Chris Blocker

I love hearing Brother Cornel West speak. I've long been attracted to his unique perspective, style, and eloquence. He's a very likable and dynamic scholar. And that's why I've long been eager to read some of his works.

I thought all of these wonderful qualities would translate well to text, but they really don't. West's brilliance is here, but the POW! is missing. Partly, this is because this slim volume isn't given the space that is needed. Each essay is more of a snippet of a much bigger thought. Part is the age, most of the essays are from the early 1990s, and topics such as Clarence Thomas seem antiquated. Still, Race Matters is an important and very scholarly collection, but not one that left this reader in awe.

Joel Christian Gill's Fights gravitates toward a cartoonish style, but it's done with some skill. There are lots of nice illustrative details throughout and the colors really pop.

I absolutely love the idea for this story, and at times I was very much pulled in, but the overall arch felt very disjointed. Some events in the story happen without explanation (ie, what happened to Mr. Charles?), and the pivotal moments in the protagonist's journey to overcome violence didn't carry the weight I'd hoped for. It felt like the author had more he wanted to express, but perhaps wasn't able or allowed to channel.

Beautiful Kate is such a difficult book to review. First, the story goes pretty deep into some taboo topics. How does one talk about the merits of an incest story without sounding like a creep? Next, the novel shows off an abundance of racism and homophobia. From the first instance, I was uncomfortable, but I thought it would be relevant to the plot. It wasn't. At all. One could argue that it perhaps helps the reader better define these characters, but no, it doesn't. This was just one more thing to be disgusted by within these pages.

And yet, Beautiful Kate is a tremendously written and riveting tale of family secrets and loyalties, bursting with psychologically-complex characters and so much introspection. The pain of this story feels genuine. This is one of those rare novels that pulls a reader along easily, but provides more complexity than such stories generally provide. I'd like to have been given a better understanding of Kate; her character is so terribly troubled, but she doesn't receive the same narrative attention the rest of her family receives.

Beautiful Kate is a difficult, but sharp and absorbing tale, marred most by a terrible authorial decision to include completely unnecessary hatred.

I had such mixed feelings about this novel, We Need to Talk About Kevin.

For much of this read, I harbored feelings of great disdain. If I were not reading this for book club, I likely would've not finished. Though I pushed forward, I knew this book could do no better than two stars. Why?

Mostly because of the style of writing. Reading was terribly painful. The novel is set up as a series of letters from Eva to her estranged husband, Franklin. There are so many problems with these letters, and therein lies 90% of the problem with this story. For starters, the letters are overwrought. Eva is the founder of a very successful series of travel guides. She's writing to her husband. And from the first sentence, we get this:

I'm unsure why one trifling incident this afternoon has moved me to write to you. But since we've been separated, I may most miss coming home to deliver the narrative curiosities of my day, the way a cat might lay mice at your feet: the small, humble offerings that couples proffer after foraging in separate backyards. Were you still installed in my kitchen, slathering crunchy peanut butter on Branola though it was almost time for dinner, I'd no sooner have put down the bags, one leaking a clear viscous drool, than this little story would come tumbling out, even before I chided that we're having pasta tonight so would you please not eat that whole sandwich.

In recent times, I've taken to a little interest in “lost” novels. What causes a well-written story to be forgotten in such a relatively short time span? Last year, I “discovered” [b:Midsummernight|33016604|Midsummernight|Carl Wilhelmson|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1511747757l/33016604.SY75.jpg|53666568] by Carl Wilhelmson, a book written by one-time John Steinbeck roommate, a novel that has seemingly been forgotten. While Weeds is not nearly as forgotten as Midsummernight, it certainly has not received the attention it deserves.

Weeds, first published in 1923, rediscovered in the 1970s, has never been in the literary spotlight. When first published, it quickly went out of print. Efforts by small presses in the 1970s and 1990s to reintroduce the work have kept it alive, but it still remains largely unnoticed.

That's unfortunate, because Kelley has written a strangely riveting novel with such dynamic characters. Our protagonist, Judith, is unique and strong-willed, a woman with considerable potential who is constantly fighting against poverty and societal expectations. Perhaps what makes this story stand out from others like it is that Judith marries the one man in the region who is not only considerate, but “grants” her the freedoms she asks for. He's certainly not the drunk and abusive misogynist the reader likely expects. Despite this, Judith eventually learns that marriage and motherhood were not what she expected them to be, and refuses to be confined to such roles. These distinctions in these two characters build upon a story with multiple dimensions.

