A House With Good Bones - T Kingfisher

 

About the Book

"Mom seems off."

Her brother's words echo in Sam Montgomery's ear as she turns onto the quiet North Carolina street where their mother lives alone.

She brushes the thought away as she climbs the front steps. Sam's excited for this rare extended visit, and looking forward to nights with just the two of them, drinking boxed wine, watching murder mystery shows, and guessing who the killer is long before the characters figure it out.

But stepping inside, she quickly realizes home isn’t what it used to be. Gone is the warm, cluttered charm her mom is known for; now the walls are painted a sterile white. Her mom jumps at the smallest noises and looks over her shoulder even when she’s the only person in the room. And when Sam steps out back to clear her head, she finds a jar of teeth hidden beneath the magazine-worthy rose bushes, and vultures are circling the garden from above.

To find out what’s got her mom so frightened in her own home, Sam will go digging for the truth. But some secrets are better left buried.

256 pages
Published March 28, 2023

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If you've read T Kingfisher's The Twisted Ones, then you know some of what you're in for when reading A House With Good Bones. We have the same familiar elements of the Southern US, which I summed up on Bluesky:

@tkingfisher.com novels have convinced me the American South has 3 things: 1) humidity 2) goth baristas 3) evil

In many ways, it felt like A House With Good Bones could have taken place only a few kilometres away from the setting of The Twisted Ones, as the vibe was exactly the same. Which is absolutely fine, and I appreciate that vibe because it reinforces that North Carolina really is like that (except possibly for the evil part; I wouldn't know, I've never been), and since I enjoyed The Twisted Ones so much, I was happy for another dive back into such an immersive and creepy presentation.

Sam temporarily moves back in with her mother, into the house that used to be owned by her overbearing and strict grandmother, only to find that her mother's personality is all but gone from the house. The walls have been repainted, artwork has been replaced, and it resembles nothing so much as the house when it was owned by Sam's grandmother, entirely unlike her mother. Moreover, her mother frequently acts as though someone else is in the house with her, listening, judging, creating an oppressive and confusing atmosphere right from the get-go. 

But it goes beyond Sam worrying that her mother is having mental health issues or is experiencing dementia. Mysterious things keep happening around the property, with everyone involved being reluctant to talk about it. Why are vultures watching the house so closely? Where did all the bugs from the garden disappear to? Who or what is touching Sam with scratchy bony fingers as she sleeps?

And yes, why is a jar of teeth buried under the rose garden?

Just as with The Twisted Ones, Kingfisher weaves real-world inspiration into her story, this time with connections to the strange alchemical attempts to create life from base elements, create magical creature like homunculi, and magic that is both healthy and something that borders LaVey-style Satanism. It made for a story that felt as grounded as it did fantastical. Though most of that element didn't come into obvious play until very near the end, I enjoyed seeing the set-up to the reveal.

Speaking of, though, that reveal really felt a long time in coming. Sam is a very logical character to follow, possibly a bit too much as she overlooked signs that pointed to the supernatural until it was shoved in her face to the point where she simply couldn't ignore it anymore, nor rationalise it away. I can appreciate that the character was trained in science, in analysing the minutiae of a situation before making judgment calls, and yes, also in being biased due to worry over her mother, but after a while it got a bit frustrating to see Sam once again ignore an obvious sign. It went back and forth sometimes, with her almost catching on, but then retreating into her own familiar logic once more. Realistic, perhaps, but still frustrating to read.

Now, I'm not the sort to review reviews, per se, but I've seen a number of reviews point out that Sam's weight shouldn't have been mentioned at all, as it wasn't relevant to the story. I wholeheartedly disagree. Sam lives in her own body, and if her body is larger than average, then she experiences that. She also experiences how society treats that. Her body has informed how she experiences the world and how the world experiences her, so while her weight isn't relevant to the plot, it's relevant to Sam as a character, and thus I have no problems with it being brought up multiple times.

Especially when Sam worries about how she would be treated by doctors. Unfortunately, women - and overweight women especially - do face pushback from doctors regarding medical treatment, with dismissing symptoms and blaming the problem on weight being far too common. I'm fat, I have experienced this myself, and so Sam's mental comments on her weight and how she's perceived by others felt very accurate, very real. I've had those thoughts myself. Her weight is as relevant as her love of British crime dramas, but I saw no reviews pointing out how her TV habits added nothing to the story. That alone told me plenty.

