Ryan
This was a surprisingly heartfelt and poignant end to the Murderbot saga.
Murderbot would have hated it.
In all seriousness, though: this was a great end to the series of novellas. Things come full circle, and we see the ways in which autonomy and culture have made Murderbot more “human” than it was at the beginning. Which is thought-provoking about how we define humanity, although Wells writes it in such a way that those themes aren't explicitly brought to the forefront. Good reads all around, though.
This was a useful resource for thinking about how to approach conversations with your children, and how to help them build a sense of mastery and control over their own lives.
A lot of the content and examples skewed towards teenagers; the title would be a little more accurate if it clarified that it's talking about young/near adults, rather than “kids” (which makes me think of the under 10 crowd).
A book like this really highlights the limitations of using star systems to rate books (as Goodreads does).
On one hand, this isn't an example of beautifully-written prose. It's exposition heavy, the characters are fairly flat and stereotypical, and the “reimagining” of the vampire myth is given a lot more hype than it really lives up to. It's easy to see why this would be a low-rated book.
ON THE OTHER HAND, Guillermo del Toro has such affection and enthusiasm for vampire stories, pulp fiction, and horror, and it shines through on every page of this book. He manages to take the fairly wooden contents and breathe enough fresh air into them that it the book frequently had me grinning. It's easy to see why this would be a highly-rated book.
If you're a fan of vampire fiction, you should probably check this out. It's too much fun to leave unread.
“Who knew being a heartless killing machine would present so many moral dilemmas?”
Murderbot continues to be its sassy, sarcastic self in another highly entertaining dark comedy novella. In addition, this chapter starts to show the development of some plot threads that were sown back in All Systems Red. A must read if you enjoyed the others in the series.
Science fiction has a history of glamourising science to a certain extent - for centuries stories have focused on that one big culminating moment in an experiment, and dealing with the fallout of those BCMs. On a dramatic level that's understandable, of course, but it leaves one with the impression that big dramatic moments are what science is about.
Kelly Robson's Gods, Monsters, and the Lucky Peach veers strongly away from that tradition, to interesting effect. It's one of the few stories I've read in the genre that looks at things like responding to a RFP, data collection, and discussing funding sources, and a lot of the day-to-day stuff that keeps real scientists occupied but never seems to be a concern to fictional ones. It's a refreshing change, and one that's balanced nicely with more traditional sci-fi elements like time travel,dystopia, and body modification.
In this novella Robson manages to tell a story that's both mundane and fantastic, while giving hints of a larger and more complex world that the story is existing in. Reading it, it's clear that she's someone with a deep love and passion for sci-fi as a genre, and has thought long and hard about both what makes time travel stories work, and where they sometimes don't. I look forward to seeing more work from her in this setting in the future.
This was an absolutely fantastic, captivating, and exciting story. Set in the city of Janloon, Jade City looks at the rival organized crime groups that rule the city through mastery of jade, and the magical abilities that it grants those that have the ability to wield it. Tensions rise as the power starts to shift within the city, leading to the threat of a full-out gang war in the city streets. Fonda Lee has created a fascinating blend of wuxia, urban fantasy, and modern crime fiction that opens us up to a world and a story that is as unique as it is epic.
This was an interesting read, but not one that I can really say that I loved. Reading it, you can definitely see how influential it was on other detective stories of the era. I think the serialized nature of its publication hurt it a bit, though? There were lots of cliffhangery moments, especially in the second half, and they eventually became trying rather than intriuging. If you're already a committed fan of 19th century detective stories you'll want to make sure you've read it, but beyond that you'd probably want to give it a pass.
This was an interesting academic exercise for Tolkien fans. Christopher looks at the different versions of the story that his father worked on over the decades, as well as how they exist in relation to Lord of the Rings and the Silmarillion. Don't come to this expecting a compelling narrative or particularly engaging story; these unpublished drafts were that way for a reason. But as an insight to how Tolkien's writing process developed over the decades it's a worthwhile read.
More of a coda than the knockout punch that trilogies usually end on. Much of the same thematic elements exist as in the first two parts, with the question now being what one does when the corruption and rot of facism has settled around them? What do you do when you have no more principles left to sell? They're interesting questions, and the Carmichael parts of the story explore them well. Eliza, on the other hand, isn't quite up to dealing with those questions, and the parts of the narrative that she leads suffer for it.
