Review: Geraldine Brooks’ ‘Year of Wonders’

★★★☆☆

A 300-page historical fiction novel, Year of Wonders (2001) tells the story of Eyam, a Derbyshire village whose inhabitants famously quarantined themselves for over a year during the last major outbreak of bubonic plague in 1666. Though the virulence of the disease – which had ravaged Europe for several centuries – was at this time well-known, it remained largely untreatable. By refusing to flee, lest they spread the plague throughout the surrounding countryside, the Eyam villagers made a heroic sacrifice that saved many lives.

Bubonic plague is a grim way to die, causing intense fever and huge, painful buboes at the neck, armpit or groin. Without antibiotics, death within 10 days is likely. The disease’s European debut, the Black Death (1346-1353), was the most lethal pandemic in human history; even the most conservative estimates place the death toll at about 40% of the continent’s population.

Though the Eyam villagers faced this terror with exceptional courage, they were not spared. Bubonic plague spreads more fiercely in warm weather and, isolated throughout the summer of 1666, Eyam’s sufferings were nothing short of horrific. The church records from the time list the deaths of 273 people, out of a population that may have been as small as 350. If correct, this places the survival rate as low as 22%.

The Plague had already taken from me the greatest part of what I had to lose; what was left of my life seemed to me, at that moment, barely worth the effort of saving. I realised then that I deserved no great credit for swearing I would stay. I would stay because I had small will to live – and nowhere else to go.

When writing about people who lived long ago, it is easy to forget how human and like us they were. Often, historical fiction says more about our own view of the past, coloured by prejudice and assumption, than it does about the real figures and facts of history. Year of Wonders is a great example of historical fiction that truly humanises its subject. Though the characters of this novel are fictional, the narrative is characterised by its empathy for the very real people who died.

Our protagonist is Anna, a young widow who serves as a housemaid to the local reverend and his ethereal wife, Elinor. In a year of shared confinement, and with death all around them, social tensions rise, whilst social barriers of class and education inevitably crumble. As the plague tightens its grip on Eyam, Anna’s relationship with the Mompellions becomes increasingly intimate, and increasingly complex.

Unsurprisingly, Year of Wonders is a very sad book. Though Eyam’s story may be said to represent humanity at its best, it is a tragedy. The main reason I only gave this book three stars is because it commits itself, hauntingly, to the inherent sorrow of its subject matter, only to lose its nerve at the end. The eleventh-hour adventure arc that sends Anna off in pursuit of a happy ending left me frankly, flabbergasted. I found the shift in tone jarring, and the randomness of the ending was a real disappointment.

These memories of happiness are fleeting things, reflections in a stream, glimpsed all broken for a second and then swept away in the current of grief that is our life now. I can’t say that I ever feel what it felt like then, when I was happy. But sometimes something will touch the place where that feeling was, a touch as slight and swift as the brush of a moth’s wing in the dark.

It is a pity, because I absolutely loved the first 250 pages of this book, and I think it would have worked to leave things there. The final 50 pages feel rushed, and serve only to weaken the emotional force of the novel.

My other gripe is that I found Anna to be a somewhat undeveloped protagonist. She is characterised mostly through her relationships, particularly with Elinor and with her abusive father and stepmother. The insight we get when it comes to Anna’s inner life is limited. When traumatic things happen – a regular occurrence in this setting of sickness and societal breakdown – we know Anna’s thoughts, but rarely her feelings. I also thought it was odd, and a missed opportunity, that the book did not delve into the theme of survivor guilt.

Plumbing the depths of suffering and the dangers of superstition, Brooks crafts a complex, believable depiction of Eyam. Her cast are realistic, encompassing both the best and the worst of humanity. Well-written, and by turns moving and disturbing, this short novel really succeeds in bringing the horror of the plague to life. If not for the ending, I would have rated this much higher.

Review: Adam Rutherford’s ‘How to Argue With a Racist’

★★★☆☆

3.5 stars. I thoroughly enjoyed Adam Rutherford’s other books on genetics, so I figured it would be worth finishing the set. At less than 170 pages, How to Argue With a Racist (2020) is a concise read about scientific racism (known in certain circles as race science), and the lack of evidence that supports it.

My rating reflects my opinion that this book is somewhat dumbed down when compared with A Brief History of Everyone Who Ever Lived and The Book of Humans. How to Argue With a Racist also rehashes several topics that are discussed in Rutherford’s previous works. Here, the author delves a little deeper into the history of race, and there is some discussion about the false ideas about genetics and racial groups that were perpetuated specifically during the pandemic, but a lot of the content will feel familiar to those who have read his other books.

