Sanibel

Daniel Silva’s Gabriel Allon books are my guilty pleasure. They’re like a bag of unhealthy snacks—no real substance, but I can’t resist them. Many years ago, while wandering around Barnes & Noble, I picked up The Messenger without knowing anything about Daniel Silva, the book or the fact that it was part of a series. I loved it, and since then, I’ve bought every book in the series. I’m a bit behind on reading them, but The English Spy was next on my list—or so I thought. As I made my way through the book, I realized that I’d already read it. But because all of Silva’s books follow such a similar pattern, I hadn’t remembered much of it. And honestly? I didn’t mind.

Gabriel Allon, the series protagonist, is an art restorer by cover and an Israeli intelligence operative by trade. Over the years, he’s tackled international terrorists, Russian oligarchs, and various enemies of the state, all while navigating the complexities of espionage and his own personal demons. The English Spy finds Allon on a mission to hunt down the assassin responsible for the bombing of a former British princess’s yacht. He partners with Christopher Keller, a former British commando turned contract killer, and together, they unravel a deadly conspiracy with ties to Allon’s long-standing enemies.

As always, The English Spy delivers Silva’s signature blend of espionage, action, and intrigue. The writing is crisp, the pacing relentless, and the plot full of familiar twists and turns. It’s exactly what I expect from an Allon book—nothing groundbreaking, but always entertaining. These are the kinds of books I pick up once in a while when I just want to enjoy the ride, knowing full well that by the time I finish, I’ll remember almost nothing about what happened. And that’s part of the fun.

I liked Foundryside well enough, even if I had some mixed feelings about how it blended fantasy and sci-fi elements. It had a strong premise, an intricate magic system, and a compelling heist-driven plot. So I approached Shorefall with cautious optimism, hoping to find a similar balance. There were so many elements I should have liked: the intricate magic system, the high-stakes conflict, and the return of characters who were undeniably well-crafted. And yet, despite all of that, I just didn’t care and I struggled to stay invested.

The story picks up a few years after the events of Foundryside. Sancia and her allies have built something new—a company that aims to use scriving for the benefit of the people, rather than leaving it in the hands of the merchant houses. But their progress is quickly overshadowed by the return of an ancient, godlike figure, one who threatens to upend everything they’ve fought for. What follows is a relentless battle of escalating stakes, as reality itself is rewritten in ways that feel increasingly impossible to contain.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly why Shorefall didn’t resonate with me. On paper, it has everything that made the first book interesting, but somehow, as a package, it just didn’t land. The story escalates at a breakneck pace. So it becomes difficult to stay grounded. The tension never lets up, and while I generally enjoy high stakes, this felt like strapping into a rocket that never stopped accelerating. We were already operating at a high level of tension from the start, and then it just kept pushing further and further into the stratosphere—until I found myself detached from it all. Instead of feeling thrilling, it became overwhelming.

The characters, too, left me cold. They’re well-crafted in a conceptual sense���complex, interesting, and distinct—but I struggled to feel anything for them. No one felt particularly relatable or compelling, and their struggles—while monumental—never quite reached me on an emotional level. It wasn’t that they were poorly written; rather, I just couldn’t connect with them in a meaningful way.

The most striking and memorable scene for me was when someone was forced to cut off their thumb. In the grand scheme of the story, it’s an insignificant moment, but it was so well written—so visceral—that it stuck with me far more than anything else. It’s a bit disappointing that, in a book filled with intricate worldbuilding and interesting characters, this is the one thing that truly lingered in my mind.

I wanted to like Shorefall, and in isolation, I can acknowledge that it does a lot of things well. But as a whole, it didn’t click for me. I’ll still be reading the third book—if only to finish the series—but I’m hoping it finally gives me clarity on what hasn’t been working for me in these books.

Victor Ray’s On Critical Race Theory is a short, no-nonsense guide to what CRT actually is—stripped of the political noise. He breaks down its core ideas in a way that’s easy to follow, showing how race and law intersect to maintain inequality. He touches on key concepts like the social construction of race and interest convergence (how racial progress tends to happen only when it benefits those in power). More importantly, he clears up the biggest misconceptions, like the idea that CRT is about blaming individuals rather than examining systems.