This was a really neat read! In each chapter, Shoalts looks at a different pre-confederation map of Canada, and the conditions under which it was created. The maps range from Leif Erikson's first map of Vinland to the maps of the Arctic produced by the Franklin expedition, so there's a wide range of material drawn from. With each map, Shoalts takes time to present the cultural and political reasons behind each map's development, in a manner that is welcoming and open to those without much Canadian history knowledge.
Due to the nature of the book, it's not without its limitations. The book relies heavily on settler sources (although it does acknowledge the role of Indigenous people in the development of the country), and the map-making conceit means that a lot of the political and cultural history that shaped the country is overlooked. If you understand those limitations going in, though, it's a real treat, because Shoalts' ability to relate the compelling and complex nature of Canadian history is incredible.
This was equally fascinating as its predecessor, but at the same time it was a very distinct work from Farthing. While the latter was more of a country-house mystery, this one is a political thriller, and given the inherently political nature of the setting, that allows Walton to explore a bit more of the reality of her alternate history.
As in the first novel, we're looking at an alternate England that has secured Peace In Our Time by signing an armistice with Nazi Germany in 1940. The result is not only the nightmare of a Nazi-controlled Europe; we also see the corrosive effect that reality has on democracy in England, and even in familiar bonds and the general morality of the characters we see. The “Nazis are horrible and bad for everyone” theme would maybe seem more cliched in the hands of a less-skilled author, but Walton's rich characterization and foreboding plot add a lot of richness and depth to the story.
Perhaps most importantly, though: the plot revolved around a partially gender-swapped version of Hamlet (Hamlet and Ophelia are crossed, with the other roles still being played by their traditional genders). I need this in my life, because it sounds like it would be excellent.
There were some okay parts here - mostly surrounding Zahn's original characters (Thrawn, Mara, and Pellaeon). It was fun to get to see those characters again, especially as only one of them seems to have survived the switch in canon. But the plot was just kind of there, and the focus on the Rebel characters kind of made everything drag. I don't have that much interest in reading Luke at his whiniest or Han at his douchiest, but the placement of this novel between A New Hope and Empire kind of requires them to still be those people.
The Marrow Thieves is a story about finding and building a family, figuring out where you belong in a world that fears and hates you, and survival as an important part of resistance. It has a great, compelling story, characters that are immediately well-developed and easy to empathize with, and important, resonant themes.
A well-told dystopia should never just be about the future; it should also be a reflection on the hopes and fears of the society that it's created in. With The Marrow Thieves that's doubly true. The novel's central plot - of a society that's lost the ability to sleep, and which starts to kidnap Indigenous people due to a belief that they can bring the dreaming back, is a harrowing metaphor for the relationship that Canada has had with Indigenous people both in the past and the present.
The past aspect of that relationship is the most obvious one. Dimaline's characters speak openly about the history of the residential school system, and the intergenerational trauma that that system caused to Indigenous culture; beyond that, there are explicit parallels between the government's actions in the story and the actions of historical Canadian governments. It also speaks to how many non-indigenous people act today - they'll talk nonstop about dreamcatchers and spirit animals one day, and criticize movements like Idle No More and MMIW the next.
Yet another fun Torin Kerr adventure! Huff hits that mix that makes for a great military space opera: likable, relatable characters; intergalactic politicking; thrilling adventure; and a dark sense of humour that helps prevent the story from getting bogged down in the face of the violence that fills the characters' lives. I could easily read another twenty books like this, I like it that much.
The one downside to this book is that it's rumoured to be the last Torin novel - and it doesn't feel like that at all. The Big Yellow storyline gets resolved, obviously, but there's no sense of the ending of a story arc for Torin and the rest of Strike Team Alpha, which is a little disappointing.
Ministry Protocol: Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences
If you're a fan of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences series, or steampunk in general, you'll no doubt like this. Some of the biggest names in the genre contribute, and for the most part they manage to capture the spirit of the original series rather well. If you haven't read the series, though, I wouldn't recommend starting here.