The focus of How to Argue With a Racist is the irrelevance of skin colour when it comes to measuring genetic variation in humans, as well as the unsavoury relationship between early genetic studies and eugenics. The mission seems to be to dispel outdated, disproven ideas about ‘racial purity’, and to dissect the pseudoscience that sustains false narratives about the existence of genetically distinct racial categories.

What we can also say with an arsenal of scientific ammunition is that though skin colour is the first and most obvious way we see humans, it’s a superficial route to an understanding of human variation, and a very bad way to classify people.

Not all racial stereotypes seem racist. At a glance, the idea that black people are naturally the fastest runners and the notion that East Asians have a gift for numbers seem flattering – we might even be tempted to use these examples to counter more negative prejudices. However, there is no actual evidence that connects physical or mental aptitude (or lack thereof) with melanin. These judgements, whether good or bad, are dehumanising, and serve only to blinker our worldview.

Deftly dismantling a number of common racist assumptions, Rutherford presents the facts through various case studies, including the relationship between IQ and malnutrition, the men’s 100 metres at the Olympics, and the higher mortality rate during the pandemic among BAME populations. The book also delves into the racial prejudices of early geneticists, many of whom were guilty of baking false assumptions into their research.

Another of the main thrusts here is the fact that classifying humans into subcategories on the basis of skin colour has always owed more to cultural, socioeconomic and geographical factors than genetic inheritance. The racial categories that we commonly use are simply not supported by our genes, something that scientists have known for a while – studies in the early 70s revealed that approximately 85% of genetic diversity in the human species is found within populations who share the same skin tone.

…every Nazi has Jewish ancestors. Every white supremacist has Middle Eastern ancestors. Every racist has African, Indian, Chinese, Native American, aboriginal Australian ancestors, as well as everyone else, and not just in the sense that humankind is an African species in deep prehistory, but at a minimum from classical times, and probably much more recently. Racial purity is a pure fantasy. For humans, there are no purebloods, only mongrels enriched by the blood of multitudes.

The sensationalised title does rather beg the question, so let’s ask it. Will this book equip the reader to argue with a racist? To change their mind? If the racist in question is prepared to look at the science with open eyes and to build a new belief system based on factual data, then I would say the odds are good. Personally, I am not sure whether such a racist actually exists, and I do not think this approach is likely to succeed in most cases. At the root, racism is a kind of fear, and rare is the emotional state that can be changed through rational, evidence-based discussion. Overall, the title of this book feels like something of an own goal, since How to Argue With a Racist makes no attempt to tackle the conundrum of how to make racists receptive to truths that contradict their worldview and personal feelings.

However, disheartening though it is to read about the unpleasant views that were once commonplace – and that still find support in certain corners of the internet – this book is uplifting in the sense that it shows the leaps we have made in understanding our differences (and, more importantly, our similarities). By dissecting scientific racism in all its most pervasive forms, Rutherford reveals it as a losing team in the search for truth.

I don’t think this is the author’s best book, but I probably would have learned more from it had I picked it up without background knowledge gleaned from his other works. It is a well-written and accessible text, and worth adding to your TBR if you want to know what our genes say about racial predjudices, origins and identity.

Review: Laura R. Samotin’s ‘The Sins on Their Bones’ (ARC)

★★☆☆☆

My reviews are always unbiased, but in the interest of transparency please note I received a free copy of this book ahead of its publication (Random House Canada – 7th May, 2024).

It has taken me far too long to write this review, but finally, here it is. Though I can’t decide exactly what genre to shelve The Sins on Their Bones under, I would say the vibe here is YA dark fantasy meets porno. Two stars is perhaps a rather generous rating, but the book did manage to hold my attention through to the end, and I think a portion of my distaste is owed to my personal reading preferences.

Dimitri, or Dima, is an emperor without an empire. Deposed and defeated on the battlefield by his traitorous husband, Alexey, Dima has fled, and now lives in hiding with his flirtatious spymaster, Vasily, and a handful of other loyalists. With the betrayal still raw, Dima dreads the possibility of capture and reunion with the abusive, controlling man he failed to kill when he had the chance, and who he does, even after all that has happened, still have feelings for.

The intended focus of the book seems to be the relationship between love and trauma, both in the sense that true, patient love can help us heal, and in the sense that misguided romantic feelings can sometimes trick people into staying or remaining emotionally invested in relationships that are inherently destructive.