A House With Good Bones, ultimately, was a great story with awkward pacing. Most of the book was set-up for the reveal of how Sam's grandmother was involved in everything happening at the house, with Sam's stubborn refusal to connect the dots dragging things out. The last quarter of the book was almost non-stop action, filled with viscerally disturbing aspects that went a clear extension of things happening earlier in the story, but it wasn't a steady ramp-up so much as setup, setup, setup, ACTION. All the right elements were there, but it didn't quite work. Had I read this before The Twisted Ones, as they have many similar story elements, I might have been more impressed by A House With Good Bones, but if you're looking for a Southern Gothic horror novel with quirky humour and amazing characters, you're better off picking The Twisted Ones. A House With Good Bones wasn't bad, but it just wasn't comparatively as good.

Still, I enjoyed the hell out of it, and so far T Kingfisher is 3 for 3 when it comes to books of hers that I've enjoyed, so I consider that a win in my book.

And never forget: hurt people hurt people.

A Sorceress Comes to Call - T Kingfisher

 

About the book

Cordelia knows her mother is . . . unusual. Their house doesn’t have any doors between rooms―there are no secrets in this house―and her mother doesn't allow Cordelia to have a single friend. Unless you count Falada, her mother's beautiful white horse. The only time Cordelia feels truly free is on her daily rides with him.

But more than simple eccentricity sets her mother apart. Other mothers don’t force their daughters to be silent and motionless for hours, sometimes days, on end. Other mothers aren’t evil sorcerers.

When her mother unexpectedly moves them into the manor home of a wealthy older Squire and his kind but keen-eyed sister, Hester, Cordelia knows this welcoming pair are to be her mother's next victims. But Cordelia feels at home for the very first time among these people, and as her mother's plans darken, she must decide how to face the woman who raised her to save the people who have become like family.

352 pages
Published August 6, 2024

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It can't be easy to take the bones of a fairy tale and turn them into something that feels wholly original, but that does seem to be a particular skill of T Kingfisher's. While A Sorceress Comes to Call is apparently a retelling of Grimm's The Goose Girl (is it right to attribute that to the Brothers Grimm, when they were folklorists collecting the stories of the region?), having never read it before, I wouldn't have guessed it was based on anything other than the author's fantastic imagination. Not knowing part of the inspiration didn't detract from my experience or understanding of the story, though I'm now curious to see the narrative overlaps.

Cordelia's story, her slow progression of trying to survive her mother into trying to thrive despite her mother, was one that held deep resonance for me. My childhood wasn't as oppressive as hers was, but I still experienced a struggle to discover who I was and who I could become in spite of what my parents attempted to mold me into. I experienced a sheltered childhood where questions were frowned on and speaking my mind was treated more often as something to be punished than encouraged, so Cordelia's growth wasn't just one I could appreciate reading about, but it was read with so much hope for who she might be after the book ended, after she found a better place, and in turn what that could mean for my own experience.

It's amazing who we can become, when we're given what we need and encouraged to grow.

A Sorceress Comes to Call isn't just a coming-of-age story involving the daughter of a strict sorceress, however. The novel starts off with a moment of subtle horror, with Cordelia being "made obedient," where her mother essentially controls Cordelia's body, making her appear to be the model child who doesn't talk out of turn or fidget in church or do anything that her mother wouldn't want her doing. Being forced down in your own body, being made to sit so still for hours at a time, the muscles ache piling up and up and then cascading to the surface when you're graciously allowed to control yourself once again... There's absolutely horror in that, the lack of control, the pain, the fact that someone would do that to their child, sometimes to enforce good public behaviour but sometimes also as punishment, was terrifying in a way that's very down-to-earth, very real. There are parents out there who would do that to their children if they could, and that's stomach-churning in a way that carnage and gore just isn't.

A Sorceress Comes to Call absolutely does have gore, and some scenes that are quite disturbing in a classically horrific way. But some of what stuck with me the most was Cordelia's struggle against her mother's powers, and how horrifying it also is to be in such a situation.

That being said, there are wonderful beacons of hope and light in the darkness of Cordelia's life. Once Cordelia's mother gets her hooks into the Squire, aiming for a socially-advantageous marriage not only for herself but also eventually Cordelia, the two of them encounter a trio of friends who aspire to help Cordelia out of a very bad situation: Hester (the Squire's sister), and her friends Penelope and Imogene. While at first they don't believe in sorcery (more on that in a moment), they do see that Cordelia is in a predicament, and conspire to rescue her from her mother's clutches, or at least to give her some knowledge and security so that she can stand up for herself. Hester is a solid delight, with her sharp mind and intolerance for bullshit, and Penelope, well! Once you encounter Penelope in the story, she makes an amazing impression, and I love her attitude. Not that Imogene is bland or boring, but it's the other 2 who made the strongest impression on me.