Ray also dives into the backlash against CRT, explaining how it's been distorted into a political boogeyman. He argues that the real issue isn’t CRT itself but efforts to shut down discussions about race and history. By connecting CRT to real-world issues—housing discrimination, incarceration, wealth gaps—he makes a strong case for why understanding these ideas matters beyond academia.

If you want a quick, clear, and thoughtful read on CRT without the noise, this book is a great place to start. Ray’s writing is sharp, engaging, and refreshingly straightforward, making a complex topic feel accessible and relevant.

I went into Long Bright River expecting a gripping mystery, largely due to the hype surrounding it. What I got instead was a heavy-handed commentary on the opioid crisis, police, power dynamics, and violence against women. While these are undeniably important issues, the book’s approach felt more like a lecture than a nuanced exploration, making it difficult to stay engaged.

On top of that, the story leaned far more into family drama than mystery. The protagonist’s strained relationships, childhood trauma, and personal struggles took center stage, while the actual mystery—the reason I picked up the book—felt secondary. If I had known what kind of book this really was, I probably wouldn’t have read it, or at least I would have gone in with different expectations.

Finishing Long Bright River took effort. More than once, I considered not finishing it at all. If you’re looking for a deep, emotional family saga with a social justice angle, this might be for you. But if you’re in the mood for a compelling mystery, I’d look elsewhere.

Robert Jackson Bennett’s Foundryside is a thrilling blend of heist, mystery, and inventive fantasy that grips you from the first page and doesn’t let go. Set in the city of Tevanne, where magic operates through "scriving"—a system of programming objects with written commands that alter their reality—the novel follows Sancia Grado, a skilled thief with a mysterious past and an unusual gift. When a high-stakes job puts her in possession of a powerful artifact, she becomes entangled in a deadly struggle between the city's ruthless merchant houses and something far older and more dangerous.

Bennett’s worldbuilding is top-notch. The magic system is both intricate and logical, offering fascinating possibilities while maintaining internal consistency. In fact, for me, this was both a strength and a personal frustration. The way scriving works is so well-explained, so systematic, that at times it almost felt more like science fiction than fantasy. I loved the book, but at the same time, I have complicated and contradictory feelings about it—while I admire the thoughtfulness of the magic system, I don’t necessarily want my fantasy to be so rational and well-explained, and I don’t want my sci-fi to have fantasy elements. I guess I might be discovering that I don’t like these two genres to mix too much. This isn’t a fault of the book at all, just a matter of personal preference.

That being said, Foundryside has so many elements I adored. The idea of objects "speaking" is fascinating, and Clef—the talking key—was an absolute highlight. I initially expected the story to take a very different direction with Clef, but I loved him (or it) regardless. The character dynamics are also strong, especially Sancia’s interactions with Gregor, Orso, and Berenice. Their contrasting personalities and complex relationships add richness to the narrative.

The pacing is brisk, with the novel reading like a mix of a cyberpunk heist and fantasy. The action sequences are well-executed, and the unraveling mysteries surrounding scriving and Sancia’s past keep the tension high. The story also doesn’t shy away from exploring deeper themes, including power, control, and the ethics of technology.

Despite my mixed feelings about how it straddles the line between fantasy and sci-fi, I loved Foundryside and will definitely be reading the second book in the series. Now that I know what to expect—a fantasy novel that speaks the language of sci-fi—I might enjoy the sequel even more.

Joe Abercrombie brings The First Law trilogy to a brutal, gripping, and deeply satisfying conclusion in Last Argument of Kings. If The Blade Itself was the slow burn of introductions and Before They Are Hanged was the high-stakes adventure that put its characters through the wringer, then Last Argument of Kings is the reckoning—where every choice, every betrayal, and every ambition collides in a blood-soaked finale.

The Union is on the brink of collapse, with war raging on multiple fronts—the Gurkish lay siege to Adua, the North is in turmoil, and behind it all, Bayaz, the ever-calculating First of the Magi, tightens his grip. Last Argument of Kings delivers everything we've come to expect from Abercrombie: razor-sharp dialogue, grim humor, and characters so well-crafted they feel unsettlingly real. Logen Ninefingers walks the knife’s edge between survival and damnation as he returns home to settle old scores, Jezal dan Luthar is thrust into a position he never wanted, and Glokta masterfully maneuvers through a web of politics, blackmail, and survival. The war escalates, alliances shift, and as the dust settles, it becomes clear—heroism is a lie, power is an illusion, and those who think they hold the reins of fate are merely its pawns.