Unfortunately, The Sins on Their Bones palpably lacks the maturity to handle this heavy subject matter with any delicacy. Though the characters are in their 30s, they read like young teenagers, and the book dwells more on the shock of sex and violence than on the surrounding psychology.

Smut is all well and good when it comes packaged in a robust surrounding plot, but on its own it is not the stuff of narrative substance. That’s even when it’s well-written, which is not the case here. It is impossible to discuss The Sins on Their Bones without addressing the sex, however, mostly because there is so much of it, but also because there isn’t much else here to talk about. The Slavic-inspired fantasy setting remains largely unexplored, the characters have few dimensions, and because so much is told to us through memories rather than immediate circumstances, the narrative is weak and lacks momentum.

Of the 400 pages, about 300 consist of angsty reflections, sex, and scenes of sexual domestic violence. The latter are made all the more unpleasant by the lack of clearly delineated boundary between Dima’s masochism and the abuse inflicted on him by Alexey. The sexual aspect of the romance between Dima and Vasily is also uncomfortable, as this relationship leans towards sexual exploitation and enabling. The blurred lines between what is meant to be amorous and what is objectively abusive mean the true focus of the book is the common ground between sexual violence and rough sex. This is exacerbated by the lack of clear expression when it comes to illustrating the fundamental differences between true consent and the illusions created by psychological manipulation and abuse.

I do think this book is the product of good intentions, and the queer-normative setting will appeal to a certain audience. I am usually a receptive reader when it comes to stories about found family and healing, but in this case I don’t think the writing actually does the work of exploring these themes. The focus on bodies and bruises feels lurid rather than provocative and psychological. Though there is far too much explicit content for this book to be classed as anything but adult, the characters do not have the depth for it to feel like a mature read in any other context.

The one thing I did like about the novel was the Jewish folklore. I found it refreshing to read about a magic system grounded in lesser-known religious myths and traditions. The Jewish practices and beliefs woven throughout the narrative do lend the book some character.

To sum, The Sins on Their Bones is easy enough to get through, but this wasn’t a read I can say I truly enjoyed. In my opinion, the manner in which this book deals with sexual trauma is both clumsy and vaguely sordid. The worldbuilding does have good bones, and the novel’s worst flaws might have been obscured had other themes been more developed, but because sexual violence is so much the main subject matter, it is hard to ignore the feeling that this book reads in rather poor taste.

Review: Fonda Lee’s ‘Jade War’ (#2 The Green Bone Saga)

★★★☆☆

Rating rounded up from 2.75 stars. Jade War (2019) is a heavier read than its predecessor, Jade City, and not just because it is 600 pages long. In essence, this sequel can be described as ‘the same but more’. Everything that is noticeable about the first book is carried over and amplified in Jade War, for better and for worse.

I had exactly the same struggle settling into the read. There are so many parallels in the opening chapters it is unreal – there is even a similarly gratuitious sex scene around the 50-page mark. Thankfully, things do get moving after 100 pages or so, and thereafter it was easy enough to rattle through to the end. Again, because I found the narrative fast-paced and gripping, I finished the book at speed.

I was hopeful that this installment in the series would be darker in tone, so was pleased to see this realised. Together with the fallout from the previous book, the events that take place in Jade War force the characters, especially Hilo, to get their hands truly dirty, which feels like a more mature, realistic take a family who rule by intimidation, and whose business often situates them firmly outside the law.

“Enough,” Shae declared, loudly enough to disrupt Ayt midsentence and be heard by those nearby. There was a ripple of astonishment through the crowd, and in the space where Ayt’s searing aura met Shae’s like lava pouring against rocks. Shae continued advancing, implacably, cold as the moon. “You’ve insulted and slandered me enough.”

With that being said, anyone who liked the first book for its characters will probably struggle somewhat with their less-than-heroic development here. For Hilo, Jade War is essentially a villain arc, to the extent that I struggle to see how he can be redeemed in the series finale. With Shae, aside from one cinematic confrontation, it’s an exercise in wasted potential. This book mostly just uses her for cheap subplots that feel fresh from a soap opera, denying her any real chance for growth. Anden, too, was a real disappointment. I struggled not to skim-read his chapters out of boredom.