Now, on to sorcery. Sorcery is a known element of the world the story takes place in, but only in small ways. Hiding skin blemishes, making an old horse look in better condition than it is, that sort of thing. Cordelia's mother has far more ability than that, and uses it both often and to her advantage, using the fact that people don't expect that kind of magic in order to hide in plain sight, at least for the most part. When something mysterious and horrendous happens, nobody believes magic could be involved, because magic just doesn't do those things. Except that it does, and part of Cordelia's struggle is to convince her newfound allies that she's telling the truth, that her mother's powers really are that strong, leading to the question of how to undo it and save not only herself, but the Squire, and Hester, and everyone else now concerned with Cordelia and her mother.

I don't want to spoil the story for anyone more than I already have, because it's a deep, dark, and delicious fairy tale retelling that blends magic and demons with the mundane lives of realistic characters, and deserves to be experienced properly by reading it for oneself, not just reading a review and seeing one person's opinions. A Sorceress Comes to Call is a fine example of T Kingfisher's storytelling, her ability to delight and horrify in equal measure, and to also to provide that ray of hope that shines through the stormclouds. Fans of historical horror and dark fantasy will find something truly special here.

Babel - R F Kuang

 

About the Book

Traduttore, traditore: An act of translation is always an act of betrayal.

1828. Robin Swift, orphaned by cholera in Canton, is brought to London by the mysterious Professor Lovell. There, he trains for years in Latin, Ancient Greek, and Chinese, all in preparation for the day he’ll enroll in Oxford University’s prestigious Royal Institute of Translation―also known as Babel.

Babel is the world's center for translation and, more importantly, magic. The unique magic system of silver working―the art of manifesting the meaning lost in translation using enchanted silver bars―has made the British unparalleled in power, as its knowledge serves the Empire’s quest for colonization.

For Robin, Oxford is a utopia dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge. But knowledge obeys power, and as a Chinese boy raised in Britain, Robin realizes serving Babel means betraying his motherland. As his studies progress, Robin finds himself caught between Babel and the shadowy Hermes Society, a secret society dedicated to stopping imperial expansion. When Britain pursues an unjust war with China over silver and opium, Robin must decide…

560 pages
Published August 23, 2022

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If I tried for a hundred years, I don't think I could come up with a story that appealed so well to my interests and philosophies. Babel was, and still is, a brilliantly executed story of language, of culture, of revolution, and how they all feed into one another, poisoning and enriching, uplifting and dehumanizing, all at the same time. It follows the story of Robin, rescued from a bad situation in China, raised by a stern man with great expectations: to master languages and earn a place at Oxford's Royal Institute of Translation, known to many as Babel. Once there, his task is to excel, to become one of the prized translators who can use silver to turn language into magic, the same magic that keeps the British Empire powerful and expansive. But the longer he's there and the more he sees, he comes to understand that empire is not without cost, and that cost might be too dear to pay.

I'm a fan of dark academia, and linguistics is one of my pet interests (heck, my blog name comes from the Japanese phrase 読書の秋, dokusho no aki, often translated simply as "autumn is for reading"), so a lot of Babel appealed to me before I even read the 1st page. The idea of sinking into a setting where the main character's general task is to study, to learn, to immerse himself in the art and science of language and translation was deeply compelling. It's a dream I used to have when I was young, if I'm honest: being given a prestigious position at a famous university, my expenses covered, and all I have to really do is devote myself to learning... I'd ask who wouldn't want that, but really, a lot of people wouldn't. But I did, and so following Robin's story allowed me a little bit of vicarious satisfaction. I might not be able to live that life, but I could read about someone who could.

But there was more to the magic of the novel than just the way words play off each other. The British Empire rose to power in no small part due to the way silver was able to carry the meaning between related words and turn it into something we would consider magic, but in many ways was a practical stand-in for technology. Inscribed silver bars made looms move faster, made guns more accurate, made buildings stay standing when they realistically shouldn't have been able to. It was a fascinating magic system, employing the meaning that lies between words in different languages, and using a metal to carry that meaning into the real world.

It sounds so vague when I say it like that, so I'll give an example employed by the novel itself. The Chinese character 气 means steam or vapour, but also carries connotations of energy, so using that character plus the English word for energy on a silver bar would increase steam-powered machines beyond what they could normally do. How this was discovered and developed, the book doesn't mention, but the power lies in the meaning between the two words. How they're similar, but also how they're different. It's an enormously clever way to look at language and translation, and I was fascinated by every example that the book raised.

But there's a catch. The more the empire expands, the more foreign words creep their way into the everyday language of the colonizers, reducing the effectiveness of those words being used in silver-working. Thus people like Robin, from China, and his friend Ramy, from India, have great value to Babel. There's a greater gap between their languages and English, so they have more to potential to offer the Translation Institute. And there lies the rub. They were lifted from their former lives, be those lives peaceful or troubled, and thrust into a life that told them, in myriad ways, that their only value was what they could give to Britain. Their homelands, their people, were just resources to be exploited, and they should take part in that exploitation because... Well, because wasn't it wonderful that they were given places at such a prestigious university, and wouldn't be it more wonderful to bring civilization to those poor ignorant savage people that they came from?