I loved this book. It was disturbingly funny in the best way—dark, witty, and cuttingly cynical. I’m so glad I gave The Blade Itself another shot and stuck with the series because it only got better. Finishing this trilogy cemented Abercrombie as one of my favorite authors, and he’s officially on my auto-read list. With The First Law behind me, I’m diving straight into his three standalone novels set in the same world and then tackling A Little Hatred to see where he takes things next.

Abercrombie doesn’t just tell stories—he dissects power, violence, and human nature with a scalpel, and Last Argument of Kings is proof that no one does grimdark quite like him.

Akram Aylisli’s Stone Dreams is a controversial novella that delves into the complexities of memory, identity, and ethnic conflict in Azerbaijan. Originally published in Russian in 2012, the book sparked intense backlash in Azerbaijan, leading to Aylisli being stripped of his titles and even having his books publicly burned. It’s a bold, painful story that confronts past violence—particularly the anti-Armenian pogroms of the late 20th century—but also raises questions about how history is remembered (or erased).

The story follows Sadykh Sadykhly, an aging Azerbaijani actor, who is found unconscious and beaten on a street in Baku. As he drifts in and out of consciousness in a hospital bed, his mind takes him through his past—his childhood in the village of Aylis, his career, and, most importantly, his personal reckoning with the ethnic violence that has plagued Azerbaijan. Through Sadykh’s recollections, Aylisli confronts the anti-Armenian pogroms of Baku and Sumgait, depicting the brutality inflicted upon Armenian communities and the erasure of their history from the region, both physically and in collective memory.

Stone Dreams made me want to understand what came before and seek out more information about the region’s history. I had always been aware of the recent conflicts in the region, but they existed in the background for me—I never looked into the details. More than that, I wasn’t very familiar with the region’s history before the 20th century. After some research, I found myself frustrated by the book's one-sidedness. Aylisli paints a vivid picture of the horrors committed against the Armenian population but does not explore the violence experienced by Azerbaijanis with the same depth. Given that cycles of violence rarely exist in isolation, this omission felt like a lost opportunity for a fuller, more complex narrative.

Stone Dreams reminded me of Some Desperate Glory by Emily Tesh, which I read recently. While vastly different in setting and genre, both books touch on the inescapable cycles of violence, the moral weight of history, and the difficulty of true reconciliation. The tragedy of Stone Dreams isn’t just in its portrayal of past horrors but in how familiar they feel—how history repeats itself, how neighbors turn against neighbors, and how pain, when left unexamined, begets more pain.

Aylisli’s prose is evocative and introspective, blending realism with a dreamlike sense of memories steeped in regret and reflection. His depiction of violence is neither gratuitous nor sensationalized; rather, it is a lament for what has been lost—not just lives, but a shared history, erased by nationalism and war. Despite its flaws, Stone Dreams remains a powerful book, forcing its readers to confront uncomfortable truths. It is a story of guilt, silence, and, perhaps most tragically, the impossibility of true reconciliation in a world where wounds remain unhealed.

James Islington’s The Will of the Many tries to be a gripping fantasy filled with political intrigue, but in reality, it reads like unflattering YA—shallow, trope-ridden, and lacking the depth it desperately wants to have. While the book hints at grand, complex power struggles, it never quite grows into them, leaving behind a story that feels more surface-level than it should.

The story follows Vis Telimus, a young man with a tragic past who finds himself entangled in the power games of a Roman-inspired empire. Unfortunately, Vis is a painfully obvious male version of a Mary Sue— effortlessly skilled, impossibly cool, and endlessly brooding. He’s oh-so-tragic, oh-so-clever, and oh-so-annoying. Instead of feeling like a layered protagonist, he comes off as a character trying too hard to be edgy and mysterious, ticking off every trope: the lone survivor, the secret genius, the reluctant hero with a dark past.

The first half of the book drags. It’s slow, plodding, and filled with moments that feel more like setup than storytelling. The world initially seems interesting, but the more the book reveals, the flatter and less immersive it becomes. There’s a distinct lack of depth, both in the setting and in the characters who inhabit it.