From the outset, this series has tended towards plot-driven narration. This is magnified in Jade War, with events taking place over several years. There is nothing wrong with plot-driven narratives – they offer pacier, action-packed storytelling, and can more easily stage things on a grand scale – but they do require the characters’ decisions to be largely explained by external events. That isn’t the case here. Because every situation in Jade War is the result of the characters’ personal choices, we need insight into their inner lives to understand their reasoning. We don’t always get it. Life-changing decisions (and mistakes) are made without the emotional context that would explain them, which paints the characters as unintelligent and lacking in self-awareness.

…He’d viewed his situation in the bleakest of terms, as a jadeless, damaged exile salvaging what few options remained to him. Only now did it seem to Anden that perhaps there was a path forward, resolving out of the fog.

Also, whether the book actually reaps the benefits of plot-driven narration is questionable. Jade War is less cohesive than Jade City, the structure episodic and meandering, to the extent that the bigger picture is often lost. There was some info-dumping in the previous book, but here it seems to be the author’s weapon of choice in making things make sense. There is no knowing, of course, but I do think it is plausible that this book was rushed through publication in an effort to ride the coattails of Jade City‘s success, because the writing is less polished, and the story seems to suffer a lack of direction.

I’m giving this book almost three stars mostly because it was so easy to read, and because of that one knockout scene that still gives me hope for Shae, but overall I found this a disappointing sequel. Though it is a long book, the characters, who the first book established as complex, interesting people, are given little chance to shine. I also think there are several elements here, from poorly written sex scenes to seedy plot devices, that serve only to cheapen the series.

I will in all likelihood read the big finale, Jade Legacy, to find out Hilo’s fate – and in the hope that the author finally does Shae some justice – but I’m in no hurry. Sadly, this book curbed much of my initial enthusiasm for the series.

Review: Fonda Lee’s ‘Jade City’ (#1 The Green Bone Saga)

★★★★☆

It took me a while to get comfortable with Jade City (2017). Initially, I found the writing inaccessible, and I struggled to warm to the characters. It was definitely worth pushing through the first 100 pages though. By the end, I was reading into the small hours, simply unable to put the book down.

Janloon is a city ruled by two feuding Yakuza-esque families, both blessed with an affinity for jade that gives them enhanced martial art abilities. Kaul Lan, the ‘Pillar’ of No Peak, struggles to maintain a fragile truce with the Mountain clan, much to the frustration of his hot-headed brother, Kaul Hilo, who is ready to go to war in defence of his family’s honour. Their sister, Kaul Shae, has returned home after several years abroad, but remains divided between loyalty to her brothers and her distaste for her family’s machismo ways. Meanwhile, Emery Anden, the Kauls’ gifted cousin, is in his last year at the Academy. With relations between the clans worsening by the day, he must prepare to join the impending battle for supremacy.

I enjoyed reading Lan and Shae’s chapters more than Hilo and Anden’s, though Hilo did grow on me in the second half of the book – of all the characters in Jade City, I think he undergoes the most development. The only chapters I truly disliked were those that follow a secondary character, Bero. Thankfully he doesn’t crop up that often, but this perspective seems to have been included only for the sake of exposition.

“All right. Take the time you need, like you said. But there’s nothing to figure out, Shae. If you don’t want to be a Kaul, you shouldn’t have come back.” He raised a finger before she could reply. “Don’t argue; I don’t want to forget that I’ve forgiven you. You want me to leave you alone for now, I will. But I’m not as patient as Lan.”

The Kauls have distinct personalities and some major differences of opinion, which makes their family dynamic complex and realistic. I liked the various conflicts they face in navigating the difficult balance between familial love and duty towards the clan. Anden’s narrative is somewhat weaker than the rest, but given that he is the youngest member of the cast, I think it’s reasonable to assume he will become a more interesting player as the series progresses.

The East Asian-inspired urban fantasy setting works well as the clans’ battleground, and there is a real sense of intrigue. We can already see the influence of bigger powers that rule the world beyond the clans’ disputed territories, suggesting that the next books will up the ante and force the characters to play for higher stakes.

I ended up liking Jade City so much that I almost forgot the things I frowned at to begin with, but I could never quite look past a particularly gratuitous sex scene in the opening chapters. This crass introduction to Hilo’s girlfriend, Wen, reads like something out of the 90s. In the context of its female characters, this is somewhat true of the entire book. I have seen several reviews that praise this series for its strong women, but so far I don’t see it. Wen is little more than a sex object, Ayt Madashi – the leader of the Mountain clan – has no real presence, and Shae essentially surrenders her autonomy, which she won at great cost, in defeated acceptance of the path her male relatives want her to follow.