Throughout the story, Robin was approached by the Hermes Society, people who saw the truth of the way Britain was exploiting people and wanted it to stop. He often thinks they're planning to go too far with their methods, but when he sees firsthand how much destruction of China's culture that England has wrought, and how much more they want to bring in order to secure access to China's silver mines, something in him breaks, changing the trajectory of his life.

There's so much in Babel that deserves unpacking. Language, how it morphs and what it becomes, is at the heart of the story, but so is colonialism, and so is revolution. As is industrialization. It's a densely-layered story that presents a situation where there is no clear right thing to do, but so many wrong things. It gives us characters who are flawed, and in so many ways, but you can't help but love them because they're trying, against all odds, to do their best and make a good life for themselves. Not just for themselves, but for others, even when they disagree about what that better life should look like. It shows us that people can both love and hate a thing, take advantage of privilege while also trying to undermine the social structure that created it. People are complex and messy creatures, much like the languages they speak, and I loved that.

Like the system of magic employed in Babel, so much of what makes the book profound lies between the words themselves, not merely on the surface but below it. Kuang captured complex and contradictory concepts in her writing, and Babel benefits from taking your time to really consider what's being said, to not just connect with the surface of the story. You can't read it without being affected, on some level, by the ideas it presents. Whether you agree with Robin, or Ramy, or Letty, or Griffin, the ideas stick with you, get under your skin, and change the way you look at the world, right down to the words you use.

I closed Babel with tears in my eyes. I loved every moment of it, even the painful bits, and to say I want more of that world would be an understatement, but still. It ended at the exact right place, the moment right after the end, and before the beginning. What the future of that version of the world might be, it's impossible to say. It's left up to the reader to imagine. I think it's safe to say that this might be the most profound book I read this year, one that will stay with me for a long time to come.

The Only Good Indians - Stephen Graham Jones

About the Book

From New York Times bestselling author Stephen Graham Jones comes a novel that is equal parts psychological horror and cutting social commentary on identity politics and the American Indian experience. Fans of Sylvia Moreno Garcia and Tommy Orange will love this story as it follows the lives of four American Indian men and their families, all haunted by a disturbing, deadly event that took place in their youth. Years later, they find themselves tracked by an entity bent on revenge, totally helpless as the culture and traditions they left behind catch up to them in a violent, vengeful way.

319 pages
Published July 14, 2020

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The librarian warned me, when I borrowed this book, that it got dark. Dark and disturbing. She wasn't wrong. There was a lot about The Only Good Indians that evoked a visceral reaction, disgust and fear and that lingering feeling of dread when you don't know what the next twist will be, but you know it won't be anything good.

Generational trauma never is. And that's largely what The Only Good Indians is about, or at least that's the impression I got. The past catching up to people, not being able to escape the consequences of prior actions, and always waiting for people to see the worst of you, striving to overcome the ripples of something that maybe you did, or maybe you're just connected to someone who did, but those ripples hit you no matter what.

It began when a group of young men decided to hunt at a time and place they shouldn't, breaking taboos and hoping to make the best of it. But that hunt, those actions, awaken something that vows revenge for wrongs done, and then it stalks, biding its time, waiting to take away everything from the men who took things away from it to begin with. That's why I mentioned getting caught up in ripples. It's not just the men who did the deed who get punished, but those around them. How better to make someone suffer than by taking away the ones they love? To make them doubt their sanity and hurt others? How do you fight back against something like that? How do you begin to make amends; is that even possible?

I can't speak to the Indigenous spirituality shown on The Only Good Indians; that's not my area of expertise, and I know too little to claim otherwise. But I know enough of people to say with certainty that The Only Good Indians is, despite strong supernatural elements, a profound and evocative human story. It's about people trying not necessarily to escape the past, because the past shapes who we are now, but about trying to move on with their lives and make the best of things, to become better people than they were when they did something horrible. It's weirdly inspiring, if you overlook the way the past absolutely catches up with them. It's people just trying to be people, as best they can, all while a darkness chases them down.

The Only Good Indians gets gory sometimes, and distressing if you're sensitive to animal violence, but it doesn't glorify the gore, doesn't go over the top with it. What's there is disturbing enough, given its context, and there were more than a couple of scenes where I had to put the book down and just sit with what I'd read for a while, working through it and putting the pieces together while also trying to not just give up due to some more distressing aspects. The book is too good to give up on, I can say that for certain. It's not always easy to put those pieces together, sometimes a struggle to read the book's darker sections, but the story deserved my time, deserved my emotions, deserved me being challenged by what I'd just read.