Things finally pick up when Vis joins the academy. More characters are introduced, and—frankly—I liked most of them far more than the protagonist. With a bigger cast, the story gains momentum, and the political maneuvering becomes at least somewhat engaging. But even then, it never quite shakes the feeling that it’s playing at being a serious political fantasy rather than actually delivering one.

Is The Will of the Many a bad book? No. It’s readable, even enjoyable in parts. But considering the hype surrounding it, I expected a stronger story, deeper worldbuilding, and better-drawn characters. Instead, I got a protagonist who grated on my nerves, a world that became less interesting the more I saw of it, and a book that took far too long to become engaging.

If you’re a fan of slow-burning political fantasy and don’t mind a protagonist who embodies every tortured-genius trope, you might enjoy this more than I did. But if you’re expecting a game-changer in the genre, temper your expectations. Maybe, in time, this series will grow into the political epic it wants to be. But right now, it feels more like a book pretending at depth rather than actually having it.

Emily Tesh’s Some Desperate Glory is a profound exploration of vengeance, indoctrination, and the struggle to break free from control. Set in a future where Earth has been destroyed, the novel follows Kyr, a young woman raised on Gaea Station, a militant outpost obsessed with retribution against the majoda, the alien alliance they blame for the planet's annihilation. Trained since birth to believe in the righteousness of her cause, Kyr never questions her purpose—until she is forced to confront the truth about what her people have become.

At its core, Some Desperate Glory examines the cost of revenge, the difficulty of unlearning deeply ingrained beliefs and the dangers of a society built on manipulation and control. Gaea Station’s rigid hierarchy and blind loyalty turn its people into both victims and perpetrators, with every horror excused as necessity and every cruelty reframed as duty. Those in power seek to mold their people into unquestioning followers, using hate and war as tools to enforce obedience. Its leaders don’t just demand loyalty—they manufacture it, teaching their people to hate so they will never turn their anger inward. Kyr embodies this system—single-minded, self-righteous, and unwilling to see beyond what she has been taught. Her journey is not just one of rebellion but of dismantling the conditioning that has shaped her worldview.

Central to this unraveling is the majoda, long painted as inhuman oppressors. Their existence challenges everything Kyr has been led to believe: if the enemy is not a monster, then what was she fighting for? And if revenge is not the answer, what is left?

Tesh’s storytelling is both intimate and expansive, blending thrilling plot twists with deep emotional reckoning. Kyr is not an easy protagonist—harsh, judgmental, and steeped in ideology—but her transformation is gripping. The novel does not offer easy absolution. Change is painful, messy, and filled with resistance, as real growth always is.

Ultimately, Some Desperate Glory asks whether breaking free—not just from a cycle of violence and the past, but from the systems that sustain it—is possible. Forgiveness is hard, and escaping a cycle requires more than just recognizing the problem—it demands courage, self-reflection, and the willingness to build something new instead of destroying what exists. A haunting, thought-provoking novel, it forces both its characters and readers to confront the consequences of blind obedience, the cost of revenge, and the possibility of choosing a different path—one that redefines survival not as endurance, but as something worth living for.

This book shattered me and immediately earned a place among my favorites. It felt deeply personal—so many of the questions it raises are ones I’ve grappled with for a long time, without finding clear answers. The novel’s emotional depth, unflinching exploration of difficult themes, and gripping character journey made it impossible to put down—and even harder to forget.

Holly Black’s Curse Workers series was my guilty pleasure back in the day. I’m well aware of all its shortcomings — the sometimes thin world-building, the occasional pacing issues — but I loved it anyway. There was something irresistible about the blend of noir, crime, cons, and magic that hooked me, and I tore through those books like they were made for me.

Recently, while going through my shelves, I found my old Curse Workers books and got curious about what Black had written in the years since I stopped keeping up with her releases. That’s when I discovered Book of Night, the first in a new series, with a sequel set to release in 2025.

With a tagline like: “Charlie Hall has never found a lock she couldn’t pick, a book she couldn’t steal, or a bad decision she wouldn’t make,” how could I not pick it up?

Reading Book of Night felt like stepping into familiar territory, but with a darker, more mature edge. Like Curse Workers, Book of Night leans into noir elements—dangerous magic, crime, and a protagonist who can’t quite escape her past. Charlie Hall is a con artist, a survivor, and someone who’s spent most of her life making bad choices. She reminded me a lot of Cassel Sharpe, though her world is darker, and her mistakes feel heavier. Instead of curse magic, this world revolves around shadows—manipulating them, stealing them, and binding them in ways that feel both fascinating and horrifying.