All earthly conflict, so the Deitist philosophers say, stems from the original offense of the children against their parents and of siblings against one another. All human progress and virtuous striving is likewise an attempt to achieve familial forgiveness and a return to the spiritually and physically divine state, which lies latently but distantly remembered.

Jade City is a fantasy novel, so I don’t think it’s fair to expect it to read as the most gritty, realistic depiction of organised crime and gang violence. With that being said, I do think this book would have been a better one had the tone been somewhat darker. At times, the author seems determined to present the Kauls as a kind of noble Samurai clan, forgetting that they are (supposedly) the city mobsters, and therefore amoral by trade. If there is any honour to be defended here, it is surely the kind that exists among thieves.

Also, because things are so toned down from the grim reality of living in a city ruled by gang activity, there is a sense that the book takes itself too seriously. The characters see themselves as a band of ruthless tough guys, but it is difficult to believe that they would fare well outside the protections of aisho. Even once moon blades come out and blood gets spilled, I found things a little soft around the edges.

Overall though, I do think Jade City is a solid, enjoyable read, full of good ideas. Despite the book having a few aspects that aren’t to my taste, I can see why it won so many awards. I am definitely invested enough to continue with the series, and will be sinking my teeth into Jade War immediately.

Review: Bernard Cornwell’s ‘Azincourt’

★★☆☆☆

I was surprised how much of an effort it was to finish this book. I find Bernard Cornwell’s Sharpe novels reliably good reading, and I enjoyed The Pale Horseman. Given that Azincourt is set firmly in the Medieval period, which is my favourite historical era, I was sure I was onto a winner here. Alas! How wrong I was.

Azincourt is a 450-page novel about the Battle of Agincourt (Azincourt is the French spelling). It’s 1414, and we meet our English hero, Nicholas Hook, at serious risk of the noose. Fortunately, his skill as an archer saves him from his enemies and sees him join King Henry V’s military campaign in France. Through his eyes, we see the events leading up to the battle and its unlikely outcome.

If there is something that Cornwell knows how to write, it’s war. As his Sharpe novels exemplify, Cornwell has a real gift for crafting compelling narratives out of the chaos of battles past. His books are always well-researched, and I think his passion for the strategy and ingenuity of warfare makes a good pairing with his ability to humanise men who killed for a living.

God had made the bow, a priest had once said in Hook’s village church, as God made man and woman. The visiting priest had meant that God had married heartwood and sapwood, and it was this marriage that made the great war bow so lethal.

We’ll get to other problems, but I think the most profound issue here is Hook, who is good at everything and never makes a mistake of any consequence. The ease with which he wins the complete admiration of all but the most objective villains makes him boring, and a borderline Gary Stu. An element of wish fulfillment for a male audience can be excused, but Hook’s characterisation hinges so completely on his role as the perfect soldier that he has literally no other qualities.

The stakes do rise as the novel progresses, so I was hopeful that Hook would develop more of a personality under pressure, but no. Whilst everyone else is facing their imminent mutilation or dying of dysentry, Hook is developing his reputation as the best archer in the whole army and having a great time with his zero-needs French girlfriend, Melisande, who simply goes where he goes without it ever being discussed. The relationship is too underdeveloped to read as a true romantic subplot, and seems to have been included only to burnish Nick’s macho credentials with virility.

Azincourt is a very violent book. Of course, any book about a battle will contain bloodshed, but the tone here is much gorier than Cornwell usually indulges. There is no real question that things cross the line into gratuitous violence, with regular depictions of disembowelment, castration and torture. It soon feels repetitive, and downright tiresome. Personally, there are only so many times I can read about someone getting stabbed through the eyeball (an almost comically frequent occurance in this novel) before it gets old.

‘I leave you the fingers for the string, yes? For her sake. But when the wolves close on you, Englishman, you and I shall play our game. If you win, you keep her, but if you lose, she goes to his marriage bed,’ he jerked his head at his slack-mouthed squire. ‘It’s a stinking bed and he ruts like a boar. He grunts. Do you agree to our game?’

‘God will give us victory,’ Hook said.

The sexual violence is just as bad, with the amount of times the book depicts women being raped, or being raped and then murdered, making for seriously bleak reading. Military fiction is not where I expect to find complex discourse about female emancipation, and it’s true that sexual violence is one of the realities of war, but I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect male-on-female sexual violence in fiction to be portrayed in a way that affords the women and girls some humanity. In this book, Cornwell essentially uses sexual abuse (actual and threatened) as a plot device to goad Hook into his own Christian salvation, presenting the issue entirely as a matter of male honour.