In the end, this story doesn't build up to much of a conclusion, and this is perhaps the novel's greatest weakness. Despite this potential misstep, Weeds is a wonderful look at the brilliance of one woman, struggling against the current in 1920s rural America.

This is such a tremendous and epic novel. I've long been intimidated to read it as this history is rather foreign to me and I've been told the cast of characters was large and difficult to follow. The same could be said of War & Peace and I loved that novel, so I'm not sure why I hesitated so long.

Mantel expertly brings history to fascinating life. This story seems so well researched and painstakingly sculpted. The events surrounding Thomas Cromwell were rendered with such care and attention to detail. I know so little about Cromwell–and I have my doubts he was as wonderful and generous as he is portrayed here–but Mantel certainly handles the subject with great care.

Fellow Indian Creek Elementary Class of ‘91 to MFA in Writing Alum.

Meet me on the playground.

There are some great characters here, as well as vivid writing and the frame of a wonderful tale. This is a fabulous read for someone looking for a light story with hints of social issues. Personally, I'm just too dark and depressed of an individual to believe in fairy tales (especially those without the outward appearance of being a fairy tale), and that's what this story feels like to me. There are some tough times in these characters' pasts, but everything that happens in between these covers is very light and very optimistic. I don't belittle the reader who wants to read happy books, I just don't personally understand or adequately enjoy it. With the Fire on High is a perfect read for those looking for a story that is based on the real world, but plays out nothing like it.

I remember that something about this book caught my attention when it was first released. It was sitting on a shelf of newly released fiction at my library, and I added it to my to-read list shortly after. It has remained high on this list ever since, but in the more than eight years that followed, I failed to give it a read. I wish I'd gotten around to it sooner.

East of the West is a wonderful collection full of interesting characters, fascinating stories, and language that is beautiful but never bores. No story collection hits 100% of the time, and East of the West is not an exception, but it is one that never dips low. Every story in this collection is tied to Bulgaria, and while there are many similarities from one story to the next, each is also entirely unique.

This is a fabulous collection and I do wish I'd gotten around to it sooner if for no other reason than I'd like to have read the author's subsequent novel by now. If you're looking for a riveting and beautiful collection of stories about a country you may not know much about, this comes with my recommendation.

Palmer's third novel confirms that the author likely intends to show some range throughout his bibliography. Each of his novels is wildly different from the next, and I personally love and respect that. In the same way that a writer such as Kazuo Ishiguro can pen half a dozen novels that resemble one another only in their themes of identity and acceptance, Palmer addresses the power of belief, the wonder of magic, and the role technology plays; and he does this whether he's penning a steampunk-influenced retelling of Shakespeare, or a physics-laden exploration of time travel. This time, Palmer steers the reader into the lane of historical fiction.

Have you heard of Mary Toft, the woman who gave birth to rabbits? I hadn't, but I could already tell you how this story would end. And it amazes me that the experts spent so much time looking for an explanation when the answer was so obvious. Dexter Palmer does an amazing job of shaping these characters in a way that makes their assumptions believable. In hindsight, it's maybe too easy to say, “well, duh,” but after reading this novel, whether it accurately depicts the doctors' true opinions and feelings at the time or not, I can see a different perspective.

Palmer's larger points about humanity's need to believe were spot on, though they may have dominated the story at times. Even with these asides, Mary Toft is strangely riveting. That said, Mary Toft has several horrific moments, a few which are revolting enough to distance some readers. Readers weary of seeing the worst in people may want avoid this one.

249 days! It took me 249 days to finish this tome. There were many stops and starts along the way. Sometimes, I'd put this book aside just to read something else. I may have had a rotational checkout of this book with three different public libraries within 60 miles. At seven months in, I was at page 452 and I didn't see the point of going on. I put the book in the “to-go” box and didn't look back.

Within a couple of days, I changed my mind. I didn't know if the reward would be worth it, but I wouldn't know if I didn't try. I committed to fifteen pages a day. I could finish Duck, Newburyport in thirty days. And that's what I did.