The pacing here is slower than Curse Workers, more atmospheric. It’s heavier and leans more into psychological tension than action. The mystery unfolds in layers, and the story plays with trust and deception in ways that feel quintessentially Holly Black.

For most of the book, I was all in. I enjoyed Charlie as a protagonist—she’s reckless, sharp-witted, and haunted by her past in a way that felt real. I liked the way she navigates a world that constantly tries to swallow her whole. The world of shadow magic was intriguing, even if some of the mechanics felt underexplored. The plot had that classic Holly Black twisty, con-game feel, and I was fully invested in where it was going.

And then... the ending happened.

I can’t talk about it without spoilers, but I will say this: a choice was made that left me deeply uncomfortable. Not because it was a bad narrative decision—it made sense within the world, within the stakes—but because of what it says about love, power, and control. I understand why it happened. I even understand why it might have felt like the only option. But that understanding doesn’t make it sit any easier with me.

Book of Night is gripping, clever, and exactly the kind of dark urban fantasy I expected from Holly Black. It has all the elements I loved in Curse Workers—the morally gray protagonist, the magic-infused crime world, the tension between love and deception—but with a more adult, unsettling edge. I’d recommend it to those that like urban fantasy and noir, but with a caveat: this book lingers in ways you might not expect.

I’ll be reading the sequel. But I’ll also be watching closely to see how Black handles what comes next—because some choices aren’t so easy to undo.

P.S. This book also has a cat in it. Don’t know if you care about that, but you should. Holly Black writes cats really well. They always feel like more than just background animals—they have personality, presence, and a way of making their scenes feel lived in. Similar to Barron in Curse Workers, Lucipurr in Book of Night adds just the right touch of attitude and charm to the story.

If The Blade Itself was the setup, Before They Are Hanged is the payoff. Gone is the slow stage-setting—this time, Abercrombie throws us straight into the fire. The world remains brutal and unforgiving, but we see so much more of it. From the siege of Dagoska to the ruins of the Old Empire, every setting feels alive, dangerous, and steeped in history. While the magic and deeper lore still hold their secrets, we get tantalizing glimpses that promise more to come.

The real strength of this book lies in its characters and political intrigue. Glokta is at his absolute best, balancing survival and scheming in the doomed city of Dagoska. His razor-sharp wit and grim pragmatism make every chapter he’s in a joy to read. Logen and his reluctant companions trudge across the Old Empire, their journey fraught with tension and shifting dynamics. Meanwhile, West is thrown into the horrors of war, where his own darker instincts begin to surface.

Abercrombie doesn’t just develop his characters; he reshapes them. Jezal, once an insufferable noble, shed his arrogance and starts to see beyond his privilege as the harshness of the real world sets in. Logen, always trying to be a better man, can’t seem to outrun his bloody past. Glokta remains a cynic, but even he isn’t immune to small, surprising moments of humanity. Every choice they make feels consequential, and the lack of clear heroes or villains makes it all the more compelling.

The pacing is sharper, the stakes are higher, and the payoff for sticking with these characters is immense. Battles are chaotic and grim, victories feel hollow, and power shifts in ways that are as unpredictable as they are inevitable. Before They Are Hanged takes everything good about The Blade Itself and makes it better. It’s darker and more focused, with meaningful character arcs and political maneuvering that keeps you hooked.

With only one book left, I’m looking forward to a revealing and satisfying conclusion—one that answers the lingering questions while staying true to the grim, unpredictable world Abercrombie has crafted.

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.

At its core, Water Moon by Samantha Sotto Yambao is a story about choices, fate, and the lingering shadows of the past. It follows Hana, a pawnshop owner, who lives a life burdened by the unanswered questions surrounding her father who disappeared and the circumstances surrounding her mother's death. When Kei unexpectedly stumbles into her life, he promises to help her uncover the truth. Together, they navigate a world where the boundaries between destiny and free will blur, uncovering truths about themselves, the price of rewriting one’s past, and the cost of paving a new future.

