loose. Cinematic style action dominates the next several hundred pages, and it's all as exciting, daring, tense and dramatic as you could ask for.

That none of it ever really feels either rushed or unhurried is a solid credit to Maas.

Unfortunately, for a story based in the brutality of all-out warfare, it severely lacks teeth or consequence. A deus ex machina too far, a convenient save of a main character just in too many times. The ending falls flat on its face and undoes too much of what the rest of the book did right.

The actual writing is no better or worse than the previous books, although I might go genuinely insane if I have to consider the thought of one more “vulgar gesture”. It's perfunctory. It'll get you from point A to point B in the story and largely won't get in the way or need you to decipher or interpret any lost meaning. It's fine.

Beautiful writing that perfectly captures Circe's duality of straddling the worlds of gods and mortals.

In the early chapters, where Circe's life is filled with the unknowable whims and indescribable wonders of Olympians, Titans, nymphs and monsters, so much of her narration is deeply abstract and metaphorical. As if to say that only poetry and high prose could come close to conveying that world to mortal minds.

Then, after Circe's exile gives way to a wide-ranging retelling of The Odyssey and The Telegony from Circe's point of view, the narration slows - where pages once covered centuries, eventually we slowly cover years, then seasons, then days - and becomes more plain, less abstract, more dialogue heavy. But, that doesn't mean there aren't plenty of fantastic turns of phrase, even here.

It makes sense for Circe's story to stretch into the Telegony and reach for the stories of Telegonus and Telemachus, but, as with the controversy of the Telgony itself, it does represent a pity at the same time that it not only robs Odysseus of his “happy ending”, but robs Circe of loving a man who deserved it. Her relationship with Telemachus never feels as rich, deep or earned, but by the end, he turns out to be the only truly good man she ever met. Sadly, the story does not really interrogate this fact.

But then, it is told from Circe's point of view, and Circe is never shy of acknowledging her own failures and flaws. So perhaps to her own mind, the Telegony's Odysseus is all the better match for the woman who birthed Scylla out of spite anyway.

Happened upon this little gem appropriately enough in Hodges Figgis in Dublin. Having written a number of short stories myself, I enjoy the very rare treat to see someone so established dipping their own toes in the form. Rooney's inimitable style, sharp turns of phrase and intense dialogue honestly feel like they suit a short story even better than a full-length novel.

As you'd expect, there's not a quotation mark in sight, which, given the condensed action, can make it a slightly challenging read at times, but you'll probably want to re-read the entire thing right afterwards anyway, so what's re-reading a couple of lines here and there in the moment.

A truly brutal book told in three distinct parts, from three distinct point of views - none of which belong to the titular and central ‘vegetarian' who the story is technically about. In fact, she's treated horribly throughout by each of the protagonists as barely more than a thing; an accelerant for their own declines.

In reality, though, the story is all at once a deconstruction of (particularly Korean/patriarchal) culture, depression, suicide, mental illness and most common, and perhaps damning, of all - the myriad ways in which we fuck each other up in ill-fitting, toxic relationships that should end considerably sooner than they inevitably do...

In some ways, it's a repeated anti-love story. In others it's an uncomfortable gaze into the depths of depression. Consistently, though, it delivers gut-punch after gut-punch if you've ever lived through any version of the topics covered within - even if they are heightened to extremes.

A stronger read than Iron Flame, with fewer Yarrosisms every few pages to distract you, but the story threatens to try and do too much at once and ultimately leads to an unsatisfying non-conclusion that feels mostly like we've just circled back around to where we were at the beginning of the book again.

Onyx Storm does a lot to fully open up and flesh out the world of The Empyrean, and “Quest Squad's” journey beyond the Continent is by far the strongest part of the story. Had it been the longer, fuller focus of Onyx Storm, the book probably would have been better for it. Instead, the ‘Quest' ends about two-thirds of the way through, and the story seems to stall out afterwards.