I really don't know what to say about this book. I will say it's an experience. Was the reward worth it? No, I didn't think so. It's like being promised a grand vacation as a child and arriving to find out that the descriptions of your destination were vastly exaggerated. It only took seven months of “Are we there yet?” One thousand pages of “Are we there yet?” 19,396 “the fact that”'s of “Are we there yet?”

And yet... there was something mesmerizing about this work. It's as if the long car ride were the point of the journey. And what was the car ride? Well, it was the scenery. It was the rhythm of the tires on the road. But it was long.

There was one thing that personally annoyed me at no end that I haven't heard others mention. Ellmann's narrator is constantly bringing up movies, talking about them as though the reader has any idea what she's talking about. I was familiar with very few of them. She doesn't explain the references, just jumps right into talking about them, which is expected from a stream-of-conscious narrative, but is terribly taxing on a reader who has no idea what she's talking about. And they go on for pages: It's Complicated, Jane Fonda, Air Force One, Paul Henreid... It was the part of the journey where your parents turn on the kind of music you most hate and sing along. Combining all the movie references with The Little House on the Prairie references, and you've probably got more than 10% of the book. That might not normally be an issue, but we're talking about a thousand page book here. You know, some of us still read books.

Ducks, Newburyport is unforgettable and certainly an accomplishment for readers who make it through. It's not a book I'd recommend to very many readers (or maybe any). Honestly, I don't think I will ever again hear that one phrase and not think of this book.

Ian McEwan wrote a children's book?

I was shocked to learn that indeed he had. And, somehow, The Daydreamer is far from being the most twisted kids' book I've ever read.

An adult looks back on some of his most memorable daydreams. Some are quite imaginative, some are creepy, and some are pretty typical of any creative child. A collection of imaginative vignettes, The Daydreamer doesn't strive to be more than a good tale: the kind of stories told within a circle of friends.

Okay, I know it's right there in the title, but somehow I thought this was going to be more of a socio-political exploration of the lives of the working class, less a bunch of stories. Putting that aside, I'm not convinced that Heartland completely works as a memoir. The author jumps around, leaves portions of her story untold or keeps the details shrouded. These omissions distanced me. It's fine for an author to exclude any details from their work that they wish to exclude, but doing so may require some patchwork.

I know I'm echoing others by saying so, but the decision to address the book to an unborn daughter seemed awkward and needless. The same points about being a teenage mother living in poverty could've been made without the cloying and forced second-person narration that likely pushed away many readers.

Those readers who are from a similar place (politically, economically) may identify with Smarsh's narrative. Those far outside may be enlightened. As someone close (geographically), but on the outside (city dweller, anarchist), I was not all that engaged. Yet, despite my grumbles about narrative choices, there's ample evidence of great writing here. Had I come from a different place, I may have connected with this book more.

When I'd started The Sea of Fertility series years ago, I'd noticed that the third volume had a significantly lower rating than the other three. At the time, I'd assumed this probably had more to do with readers not accepting Mishima's female incarnation. Nope, that's not it; this book just truly pales in comparison.

The first two novels in Mishima's reincarnation tetralogy were widely different from one another. This, I believe, showcased the different aspects of the reincarnated Kiyoaki. The Temple of Dawn is also very different, though I don't know that it really provides much insight into the current incarnation of the Thai princess, Ying Chan.

While every novel in this series is very much about Honda, Kiyoaki's friend who recognizes each rebirth, the first two said much about the first and second incarnation. The first half of The Temple of Dawn is all about Honda. It is his travelogue, philosophizing, and in-depth explorations of reincarnation. Ying Chan makes a couple of appearances, but she is mostly left out of the tale.

The story picks up significantly in the second half, as Honda settles down and the princess becomes more prominent; and while Mishima writes some gorgeous prose, the story is itself troubling. Aside from being a beautiful princess, Ying Chan lacks distinction. The deplorable behaviors of the other characters to possess her and her beauty was troubling. While Honda's previous regard for his friend was great and he made every effort to save him, here he views his “friend” with only lust, desiring to rape and kill. It left me uncomfortable not only because of the depravity of these characters–men and women–but because it seemed out of place against the earlier volumes.

The first half of The Temple of Dawn is painfully rendered; the second bears some semblance to Mishima, but not to this ongoing narrative or to the characters it portrays. I've really enjoyed the author's work up to this point, but this one was truly disappointing, and probably would have a lower rating if not for his other, more outstanding works.