I went into Water Moon expecting magical realism, lured by its promises of subtle, transformative magic intertwined with the mundane. What I found was something else —an urban fantasy dressed in magical realism’s clothes, occasionally flirting with its depth but never fully committing.

The novel starts strong, with evocative prose and intriguing world-building that hints at layered meanings. The opening chapters had me hooked, setting up a story that felt like it might deliver on the atmospheric, introspective magic I was hoping for. But as the pages turned, my excitement waned. The middle dragged, filled with fascinating ideas that were dangled like shiny objects but never fully explored or realized. By the time I reached the end, I felt a lingering sense of "what could have been." The conclusion wasn’t bad by any means, but it left me wishing for a deeper, more resonant payoff.

The book is sprinkled with lines that ache with potential: "Time has no borders except those people make," and "Losing your way is oftentimes the only way to find something you did not know you were looking for." These quotes capture the essence of what the story could have been—a meditation on choice, fate, and the invisible lines we draw around our lives. But instead of leaning into these philosophical undercurrents, the narrative often defaults to more conventional urban fantasy tropes.

One of the most compelling elements is the concept of the pawnshop of choices and the Shiikuin. The idea of trading choices and the consequences of those trades could have been a powerful metaphor for agency and regret. Instead, it feels like a missed opportunity, wrapped up in plot mechanics rather than thematic exploration. The book teases big questions about fate and freedom but shies away from delving into them with the depth they deserve.

The dynamic between Hana and Kei hints at complexity but ultimately plays it safe. Their relationship takes center stage a bit too often, and they fall for each other with unrealistic speed. Their interactions could have benefited from more tension and ambiguity, as the narrative opts for a straightforward path rather than exploring darker, more intricate twists.

Despite its shortcomings, Water Moon isn’t without merit. The writing is beautiful in places, and certain passages resonate deeply: "She was the moon in the water, close enough to touch, yet beyond reach," "Death is kind and swift. Longing is a life sentence," and "...life is about joy in the space between where you came from and where you are going..."These moments of lyrical introspection hint at the book's potential, even if they ultimately highlight its failure to fully realize it.

In the end, Water Moon is a story that feels like it’s constantly on the brink of something profound but never quite gets there. It’s the kind of book that makes you think, "Oh, I see where you’re going with this... but wouldn’t it be better if...?" I was looking for magical realism, but it turned out to be more of an urban fantasy with lyrical writing, leaving me more frustrated than fulfilled. But if you’re willing to accept it for what it is, there are moments of beauty worth savoring.

Reading The Magic Mountain was a slow but satisfying experience. It’s the kind of book that makes you feel like you're sinking into something vast, where time itself starts to warp—just like it does for Hans Castorp at the sanatorium. At first, the novel moves at an almost excruciating pace, describing every minute of Hans’s visit. Then time stretches: from minutes to days, from days to months, until eventually, years pass almost without notice. I loved this aspect of the book. It’s such a brilliant way of making you feel exactly what Hans is experiencing—the way life can drift when you’re removed from the outside world. It mirrors how time shifts when you’re in isolation, how routine can make the days blur together, and how life can slip away while you’re busy thinking about it.

What really stuck with me is how relevant the book still feels. The debates between Settembrini, the optimistic liberal humanist, and Naphta, a former Jesuit turned radical Marxist, feel just as urgent today as they did when Mann wrote them. The arguments they have—about progress, revolution, freedom, authority—are arguments you could hear in any modern political debate. We’ve had a century since this book was written, and as a civilization, we are still wrestling with these same ideological conflicts, still trapped in cycles of hope and destruction, still unable to settle the question of what kind of world we want to build.

I also loved the intellectual intensity of the book. Settembrini and Naphta’s scenes were some of my favorites—not just because of what they argued, but because of what they represented. The clash between them is so charged, so sharp, that even though they’re just talking, those moments feel as dramatic as any battle scene. Mann captures the allure of big ideas, the way they can shape people, trap them, or even destroy them.

The book goes far beyond politics, touching on themes of illness and health, life and death, love and obsession, and the tension between education and experience. It’s a novel about how people face—or avoid—reality. Hans arrives at the sanatorium as a blank slate, a passive man without a clear sense of purpose. But as time stretches on, he becomes immersed in its peculiar world, drawn into intense philosophical debates, tangled in romantic intrigue, and pushed toward a deeper examination of existence itself. It raises the question: is it wiser to remain an observer, detached and reflective, or to fully embrace life, despite its chaos and inevitable pain?