This was an intriguing story just for the premise alone - missionaries and religious life were a very central part of the Regency and Victorian eras, and so much of the modern sci-fi and fantasy set in that time period leave it out to their detriment. But it seems obvious that, had 19th century Britain established relations with the fae kingdom of Arcadia, there would have absolutely been tracts on the nature of the fae soul, and missionaries attempting to convert them to save their Heathen Souls. This book does a great job of matching a realistic and recognizable British society with the absolutely unrealistic and phantasmagoric land of Arcadia.
Like any good faerie story, Under the Pendulum Sun is darker than you'd imagine, and unsettling in both its characters and morality. Ng fully embraces the Gothic style that would make sense for her setting, and leaves a story that's dripping with melodrama and suspense.
This was a hauntingly beautiful story about intergenerational trauma and how cyclical neglect can be. The horror elements weren't really “horrifying” in the traditional sense, but the overall mood of the story is tense and dreary. I had to take a deep breath at the end because I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath during the final section.
This had a fun “classic sci-fi” feel to it; Wells has clearly been influenced by authors like Clarke and Bradbury, and tells an enjoyable story about first contact (minus, of course, the casual sexism that one tends to encounter with classic sci-fi stories).
One thing that bugged me about the story, though, was that a lot is made of the protagonist's abilities as a linguist - both within the narrative itself, and in the title of the book. And her linguist skills end up not really playing an important part in the story at all. Instead there's some handwavy sci-fi tech stuff that renders that ability unnecessary. There's a place for handwavy tech stuff in sci-fi, but here it felt like there was a more interesting story that could have been told than the one that ultimately was told.
This was a great primer for people who don't know a lot about astrophysics and want to learn more. Dr. Tyson remains a great communicator of psychics and astronomy, and his combination of down-to-Earth metaphors and what he calls “the cosmic perspective” make this introduction to the science physics enjoyable and informative.
I wanted to love this. Really, I did. I likeds Stross' style in his other work that I've read, and the combination of old tropes and new presentation that The Bloodline Feud represented sounded really fantastic. And it wasn't bad? But for the most part it didn't live up to my hopes for it (This is admittedly my fault more than it is the book's).
Looking at it more objectively, the idea behind the story is still fascinating. Protagonist Miriam learns that she's part of a family that knows how to walk between worlds - specifically, one that never developed past mercantilism and another in an imperial Gilded age. Stross uses Miriam's ability to cross worlds to examine those systems, and how they compare to knowledge-based capitalism. While that's an interesting exercise, he's awfully slow on character development at the same time. It takes a good three quarters of the book for his characters to turn into people. This means that by the end of the book you're finally willing to check out a sequel to see what happens to them, so I guess that's a smart marketing decision? Makes for a bit of a feel-bad reading experience, though.
From a historical perspective, I can understand why this book is important. Gilman's satirizing of gender roles and gender essentialism were no doubt cutting edge in 1915; likewise, her critique of how patriarchy, capitalism, and colonialism are intertwined was pretty insightful. The problem is that a lot of her critique has become accepted reality in 2018, so it makes her commentary seem obvious and at times trite.
This wouldn't be a problem if the protagonists were anything more than the blandest WASPs that ever wasped. They're not, however, and the lack of strong protagonists for the story to hang from makes this more an interesting bit of trivia than a compelling read in my opinion.
Music is magic.
On a certain level, I think anyone who's ever played an instrument understands that, as does anyone who's ever poured their heart into a mixtape. Silvia Moreno-Garcia definitely understands it as well; Signal to Noise is a fantastic look at the power of music, and how the right song has the potential to change our lives.
Spanning across decades in Mexico City, Signal to Noise takes that connection between music and magic on a more literal level than that of metaphor - the three teenaged characters at the centre of the drama learn how to use their record collections to exert influence on the world around them, while their adult selves deal with some of the emotional fallout of those exertions. The two halves of the story are balanced well, and Moreno-Garcia creates characters that are easily identifiable without feeling like they're archetypal or cliche. The interesting nature of the characters, mixed with a soundtrack that's both mysterious and familiar, makes this a really engaging read.
The cover boasts that Signal to Noise would be of interest to fans of Stranger Things, and I get why the publisher would say that, but I think a better elevator pitch would be High Fidelity crossed with The Craft. If you were a fan of those films you'd probably dig this.