The climactic battle at the end is a welcome pick-up in pace and action. But, even though it shakes things up by expanding our perspectives to additional members of Second Squad, this constant switching around also throws the pacing entirely out of whack. The new villain, Theophanie, is somewhat lost in the chaos of it despite being built up so well otherwise as a potential direct rival and foil for Violet.

Theophanie's not the only character that gets a bit lost in the narrative, either. The world opening up also balloons out the cast of allies, enemies, and everyone in between, and it becomes clear that there isn't much room to fit all of them into the condensed timeline on which the story operates. Characters, including core cast members of Second Squad, will rush in and out of being useful to the narrative. Sometimes, with hundreds of pages between.

Overall, Onyx Storm is a more entertaining adventure than Iron Flame, and a more complete picture of the world, which fits nicely into Navarre's new status quo. It is, however, a less complete story than the previous two books and leaves almost every dangling thread from Iron Flame still dangling, barely any shorter than we left it. So, it's a good thing that a story is about the journey, not the destination. Hopefully at least, no one will be able to say the same of book #4 when it comes and, ideally, provides conclusion and closure.

When I started Blue Sisters I have to admit to being concerned that I'd find it hard to relate to a story rooted in sisterhood, but even before finishing the prologue I'd already realised that my concern was misplaced. As the eldest of four brothers, living apart from them in another country (coincidentally, also England) with a similar age gap dynamic to the Blue sisters, it actually became difficult NOT to see huge swathes of their dynamic as a gender-swapped mirror image to our own.

Even more so, to be honest, in a story about those siblings reconnecting and putting parts of their lives back together again after a year of trauma, depression and heartbreak. Coincidentally, I happened to be reading this in a week I'd returned home myself to - for the first time, really - connect to my brothers as grown adults. And I can relate the state of my life more than I'd wish to the eldest sister's own eventual homecoming.

So, personally, the story certainly resonated with me in a way and with a timing that anyone would be hard pressed to deliberately plan and engineer.

That certainly doesn't make it a perfect story. Each chapter switches perspective between the Blue sisters in a way that largely works, but also kind of loses the ‘middle' sister, Bonnie in the much more violent whirlwinds that the eldest, Avery and youngest, Lucky each leave behind in their own wake.

There's also a certain weakness in the (few) male voices featured within the book. They each barely present as anything more than a one-note stereotype (the british ‘cockney geezer', the alcoholic dad, the empty, placid fuckboy poet, the gruff macho russian boxer who never learns the basics of english grammar no matter how many decades pass speaking it). You could maybe argue that it's a feminist statement to reverse the status quo of poorly written women by men, but it's more likely that it's just poor writing in and of itself.

Flashback exposition - often seeing any one of the three Blue sisters decide to meander casually down memory lane for a few pages, sometimes more than once per dialogue exchange - is a bit of an over-indulgence on Mellors' behalf that ocassionally makes a scene much more difficult to follow than it needs to be, or really disrupts the pacing in general.

Other than that, the writing is enjoyable to read, easy to digest and - even if there are perhaps a lot of unrealistic extremes to them - the lead characters feel alive (well, except for one literal exception) and relatable. It's a worthy read that will probably, personally, stick in my mind for some time.

It's not often I finish a book and immediately go back to the beginning to re-read it, but I definitely had to go back and revisit a fair few parts of Mongrel with the full picture in mind at last.

For a lot of the book, the stories of the three protagonists seem difficult to tie together. You can tell that there is a connection between them all, but we see so much of each character's lives in such a disjointed manner that it's rarely clear when some events are happening.

When the connections become clear and the story truly unfolds, it definitely gives you a stronger appreciation for the layers built up earlier on, back when it was unclear exactly what these foundations were actually for.

But, even before all that, there are clear - often unfortunate - parallels between all three women we jump around between the perspectives of. Firstly is obviously their Japanese heritage - the title of the book stemming specifically from Meiko's half-Japanese/half-English heritage, and fittingly marking her as arguably the true lead protagonist around whom Yuki and Haruka's stories ultimately, eventually circle.