Apeirogon is such an incredibly clever and affecting novel. With great skill and attention to every detail, Colum McCann delivers 1001 vignettes that come together seamlessly in the story of two grieving fathers, Bassam and Rami. There are so many pieces in this novel–all related to one another, but many loosely. It's fascinating how McCann successfully pulls together all this material–including nods to his own earlier novels–into a cohesive narrative.

And yet, it's so terribly convoluted for a reader. It's a little like viewing a huge mural shaped around a specific theme, and trying to mentally put all the pieces together. Because of this, I wonder if Apeirogon is a novel best read slowly, and repeatedly. It's a difficult task to take everything in. This is a novel that is brilliant and incredibly touching, but so meandering that it is too easy to get lost. I won't be surprised to see McCann net a nomination for a couple large Prizes with this one, but it's not likely to ever be regarded as one of his more accessible works.

I was immediately pulled into this story about the daughter of a famous actress and their relationship with one another. The writing is beautiful and intelligent. The set up left me wanting to know more, rapidly turning pages to find out what's next. There's a power in those opening chapters that brings the reader in fully. And there's such a promise of great things to come.

Despite the truly wonderful prose and clear insight into these characters and how they relate with one another, the story sort of lost steam along the way. The final payoff was very much underwhelming. I enjoyed much of this novel, but overall, I felt a bit indifferent. Still, I'd love to read more from this author and hope I get the chance to someday.

Brother, by David Chariandy, is an important and timely novel. It is composed with language that is precise and rhythmic. It is a novel that jumps around in time quite a bit, and only provides the pieces which frame the story in the concluding chapters. Once assembled, the story is perhaps a bit thin.

Largely, Brother is character driven and this is where it is strongest. As a character-focused reader, I thought the cast was great, but this 170-page novel didn't give ample room for everyone to be developed as much as I would've liked. I had a good sense of Michael and Francis, the main foci of the story, but would've appreciated more from secondary characters such as Jelly and Aisha.

Overall, this is a good novel. My biggest critiques are that it is disjointed and not developed as fully as I would've liked, but the skeleton of a great story is here, and the life that pulsate through these pages is strong.

Lord of the Flies is a novel that everyone seems to have read previously. I was never asked to read this book for school, and I never had a desire to read it. I don't know why. I guess by the time I'd really been given a proper introduction to this book, I was too old and it seemed like a juvenile story.

A few months ago, someone was talking to me about this novel and was surprised I hadn't read it. “It seems like something you'll love.” I don't know why she said this. I suspect it may have had to do more with me being a guy and this being a “guy book,” but I could be wrong. (Note: if anything, the “dick lit” label is generally a turn off for me.)

Aside from a knowledge that Lord of the Flies was about boys alone on an island, I wasn't familiar with this story at all. And yet, it all seemed so familiar. I'm sure that I've come across other stories that either referenced or emulated this one, and that explains the recognition. Regardless, there's a very classic, perhaps you could call it nostalgic, quality to this story. As I was reading, I couldn't shake a couple author comparisons: Golding reminded me at every step of the way of Stephen King writing in the style of Nevil Shute.

I suspect the reason this novel is so often discussed in high school is because of the discourse a group can have concerning theme. Much can be said about the behaviors of these survivors, but I think perhaps too much can be said. Lord of the Flies isn't a scholarly journal about human behavior, it's a novel meant to entertain. Though the intended message was far from subtle, this story succeeded in keeping me entertained. Particularly, I enjoyed the characters and their relationships with one another. I think Golding did a wonderful job showing the fractures and bonds of children.

I vacillated between a three and four star rating on this one, because it really isn't all that amazing of a story in many ways, but it is one that sticks with you. To honor Piggy and all the wonderful stories inspired by this one, I've decided the higher rating seems more apt.

Before we begin, let me say upfront that I am not your average YA/children's reader (some of you have undoubtedly heard this before). For one, I don't have the same degree of nostalgia for the books of my younger years as many avid readers have. (I'm not sure why this is. Perhaps I should ask my therapist.) Furthermore, I tend to nitpick many of the common traits of these books that I personally find annoying. I attempt to give these novels a rating that reflects my understanding that I'm reading a book for younger readers; yet I don't think writing for adolescents should be an excuse for sloppy or overly simplistic writing. Still, I read them because I know there are exceptions I want to discover, and because I want to be a widely-read reader. So I say all that to say this: my opinion of this and other similar books is merely the mad ramblings of a cranky, middle-aged man who might tell the neighborhood kids to stay off my lawn if I wasn't so incredibly socially intimidated by them. You can stop reading now.