In terms of the setting, Azincourt is a very stereotypical depiction of Medieval times. The book is certainly researched, but the depth of Cornwell’s reading outside archery and the facts of the battle seems questionable. The world around Hook feels flat, and the book gives the impression that it does not understand – or want to understand – the code of chivalry, despite its major influence on knightly conduct at the time.

In essence, to believe this book is to believe that Medieval people, from the lowest peasant to the richest king, were ignorant savages who could only be motivated to goodness by the promise of heaven or the threat of damnation. Frankly, I think this is a very tired and reductive cliche. Overall, Azincourt is far from Cornwell’s best.

Review: Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s ‘The Beautiful Ones’

★★★★☆

This 290-page novel is a romance with a pinch of fantasy thrown in. Though it deals with themes of deception, betrayal and heartbreak, it is nevertheless a dose of pretty-people-in-pretty-places escapism.

Nina Beaulieu, 19, is new to Loisail, where she is experiencing her first Grand Season. The glamorous parties of the city’s wealthy and beautiful were supposed to be a chance to find her Prince Charming, but her rustic ways have made it difficult for her to fit into the cosmopolitan circles that her guardian cousin and his elegant wife frequent. Nina also has her ‘talent’ to contend with, which sends crockery flying across the room and shakes books off their shelves whenever she loses her composure.

Hector Auvray also has a telekinetic ability, one so perfected that it has taken him around the world as a touring performer. A rags-to-riches success story, but heartbroken, he has come to Loisail in search of his one true love, the beautiful woman who promised she would wait for him, then didn’t.

Young, trusting and naïve, Nina is ill-prepared to navigate the passions and pains of falling for a man with a complicated, unresolved past, but each passing day tangles Hector deeper in his own web of romantic deception. Will Nina’s love steer him from disaster, or will he remain caught by the spell of the woman who has always held him in her power, and who wants him to break his young friend’s heart?

“You said you wrote me a letter,” he told her. “What did it say?”

“Nothing important.”

“Nina, please,” he said knowing instinctively that it was important. And there was a coldness to her eyes, which had been gentle and honest. There were seeds of disappointment in the curve of her mouth, melancholy in her movements where before he’d only ever found a vibrant joy of the world.

Hector knew what she’d written. Not the words but the meaning. It was engraved in the space between them.

Though not particularly complex, The Beautiful Ones is a touching, heartfelt love story. It is fairly chaste (kisses and cut-to-black), but no less passionate for it. Together with the setting, the focus on manners and matters of honour lends a charming, old-fashioned vibe. If you enjoyed the writing style in Mexican Gothic, this book is similarly gorgeous to read. Like Noemí, though not as forthright, Nina is a passionate woman who lives life true to her heart. The two books are very different in tone, however – The Beautiful Ones lacks the darker, horror element that gives Mexican Gothic its edge.

Towards the end, I did find myself wishing that this book had a few more teeth. I liked its conflicts and the characters’ growth, but I found the ending a bit too tidy, and there are few passages of hammy description that lose some of the novel’s power as an illustration of the bittersweet perspective that comes from heartbreak.

I also think the book would have been a better one had Valérie been a more complex and well-rounded antagonist. As Nina’s rival in love, she is a naturally unsympathetic character, but I don’t think it was necessary for her to be written as such a pantomime villain. Particularly in the chapters that show us Valérie’s thoughts and motivations, things feel a little cartoonish.

Overall however, I did thoroughly enjoy this book. Far too much to rate it any lower. I absolutely love the lush, verdant quality of Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s writing, and will definitely continue to work my way through the rest of her books.

Review: Benjamin Liar’s ‘The Failures’ (#1 The Wanderlands) (ARC)

★★★★★

My reviews are always unbiased, but in the interest of transparency please note I received a free copy of this book ahead of its publication (DAW – 2nd July, 2024).

In short, wow! The afterword mentions that the author has been working on the worldbuilding behind this book (their debut) for decades, and the devotion certainly shows. The Failures is a heavy slice of literary high fantasy, and a real treat of a read. Worlds this clever and creative do not come along every day.

We are in the Wanderlands – a strange, subterranean realm that is falling steadily into darkness. The Silver Age is ancient history, and the scant light that lingers, scattered between rogue city states and the ruins of once glowing empires, is failing. The scheming Wise toy with the last pockets of civilisation, the encroaching night brims with strange machines, old magic and monsters, and there are rumours that the end is truly nigh. After all the long years of his imprisonment, the Giant lies still awake.