Secondly is their unfortunate histories with sexual violence and toxic relationships. There's a particularly visceral nature to how both the femininity and the sexuality of all three characters plays out throughout their lives. For as much as we dwell on each woman's body and on sex, it's rarely particularly titilating or “spicy”. It's often far more raw, matter-of-fact or considerably worse. It can make it quite a harrowing read at times.

Yuki's story I found to be particularly interesting, since it's not only foundational to the rest of the story in its own way, but we get to see from her own perspective her own self-destructive and toxic behaviour that hardly paints her part in her doomed relationship in a positive light. Right alongside the other characters' perspectives, where her victimhood has more of an unquestioned purity to it.

Until the story came together towards the end, I have to admit to struggling a little with the book's structure. At one point, after bouncing with a relatively comfortable cadence between Meiko and Yuki's stories, we spend an extended period of time exclusively with the third character, Haruka. With no clear connection to the rest of the story at this stage, it did feel at the time like the pacing overall had kinda gotten lost.

But, once you reach the end, it becomes clear that there's no way you could tell this story other than exactly how it's presented.

This one might need some determination to persevere all the way through, but it's definitely worth it.

Engaging characters and dialogue, but weak in story, stakes and even the romance the cover teases.

The magical system developed throughout is interesting, but somewhat overwrought in excessive explanation and pace-disrupting flashbacks. The last 40-odd pages felt like an afterthought to justify the protagonist being marked out for being a Necromancer specifically, despite there being very little in the way of necromancy in other 250~ pages beforehand.

Seems like the sequel might have a lot more to say and do, so will probably continue with it.

A genuinely beautiful read that highlights, both differently and increasingly well with each successive story, how little it can sometimes take to completely turn your life around for the better. The little breadcrumbs of each story that ultimately come together in some small way for the book's last tale can really surprise you with how cohesive it makes the book feel overall, too, with one or two really satisfying pay-offs you won't see coming.

I enjoyed the story more than the actual writing, but the story's strengths lie most of all in focusing on the world of game design and development more than the relationships of the protagonists, so that's potentially damning it with faint praise.

An adaptation that's willing to both take some liberties and to fill in the hazier gaps in the author's knowledge in how games are actually made would probably work really well.

Entertaining Isekai story that makes good use of the various tropes it pulls from (time loops, fantasy Isekais, MMOs, etc). Very much just half the story (it's noted to be a duology in the author's remarks at the end), but it packs in plenty of action so it's not unsatisfying.

Davi comes across a bit frustratingly obviously as a woman written by a man. I enjoyed her acerbic and flippant personality, but her character (and her sexualisation) commonly comes across as being written by a man for men, specifically. It's kind of a pity.

Will be looking forward to the sequel/conclusion.

Very much my style of fantasy, where the world of the supernatural is the setting - the window dressing, almost - for the story rather than the point of the story. Lots of modern touches paved across the classic ‘medieval' World of Warcraft style too, which is fitting for a story that's fundamentally about a hipster coffee shop.

I'm also a big fan of ‘slice-of-life' style Japanese literature, and for the most part Legends & Lattes feels like a solid western spin on that. In fact, the ‘cosy' nature of the story, the slow and methodical approach to building up Viv's little domain, and the way pretty much any and all conflicts are resolved put me very much in mind of the anime/manga That Time I Was Reincarnated As A Slime. Both are also so equally comforting that you'll be surprised how quickly you burn right the way through it.

I deliberately picked it up after a series of quite heavy books as a gentle palate cleanser, and I can heartily recommend it to anyone for the same purpose. It's not perfect, and if you're not used to this style of story-telling, you might simply find it dull and uneventful, but if you're just looking for a low-stakes taste of escapism, it'll more than do the job.

A life-changing book that holds the mysterious power to completely rewire your brain and how it will process language, wit and humour for the entire rest of your existence.