What I liked... I wanted to read Darius the Great Is Not Okay because I knew it tackled mental illness, religion, and Star Trek. That's enough to make an easy sell with me. Of the three topics, I thought Khorram's approach to religion was the least simplistic: I didn't feel like he was trying too hard to constantly explain matters of faith to the reader, and this is a huge plus. I also enjoyed how the author handled the various relationships within this story. The bonds that Darius shared with his parents, grandparents, and friend (Sohrab) were explored with some care and introspection, providing the reader with different approaches to each.

What I didn't like so much... There were three elements I saw repeated here that I often see in stories written for a younger audience. And of course, they annoyed me. The first was the repetitiveness. There's this thing in children's and YA books where the same terms and phrases have to be drilled into the reader's brain. I don't know why this is, but it's a thing. One such phrase in Darius the Great... (though there were several) was “soulless minions of orthodoxy.” I love that the author gave a nod to Deep Space Nine (my favorite of the Trek series), particularly when the Trek in this novel is very TNG-centric, but there's a point when it's excessive–and that was probably the third utterance of the aforementioned phrase.

The other two patterns I saw in this novel was a need to simplify everything (I know the average reader may not be not fully developed, but must everything be explained?) and a primary focus on plot (this story was better than many, but it was still very plot-centric). But see, here I go being nitpicky...

Overall, I thought Darius the Great... was a better-than-average modern YA (yet seemingly written for a not-quite-YA audience?) novel. It tackles some important topics, even if these subjects are heavily coated in sugar for easier swallowing. I almost gave it four stars. And yet, it never takes on the subject that the book seems to be tiptoeing around the whole time... Darius's sexuality. Perhaps I was looking for something that wasn't meant to be there, but I can't help but feel the character of Darius was not allowed to say what he really wanted to say in these pages.

The House on Mango Street is really more of a collection of very short, atmospheric and character pieces than an overarching novella. Those looking for a story are going to be disappointed. But the writing–the settings, the character sketches, the lyricism–these are all so beautiful and so very strong.

I understand why some readers are underwhelmed by this book. Cisneros provides a window with an intriguing view, and most readers will not be able to keep from feeling moved from time to time, but the lack of a substantial story will fail to keep the interest of all readers.

I expected a high level of cringe with this one, but I was surprised. Certainly, I anticipated some degree of melodrama framed in the racist trope of black people being given a voice by their white liberator. And I can't say this novel wasn't without problems, the biggest of which is probably that everything revolves around Sarah: Hetty seems to exist as means for Sarah's story to be told. Kidd provides a surprisingly convincing voice for Hetty, but doesn't grant her the same purpose or drive as she does her white counterpart. Still, for as bad as this could've gone, this was actually fairly devoid of cringe.

What bothered me most while reading was how much Charlotte and Hetty got away with. Were the Grimkés really this “forgiving”? If not, why portray them this way? Would more realistic punishments have alienated Kidd's reading audience?

The story has a nice pace and a great structure. The characters are fairly realized and provide various degrees of inspiration. Maybe I just read through this one too fast, because I had to, but this story didn't stick with me the way I expect a well-told story to. The Invention of Wings is an admirable effort that maybe missed the mark in a couple areas, but can be commended for the areas where it excelled.

As a whole, I really enjoyed the Winternight trilogy. Generally, I'm not an easily made fan of series or fantasy, so the fact that this one made such an impression on me shows how great I thought it was. As a complete series, this trilogy currently holds the honors of being the most enjoyable thing I've discovered in the Fantasy section.

This third volume disappointed me, however. Whatever made those first two books in the series so spectacular for me was missing here. There's still the exquisite writing and the fabulous world building. The characters are the same, intriguing and flawed in the best of ways. And yet, the pacing felt off: we spent for-ev-er in Midnight, the final battle was over in a few breaths. Most of the dialogue took place with creatures from the Spirit World, and they just aren't as dynamic as humans. There's a lack of introspection that distanced me. And I really, really disliked the conclusion (in regards to the "resurrection"). I don't know, it just seemed to me that the scaffolding of a really great story was here, but there was a need to quickly sum up the conclusion of this trilogy and move on.