I also loved how Mann balances heavy themes with irony and humor. The novel is full of satire, poking fun at the decadence of pre-war Europe, the self-importance of intellectuals, and the absurdity of human behavior. The characters are exaggerated but never cartoonish—they feel real, flawed, and endlessly fascinating.

Yes, The Magic Mountain is a dense book, and yes, it requires patience. But it’s worth it. It’s a book that lingers in your mind, reshapes your sense of time, and makes you realize that the big questions of civilization—about power, ideology, and the meaning of life—haven’t really changed. If anything, they’ve only gotten louder.

Brandon Sanderson’s The Frugal Wizard’s Handbook for Surviving Medieval England is an isekai story with a clever twist: a handbook designed for time travelers trying to survive (and maybe thrive) in medieval England. While the premise is intriguing and the book shows flashes of brilliance, it ultimately doesn’t deliver on its promise.

As a fan of isekai stories, I appreciated the concept and the nods to irreverent classics like The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams and Bring Me the Head of Prince Charming by Roger Zelazny and Robert Sheckley. Much like those works, Sanderson infuses his tale with whimsy, sharp commentary on human nature, and a guidebook that serves as a constant source of humor and charm. The extracts from the titular handbook are a highlight—quirky, clever, and full of personality, they stand out as the most memorable aspect of the book.

Unfortunately, the rest of the narrative doesn’t hold up as well. Despite the promising start, the story quickly loses momentum. The plot, while functional, feels flat, and the characters don’t leave a lasting impression. There’s nothing glaringly wrong, but there’s also nothing gripping about the journey. It’s as if the book drifts into the realm of mediocrity, lacking the spark to make it truly engaging. Personally, I found myself stuck in a bit of a reading slump because of it, unable to pinpoint exactly why the story failed to connect.

That said, the artwork deserves special mention. The illustrations throughout the book are beautifully done, adding an extra layer of enjoyment to the reading experience. They help bring the world and the handbook to life in a way that the prose sometimes struggles to achieve.

In the end, The Frugal Wizard’s Handbook is an amusing diversion that never quite finds its footing. For fans of humorous sci-fi and fantasy, it’s worth a look for the handbook extracts and the artwork alone—but don’t expect a story as gripping or polished as Sanderson’s best works.

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.

James Logan’s debut, The Silverblood Promise, offers an intriguing premise and a compelling setting that hints at great potential, but the execution falls short in nearly every other aspect, leaving me frustrated and disconnected.

The story’s worldbuilding is perhaps its strongest point, with flashes of creativity that show promise. However, the narrative is bogged down by an overwhelming reliance on exposition. The entire book feels like a guided tour rather than an immersive experience. Instead of showing us the world, the characters, and their motivations, Logan opts to tell—often in clunky explanations.

The characters, unfortunately, are thinly drawn and inconsistent. The protagonist lacks agency, functioning more like a passive participant in a series of poorly-constructed MMO-style fetch quests. Goals are nested within goals, creating a disorienting sense of endless errands that feel more frustrating than purposeful. I often was left wondering, “What was the point again?”

Dialogue is another weak point, with unrealistic exchanges that fail to capture natural rhythm or genuine emotion. Relationships between characters jump inexplicably, lacking any meaningful development. Additionally, the characters often act outside their established (or non-existent) personalities, making it difficult to invest in them or their journeys.

Tropes are present in abundance but not in a way that feels clever or subversive. Instead, they seem thrown together haphazardly, as if the author hoped the mere presence of familiar elements would suffice. Comparisons to The Lies of Locke Lamora feel inevitable, but The Silverblood Promise lacks the wit, depth, and nuance needed to stand alongside Scott Lynch’s work.

To Logan’s credit, this is a debut novel, and there is a glimmer of potential buried under the shortcomings. With time and experience, the author may learn to craft more dynamic characters, build relationships that resonate, and create narratives that immerse rather than frustrate. But as it stands, The Silverblood Promise is an immature and uneven effort that struggles to deliver on its premise.

Final Verdict: A promising idea marred by poor execution, flat characters, and uninspired storytelling. Fans of fantasy may find hints of potential, but patience is required to wade through a disappointing debut.