No doubt about it: this is a world in need of a hero. Too bad the one it once had has fallen from grace. Sophie Vesachai saved the world way back when, but now, 20 years later, she is just one among many lost souls trying to drink their way through the endtimes. As the past converges with the present, however, Sophie finds herself once again figuring in the calculations of powerful forces. Ready or not, willing or no, it’s time to rise to the occasion.

The Failures is a book of several stories which gradually tie together as the narrative progresses. The end result is a tapestry of interwoven plotlines that it is no exaggeration to describe as seamless. So often with books like this, stronger elements of the overall narrative are undermined by weaker plot threads, but I remained thoroughly invested throughout. Aside from Sophie’s narrative, I also really liked the tension in the Deader plotline, and the complex sibling relationship between James and Chris.

The worldbuilding is one of the best elements of the book. It is clever and complex, but not overbearing. The extensive lore of the Wanderlands bleeds through very naturally, and it feels like there is always more left to reveal. Though there is a steampunk element to the setting, the overall vibe is much less derivative than that word might imply. This is a machine world that melds machines with strange, ancient magics, often blurring the line between. None of the characters are quite what they seem, even to themselves, which deepens the narrative’s sense of eeriness. The book also makes excellent use of foreshadowing, whilst still holding some of its secrets until the very end.

The dialogue is often coarse, which I would usually find irritating, but in this instance I think it does help in making the book unpretentious, which might not be the case if the characters took themselves more seriously. This is a book that deals in big ideas and complex, deeply flawed personalities – I liked that this is balanced out by a lack of pomposity. In essence, this is a book that shows its intelligence without showing off.

I do think The Failures could have been better titled. Personally, I think the title is unappealing, and I would argue it does not reflect the substance or character of the narrative. Otherwise, I think this book is simply fantastic, and I am really looking forward to revisiting the Wanderlands in future. Given that this book is the product of so many years of work, I sense it might be a while before we hear anything about a sequel, but this is an incredibly strong opening to the series, and not a book I am likely to forget.

Review: John Wiswell’s ‘Someone You Can Build a Nest In’ (ARC)

★★★★☆

My reviews are always unbiased, but in the interest of transparency please note I received a free copy of this book ahead of its publication (DAW – 2nd April, 2024).

We’re barely out of February, but if this book isn’t my weirdest read of the year, I’ll need to spend some time reflecting on my life choices. A highly unorthodox fantasy romance, Someone You Can Build a Nest In is a thoroughly enjoyable, accomplished debut. Equal parts humour, sweetness and gory bloodthirst, this 300-page romp in the woods delivers a love story as strange as it is delightful.

Shesheshen is an amorphous, shapeshifting monster who survives by eating humans and using their bones and organs to sculpt her body into whatever form best suits the search for fresh prey. Born inside her father’s corpse, which she ate, together with her two siblings, who she also ate, Shesheshen is merciless, and motivated by nothing besides her insatiable appetite for human flesh.

Even the most terrifying monsters have their nuances, however. Catch Shesheshen at the right moment, and she might leave your eyes in your skull, at least for the moment.

Homily, a passing human, is lucky enough to stumble upon Shesheshen whilst our creature of darkest nightmare lies half-dead at the bottom of a gorge, too weak to attack anyone. In this unsuspecting (and juicy-looking) woman, Shesheshen has her first encounter with a human whose qualities include some basic humanity. After some tended wounds and TLC, Shesheshen takes the path of gratitude, choosing not to immediately devour this strange new acquaintance. And they say romance is dead.

Of course, love is never a story without a few challenges to overcome, and there are certainly some difficult conversations that need to be had when your species reproduces in the parasitoid manner of the Ichnuemon wasp (find a host, insert eggs, then watch one’s ravenous larvae devour said host from within). Also, there’s the small fact that Homily’s entire family are hunting Shesheshen, eager to stab out her heart. They are in for a disappointment if they catch her – the only organs she has, she stole – but still.

You would be forgiven for thinking that a book with such a bizarre premise is not worth taking seriously, but Someone You Can Build a Nest In is a more thought-provoking read than it might seem. It discusses the relationship between love and trauma in surprising depth. A fantasy (borderline horror) romance is not where I would have looked to find psychological complexity, but this book confidently tackles some challenging topics. Self-sacrifice, boundaries and bodily autonomy are all presented here with nuance. Though the narrative voice is more funny than philosophical, the author manages to convey some genuine wisdom about unconventional forms of love and what it means to be in a healthy relationship.