Thinking back on my fondest memories of this trilogy, nothing comes to mind from The Winter of the Witch. I still think wonderfully of the series as a whole, and that does affect my opinion of this one, but had I started with The Winter of the Witch, I doubt I would've read another.

DNF @ 35%

Prior to 2020, the only books I intentionally did not complete were those that left me so baffled or bored that each page caused me pain. These were the books that could put me to sleep mid-sentence, or that I couldn't find a single thread of plot or character to hold onto. Religiously, I finished books that were only slightly better, holding onto a hope that was rarely—no, more like never—realized.

I can do better with my time.

I've finally committed to allowing myself a little more freedom to let go. (Don't worry, I have no intention of becoming a chronic DNFer.) Unfortunately, I Hope You Get This Message is the first victim of this harsher criteria. One month ago, I would've pushed ahead, and I'm sure I would've probably given this book a reluctant three stars in the end. Instead, I'm deciding to throw in the towel.

Here's why I picked up this book: 1) The cover is very intriguing and eye-catching; Kudos to its designer; 2) The premise of this book sounded wonderful: a distant planet has decided to pull the plug on its colony—earth—and three teens whose paths cross must face truths and right their wrongs.

There's so much potential there.

And instead, what I found, was a juvenile story that had zero relevance up to the point I gave in. The world is ending and what do these teens want to do? They want to go to parties, and confess to those they've crushed on all of six weeks, and get drunk. I thought this was supposed to be the generation that was to give humanity hope—that's what I'm told every time I log onto Twitter. I didn't see the soul searching I hoped for. These teens are greedy, and they're frankly kind of boring. As the story rotates between these protagonists, I had trouble recalling what they'd been doing in the last chapter I saw them in. They made no impact on me whatsoever.

Also, the alien dialogue reminded me of something out of an Ed Wood movie.

This isn't a terrible novel, by any means. On the positive, the premise is strong and the characters have interesting traits and backstories. At the same time, I think the writing is sophomoric, the characters are flat, and the premise isn't fully realized. Maybe the story gets better, but given my record, I doubt it. And certainly, no matter what happened, this just wasn't one that was ever going to be great. Fortunately, I'm not the intended audience: I'm a forty year old dude who gravitates toward big-L literature, so take my opinion as someone who never owned a fidget spinner and who thinks any 90s hip-hop artist is superior to any radio-hit rapper of today.

Do teenagers actually use the phrase “Working hard, or hardly working?” That's something I expect from men twice my age who think they're hilarious, but definitely are not.

For me, this was a very “of the moment” novel. By that I just mean that it's tackling the subjects and using the vernacular you might expect of the era. I think this timeliness, mixed with the author's residence (Greenland), prompts a lot of praise. Despite this, I'm not convinced this is one that will stand the test of time (outside of Greenland).

There are some great tidbits of stories in here. The structure worked great. The reader is given five narratives, some of which overlap providing differing views of the same events. I particularly liked how a character easy to dislike at the beginning of the novel becomes the easiest to identify with in the end. But the whole thing feels a bit juvenile most of the time. There's a constant obsession with sex and alcohol, most of it comes off as very immature.

Last Night in Nuuk is a novel with some good moments drowning in adolescence and alcohol. It was a quick read, however, and it allowed me to scratch Greenland off my reading map.

Meng Jin's debut novel, Little Gods, is such a gorgeously constructed story. It's built on a sturdy frame, decorated beautifully, but it will have some readers scratching their heads saying, but what is it? What does it mean? And that is to say that it is mysterious, clever, thought-provoking, and may leave you with several questions.

Su Lan is a brilliant physicist with an eye always to the future. Liya is gifted with language and searches for answers about her mother's past. That's all you need to know about this novel. It is the marriage of science and language, the meeting of past and future. And though this novel featured less hard science than I'd expected up until the final moments, it never ceased to be intelligent. Equally, the lush language and the perfectly joined story elements came together into a story was that altogether very moving.

Little Gods is a poetic and intellectual debut that may have a little trouble finding its audience. It's one for those who don't mind having to put some thought into their read, but who also hope to experience emotion. Personally, I'd recommend it to readers of Light from Other Stars and Asymmetry.

Thanks to HarperCollins for providing an advanced copy through Goodreads Giveaways.