It's a difficult book to talk about. The writing is beautifully evocative, the story terrifyingly dark and layered, full of social commentary, but the story is something that has to be experienced, rather than read about. Anything I writing in this review will not do the author's work justice. It's a tragic and brilliant horror novel, one that was never going to be an easy read, and I respect it for that. I'm interested in reading more of the author's work, and now I'm a bit more prepared to enter into that kind of darkness once more. The Only Good Indians is a book that leaves a deep impact, and deserves to be read more by horror fans and fans of Indigenous literature alike.

Song of Silver, Flame Like Night - Amelie Wen Zhao

 

About the Book

Lan spends her nights as a songgirl in Haak’gong, a city transformed by the Elantian colonizers. Her days are consumed by the search for knowledge about the strange mark—an untranslatable Hin character—burned into her arm by her mother in her last act before she died.

Zen is a practitioner—one of the fabled magicians of the Last Kingdom. He’s never seen anything like Lan’s mark, but he knows that if there are answers, they lie deep in the pine forests and misty mountains of the Last Kingdom, with an order of practitioning masters planning to overthrow the Elantian regime.

Yet, both Lan and Zen are hiding secrets—secrets that are buried deep within them. Secrets that even they have still to unearth. Both hold the power to liberate their land, if they don't destroy it first.

Now the battle for the Last Kingdom begins.

480 pages
Published January 3, 2023

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While I don't typically gravitate to wuxia and xianxia stories, it isn't as though I inherently dislike them. If the story sounds interesting, I'll read it, even if it isn't in the genres or subgenres I tend to prefer. This was the case for me with Song of Silver, Flame Like Night, which thoroughly impressed me with its story and commentary on colonialism and cultural identity.

Set in the Last Kingdom, an analogue for China that never once tries to be anything but that, Song of Silver, Flame Like Night follows the dual perspectives of Lan and Zen, both trying to survive as best they can at a time when their heritage is under threat from colonial invaders. Lan is a songgirl, an entertainer in a city largely given over to the invading Elantians, who steals moments here and there to investigate an invisible scar left on her wrist by her mother, many years prior. Zen is a practitioner, a student of the last hidden martial arts school, someone who can manipulate qi but who has to hide that around Elantians, lest they find the school and wipe out the last holdout of the country's old ways. Their stories converge, with Zen agreeing to help Lan find the secret to her mystery scar, and Lan getting training in her own newfound ability to manipulate qi, what the book calls "practitioning."

I often ended up pausing in my reading to contemplate Daoism; it was never called such in the novel, but the spiritual practices were also a clear analogue for something in the real world. Arguments ran around in my head. "If demons and such are born from high concentrations of yin energy, is there a corresponding bad thing born from higher concentrations of yang energy?" "What right do humans have to eliminate yao and other such creatures, if the Way is balance; shouldn't those yao also be part of the balance?" "If plants and animals can be surrounded by enough energy that they can gain sentience and become yao, then did humans start off as monkey yao?" By the end, I felt like I had so many questions that I'd need to find a whole panel of Daoist scholars so I could pick their brains! As I said in my review of David Walton's The Genius Plague, sometimes the best books are the ones that make you stop and really think about what they're saying.

I might have gone a bit overboard with that sort of thought process here, as Song of Silver, Flame Like Night holds no answers to such questions, but merely introduces some basic concepts of Daoism and lets the reader absorb them as part of the story. But I find that books which present me with a lot of food for thought are the ones I enjoy most, the ones that stay with me over the years.

Also of note was the way the novel subverts expectations in multiple small but important ways. Lan, for instance, masters practitioning techniques far quicker than most people do, but there's an actual reason for that beyond, "She's just that awesome." I hesitate to explain what those reasons were, for fear of spoiling too much of the later parts of the book, but rest assured that there is a reason. Too many books have phenoms for protagonists, and that's fine, but sometimes it's nice to see someone who's a rising star for reasons beyond being just naturally so much better than everyone around them. 

I will say that there were some aspects of the book that threw me out of my reading groove, though they were all related to the writing rather than the story itself. Multiple little niggling things that came through as carelessness at some part of the writing or editing process (I don't know which, and couldn't even hazard a guess). Things like an entire room being lit by the tiny glowing embers of a couple of sticks of incense, or a room being completely dark and yet characters can somehow see what's in there. A character calling someone "the Winter Magician" since childhood, but being being surprised that magic might exist at all. Little things like that, things which don't ruin the reading of a book but that did take me out of my immersion whenever I happened to notice them. 