At 300 pages, this is a fairly short read. All very well, but it does lead to my one quibble, which is that I felt certain conflicts were resolved too quickly. To describe Shesheshen as inhuman is an understatement – Wiswell commits to a sense of ‘otherness’ on every level of his protagonist’s characterisation. Many would say that true love means loving a person for all that they are, but it is one thing to embrace a person’s little imperfections, quite another to take the murderous appetites of a truly monstrous predator in one’s stride. Personally, I felt Homily would have been a more well-rounded character had she struggled more (or at all) with the truths of Shesheshen’s nature. The ease of her acceptance made me wonder if she could truly see her strange lover, and whether she actually wanted to.

As a reading genre, I rarely have much luck with romance, so I was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed this book. It is a little trashy, but mostly in a good way. I liked the dark humour and the genuine conflicts standing between Shesheshen and Homily and their happy ending – miscommunication is not the only thing these characters need to overcome.

Overall, Someone You Can Build a Nest In is a fun, funny and surprisingly moving novel. There is a lot more here than the novelty of oddness. It is weird read, no two ways about it, but easily one of my favourites so far this year. I will be on the lookout for this author’s next book!

Review: Grace Curtis’ ‘Floating Hotel’ (ARC)

★★★☆☆

My reviews are always unbiased, but in the interest of transparency please note I received a free copy of this book ahead of its publication (DAW – 19th March, 2024).

The Ritz of interstellar sightseeing, the Grand Abeona Hotel is the best way to see the Milky Way. Cruising from star to star, guests can enjoy the landscapes and luxuries of the entire galaxy. Just make sure to take your bags with you when you disembark. Once the Abeona moves on, any forgotten luggage will be light years out of reach.

We meet our first character, Carl, initially as a young stowaway, then 40 years later, now the dad-style manager of the entire hotel. The Abeona is still the height of space travel, but things are fraying around the edges. With staff morale at a low and the overheads piling up faster than guests are booking in, Carl has his work cut out if he wants to save the hotel he loves.

You could call Carl the heart of the book, but he is not a protagonist in the traditional sense. Floating Hotel shifts perspective every chapter, offering a brief window into the lives of various long-suffering hotel staff and several hotel guests. My favourite chapters followed the hotel concierge, Uwade, and a disillusioned conference attendee, Professor Azad.

As is often the case with narratives that focus closely on more than one character, some of the perspectives are well-written, others less so. Some (Rogan), I found irrelevant and annoying, and others (Carl) were too cheesy for me. There are also some inconsistencies with the narrative voice throughout the book, including distracting patches of omniscient narration and random shifts between multiple characters within the same chapter. In places, the writing is insightful and heartfelt, but I found the unending string of new viewpoints and inner conflicts wearying.

My main issue with this read was its structure. The episodic, unconnected nature of the chapters just never quite allows things to come together as a satisfying overall narrative. Ultimately, the book reads as a series of vignettes. There are a handful of jigsaw pieces that string loose connections between some chapters, but for the overarching story to read as a single, cohesive whole, I think the individual perspectives needed to interweave much more tightly. Greater overlap and interplay between the characters would also have made this book seem more clever and less gimmicky.

It is difficult to determine how seriously Floating Hotel wants to be taken. The fact that the book is set in the cold dark emptiness of space does not diminish the overall flavour, which is oddly whimsical. A few moments of violence and the dystopian worldbuilding (which is anything but ‘cosy’) contrast with the gentle, humorous tone of the writing.

Overall, this book is less epic in scale and ambition than the majority of sci-fi novels, which gives it an intimate vibe. Whilst the plot does touch on space politics and the crimes of its authoritarian empire, there is no deep investment in anything beyond the hotel. This is a departure from the genre’s conventions, but the absence of desperate jeopardy and grim fights for survival is in some ways a pleasant change.

Unfortunately, I did think the ending of this book was a bit underwhelming, and the ‘message’ at the heart of the story – a random love letter to the hospitality industry – did not really resonate with me. However, all things considered, the strength of the writing does largely carry things off, and the unique character of the book does incline me to overlook most of my gripes. This is not a read I would recommend as a must-add for your TBR list, but if you are looking for a kooky slice of light entertainment, Floating Hotel fits the bill.