Sophie Kinsella’s The Burnout is another delightful gem that effortlessly combines humor, heart, and life lessons. With her signature light touch, Kinsella introduces us to a story that feels both relatable and uplifting. The quote, “Pretty much everything I’ve learned in life, I learned from Terry,” encapsulates the wisdom hidden in everyday moments—a theme Kinsella beautifully weaves throughout the book.

The story revolves around a protagonist - Sasha - grappling with burnout—a feeling that so many of us know all too well. The constant chain of emails, endless calls, and never-ending documents at work can wear anyone down, and the main character’s struggles feel incredibly relatable, at least to me. Kinsella captures that all-consuming exhaustion and the yearning to break free with such authenticity that it resonates deeply.

One thing Sophie Kinsella does better than almost anyone else is writing those hilariously cringe-worthy “character is very embarrassed” moments. Whether it’s an awkward misunderstanding, an over-the-top reaction, or just bad luck, she somehow turns even the most mortifying situations into moments of pure comedy gold. In The Burnout, these moments provide just the right balance of levity to the heavier themes, making you laugh out loud while empathizing deeply with characters.

The setting of a run-down resort is a stroke of nostalgia, evoking the magic of childhood summers. The reunion of characters who once visited it as children creates a charming juxtaposition of past and present, and for anyone who’s ever returned to a place that holds treasured memories, it strikes a deeply personal chord.

This story reminded me of my own summers spent at resorts, the way they brimmed with innocence, adventure, and fleeting but cherished connections. Kinsella has a knack for taking what might seem obvious or even mundane and presenting it with a fresh, optimistic lens that feels anything but sanctimonious.

Her books always leave me feeling inspired, happier, and more optimistic about life, and The Burnout is no exception. It’s a perfect read for anyone seeking solace in the chaos, a reminder of life’s joys, and the beauty of rediscovering oneself through reflection, nostalgia, and a touch of whimsy.

What was I thinking?!

First time rereading in six years and what an excellent time to do so - June 2016 (if you read the book, you'll get the date). The book is still amazing. One day I need to read the second one in the series.

It was quite good. I just wish that the idea wouldn't be close to identical to I am Legend.

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.

Kate Morton’s Homecoming is a sweeping, multi-generational mystery that masterfully intertwines past and present. Set between Australia in 1959 and contemporary London, the novel follows journalist Jess Turner-Bridges as she returns home to Sydney after her grandmother, Nora, suffers a serious fall. As Jess digs into her family’s past, she stumbles upon the long-buried mystery of the Turner family tragedy—an event that left an entire family dead in mysterious circumstances on Christmas Eve decades earlier.

I loved this book as I have all of Morton’s works. I love generational mysteries because they reflect how history isn’t just facts and events—it’s memory, perception, and emotion, all tangled together. The past doesn’t exist in a neat, objective way; it is told and retold, reshaped by those who remember it, softened or distorted by time, guilt, or love. Every family has its own mythology, stories passed down that are more than truth or lies—they are something in between. Morton understands this deeply, and Homecoming explores how the stories we inherit shape us just as much as the truth we may never fully uncover.

What sets Morton apart is how well she writes people and their relationships. She captures the unspoken tensions, the quiet resentments, the fierce, complicated love that binds families together even as it pulls them apart. Her characters feel lived-in, as if they have histories beyond the pages of the novel. Jess’s relationship with her grandmother, Nora, is particularly poignant, highlighting the ways in which love is expressed—or withheld—across generations. The novel explores how misunderstandings, regrets, and long-buried secrets shape these relationships, making them feel achingly real.

Morton’s prose is lyrical, almost hypnotic, making the story feel dreamlike, as if the past is just beneath the surface, waiting to break through. Her settings are immersive, and the Australian landscape in Homecoming is as much a character as any person in the novel—lush, wild, beautiful, and haunted by history.

The story is like an archaeological dig site—each discovery leads to another, revealing and peeling back another hidden layer of the past that was long thought to be buried forever, drawing the reader deeper into its mysteries. With every chapter, another piece is carefully unearthed, slowly assembling a picture that is both more complex and more haunting than it first appeared. Homecoming leans more into slow-burn family drama than fast-paced thriller, but if you love stories that feel like long-buried secrets finally coming to light, this is a book to savor.