Song of Silver, Flame Like Night walks a fine line between question and answer, between history and progress, between cultural change and cultural destruction. It asks the reader to consider whether it's worth it to return to old ways, whether doing so is even possible, and who has the right to decide whether things stay as they are or whether they change. It's a good book, one that manages to juggle action and introspection quite well. I'm interested in reading the sequel, when I can, since the ending of this book was such a cliffhanger. I went into it thinking it was a standalone novel, only to realise near the end that there was no way the story could wrap up before the final page. But not once did the story feel bloated so that the author could squeeze out a second book where a single book would have been fine. The pieces were right where they needed to be.

The Genius Plague - David Walton

About the Book

Neil Johns has just started his dream job as a code breaker in the NSA when his brother, Paul, a mycologist, goes missing on a trip to collect samples in the Amazon jungle. Paul returns with a gap in his memory and a fungal infection that almost kills him. But once he recuperates, he has enhanced communication, memory, and pattern recognition. Meanwhile, something is happening in South America; others, like Paul, have also fallen ill and recovered with abilities they didn't have before. 

But that's not the only pattern--the survivors, from entire remote Brazilian tribes to American tourists, all seem to be working toward a common, and deadly, goal. Neil soon uncovers a secret and unexplained alliance between governments that have traditionally been enemies. Meanwhile Paul becomes increasingly secretive and erratic. 

Paul sees the fungus as the next stage of human evolution, while Neil is convinced that it is driving its human hosts to destruction. Brother must oppose brother on an increasingly fraught international stage, with the stakes: the free will of every human on earth. Can humanity use this force for good, or are we becoming the pawns of an utterly alien intelligence?

386 pages
Published October 3, 2017

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I've often said to friends that the best books are ones that make you pause and really think. That isn't to say there's no room for fluff reads or that people who enjoy such reads aren't "thinkers" (whatever that means), because after all, I also enjoy a good fluff read now and then, but books like The Genius Plague are definitely more of the former than the latter. It asks questions about the nature of symbiotic evolution, communication, and acceptable sacrifice.

A new fungus has been discovered in the Amazon, one that infects humans with varying degrees of success. Those who survive the infection gain increased intelligence and pattern recognition, their neurons boosted by the fungus's own ability to send and receive information through its hyphae. But more than that, the infected quickly seem bent on expanding the fungus's influence to all humans, heedless of the fact that many won't survive the infection. There's an interconnectivity between the infected, one that prioritises the wellbeing of the fungus over the wellbeing of their hosts, though in absolute fairness, the fungus does boost a lot of physical strength and resilience in people. Those who survive that infection are going to become what we would think of today as almost superhuman.

Aside from the spy thriller aspect of The Genius Plague (which was very interesting enough, as it involves a lot of cryptography, and that's a hobby of mine), the setup really begs the question as to whether humans have a right to determine their own evolutionary future when it comes to something like a symbiotic fungus, as one of the reasons we are who we are today is due to something quite similar. Humans house within themselves a teeming microbiome of bacteria and fungi, ancient viruses helped shape our very DNA, and what's one more added to the mix when it can yield such obvious benefits? Some people won't survive, but that's just how the process of evolution works. If the situation changes, we have to change with it, we have to adapt, or else we risk losing everything.

I don't mean societally when I say that, but purely biologically, evolutionarily. Right now we're at a social stage where "survival of the fittest" holds less meaning for humanity than it once did, but we're still evolving, we're still adapting. Evolution is a tricky beast, with murky boundaries, and what helped us thrive once might not always help us thrive in the future. The Genius Plague poses that sort of "what if" scenario that makes us question what it means to be human, what it means to adapt, and what it could be like to play a more active role in humanity's genetic future.

As I wrote that, I realised that it could sound like The Genius Plague was condoning eugenics, and I don't think it was. For one thing, the fungus didn't "win," per se; humanity was changed by the experience, came away older and wiser for it, but it didn't enter some new "phase" of evolution. But there were echoes of eugenics in there, absolutely. Survival of the fittest, the so-called "acceptable losses" of those who couldn't survive the fungal infection being inconsequential against the potential future of a symbiotic relationship between humans and fungi... It takes the question of eugenics and frames it in such a way that it seems natural to fight against it.

But the framing, especially against the whole history of symbiotic life across the planet, did make me stop and think. It wasn't as cut-and-dry as you might expect, when seen from that angle.

On a less... distressing aspect of The Genius Plague, I want to talk a bit about the protagonist, Neil. He's the sort of character who has a good heart but not always the best head, and while he's an interesting person to read about, after a while I had to roll my eyes a little at how often he stumbles into situations because he's sure he's right and no one else could possibly understand or help, gets in way over his head, has to be bailed out while others clean up his messes, and the worst part is that the situations he bumbles into turn out to actually need something that he can provide. He was intelligent and had a lot of knowledge and passion under his belt, but some of the situations he found himself in (or I should say that he deliberately walked right into) stretched credulity after a while.

Still, he was a great character to follow along with. His interest in code-breaking and his treasure-trove of seemingly random obscure knowledge made him fascinating, and more than a bit relatable (ironic, then, that I said I rolled my eyes at some of the situations he got into where his obscure knowledge saved the day; though my own treasure-trove of random knowledge isn't going to save humanity!), and while he got berated more than once for not thinking before acting and ending up in situations he needed rescuing from, he never lost his conviction that he needed to do something. That sort of mentality can get burned out of us so easily when faced with adversity and a constant barrage of problems, but Neil kept his, and that part of him was easy to love.

Plus he's into cryptography, and I can appreciate that.

Overall, The Genius Plague was a fantastic and thought-provoking read that I might like to revisit in the future. It's fast-paced but feels like it lingers, weaving tendrils into your mind that force confrontation and reflection. For all that it asks some big questions, I never felt like I was in over my head, and I think Walton's writing was a big part of why. It can be easy to understand complex issues when someone explains it all in a clear and concise way. I'd like to experience some more of his writing now, after having enjoyed my experience with The Genius Plague so much. Loved it, would easily recommend it to speculative fiction fans who are looking for a story that skirts so close to believability that you start to wonder what might actually be possible in the world.

The Never Tilting World - Rin Chupeco

About the Book

Generations of twin goddesses have long ruled Aeon―until one sister’s betrayal split their world in two. A Great Abyss now divides two realms: one cloaked in eternal night, the other scorched beneath an ever-burning sun.

While one sister rules the frozen fortress of Aranth, her twin rules the sand-locked Golden City―each with a daughter by their side. Now those young goddesses must set out on separate, equally dangerous journeys in hopes of healing their broken world. No matter the sacrifice it demands.

512 pages
Published October 13, 2020

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Set on a world that has ceased spinning after a conflict between 2 ruling goddesses, Chupeco tells this story through the eyes of 4 different characters, whose respective quests coincide and lead them across burning deserts and night-blighted forest, to connect them all in ways they couldn't possibly have foreseen. Daughters of the aforementioned goddesses live in protected luxury, neither of whom know of the other's existence, but both of whom believe wholeheartedly that if they could travel to the place where the cataclysm happened, they can do something to reverse it and return the world to its former, more balanced, glory. Together with their guardians, they make the perilous journey, all of them learning more about themselves and each other along the way.

There were a few things that didn't work well for me in The Never Tilting World, though none of them completely ruined the experience for me. I didn't much care for Arjun, Haidee's guardian, as he felt poorly developed in comparison to the other characters. While Odessa and Lan had their tumultuous relationship, it felt like Arjun's presence served as more of a token convenience, someone who existed largely to give explanation as to how Haidee made it to her destination, and to also give Haidee a romantic interest, though I didn't really feel much between the characters. Not when on the other side of the world, there was a more developed couple (albeit a complicated on-again-off-again couple).

Besides that, there was the fact that the world had stopped spinning at all. It's an interesting set-up, but when it comes to the science, well, there wasn't any, not really. A world that used to rotate and then suddenly stops will have more consequences that just one side being constantly day and the other constantly night. Yes, I know it's fantasy, but I still like realism in my fantasy, and every time I thought about the potential consequences of an un-spinning world, it seemed there was only so far I could suspend my disbelief.

That doesn't mean Chupeco wrote The Never Tilting World badly. It just means there was one area I couldn't reconcile myself to. That's all.

That being said, the story overall was pretty interesting, though I had a clear preference for Lan and Odessa's story and Arjun and Haidee's. I enjoyed seeing their respective journeys across the world's dangers, both known and unknown, and seeing how they rose to the challenge or failed, how they discovered and rediscovered parts of themselves, and how willing the two young goddesses were to throw away everything they had been in favour of everything they might become.

Odessa, in particular, was an absolutely fascinating character. She started as a timid girl, but a determined one, and over the course of her journey and her acquisition of power, she not only became less timid, but more authoritarian, shaping her friends and guardians into something that would serve her interests at all costs. She broke boundaries, she did terrible things for what she felt sure were the right reasons, an exchange of her personality for the power to potentially remake the world and set it back on track, and seeing her transformation was enthralling to me. I've read a number of fantasy novels, but rarely do I see anything written from the perspective of someone who starts off fine and then succumbs to corruption along the way.

In contrast, Haidee's journey was a much less interesting thing to me, as it just involved, well, a pretty typical journey. Go new places, meet new people, learn a bit more about yourself and your world and the past, and then get to your destination. Haidee and Arjun's sections weren't boring, in fact most of the action seemed to be there, but I couldn't quite bring myself to care about them as much as I cared about Lan and Odessa.

For all that there were some aspects that didn't work for me, I did overall enjoy The Never Tilting World, and I'm curious as to how the story continues. The ending was the perfect cliffhanger, and there's clearly a lot more of the story to tell, so at some point in the future I'll probably see if I can see it all through to the end. There was clear creativity at work, in the world-building and the characters, and I'm always down for a good sapphic relationship. Even if this book didn't grab me as much as other books have, it was still pretty good, after all.

The Twisted Ones - T Kingfisher

 

About the Book

When Mouse’s dad asks her to clean out her dead grandmother's house, she says yes. After all, how bad could it be?

Answer: pretty bad. Grandma was a hoarder, and her house is stuffed with useless rubbish. That would be horrific enough, but there’s more—Mouse stumbles across her step-grandfather’s journal, which at first seems to be filled with nonsensical rants…until Mouse encounters some of the terrifying things he described for herself.

Alone in the woods with her dog, Mouse finds herself face to face with a series of impossible terrors—because sometimes the things that go bump in the night are real, and they’re looking for you. And if she doesn’t face them head on, she might not survive to tell the tale.

400 pages
Published October 1, 2019

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I spent an afternoon in the library one day, waiting for a ride home after a doctor’s appointment, and to pass the time, I sat reading T Kingfisher’s The Twisted Ones. It turned out to be the best decision I’d made all day.

Mouse is tasked with cleaning out her deceased grandmother’s house, discovering not only that grandma was a hoarder in her elder years, but also that there are mysterious and deeply creepy things happening in the area. Things that can’t be explained rationally, and that don’t always have explanations or answers at the end.

The lack of answers made The Twisted Ones even more compelling, in my mind.

I’ve read a couple of things by Kingfisher before, but The Twisted Ones resonated in a way I didn’t expect. Not necessarily with characters I related to or settings I was familiar with, but by plucking a chord of disturbance in me, one which kept me hooked for the whole reading experience. Watching Mouse struggle not only with the relative mundanity of cleaning a house and coping with family issues, but with the supernatural elements that keep forcing their way into her life. A mysterious journal left by her grandfather, a desolate hill in the woods that keeps appearing and disappearing, and what feels an awful lot like dark faerie lore meets Southern gothic. There’s so much to unpack that trying to write this review feels awkward, like I’m not doing a proper job of explaining just how fantastic and dark and creepy The Twisted Ones was.

…and I made faces like the faces in the rocks, and I twisted myself about like the twisted ones…

Even before all the truly terrifying things happened, Kingfisher builds a tense atmosphere with small explained incidents. The house she’s cleaning, packed with years and years of hoarded items, feels suffocating and oppressive, like wherever you go within it is just going to be as bad as the last room. No escape, no reprieve, and yet it’s where Mouse is stuck. Then you throw in Mouse seeing glimpses of something in the woods, or the figure peeking through the window, or the way voices and urges keep popping into her head, slowly ramps up the terror. The best analogy I can come up with is how you can be in a bath that’s slowly getting warmer, and you don’t always notice how hot it’s gotten until it’s too hot. The horror in The Twisted Ones is a bit like that. The small creeps add up until everything fits together and you find yourself, and the characters, running for their lives, terrified of what they know is behind them, and also what might be behind them.

I mentioned earlier that there are things in this novel that go unexplained by the end, and while that can be a turn-off for some readers (and I absolutely understand why), I think it worked well here. We learned everything that Mouse learned, and in the end she was more interested in fleeing for her life and getting to safety than she was in sticking around and trying to dig up lore about beings that may have originated across the ocean, and who were trying to kill her besides! I wouldn’t stick around either, no matter how curious I was. So while there are a few things I can infer, readers don’t get a concrete explanation of everything that led to the events of The Twisted Ones. I can see how that would leave some people disappointed, but for my part, I thought it fit well.

There was an author note included at the back of the book which talked about Kingfisher’s inspiration, a short story by Welsh author Arthur Machen, titled The White People (which I haven’t read, but now very much want to). It, too, apparently ends without a conclusive explanation for everything that happened, making The Twisted Ones a great reflection of the source material.

Despite the high creep factor and the tense atmosphere, The Twisted Ones is a book I want to reread at some point in the future. Probably after reading The White People, to gain better context. Since it’s a novel that builds its mystery piece by piece, layer by layer, that makes it an excellent candidate for a re-read, to see what ends up having greater significance early on, after knowing how it all ends. Also it was just a damn good book; I have yet to read anything that T Kingfisher has written that I haven’t deeply enjoyed. Even if it scares the pants off me!

The characters were a joy to follow (Mouse’s narrative voice was great, Foxy had a truly wicked sense of humour and personality, and Bongo is a doofy lovable dog who, yes, survives the horrific events he and his human were subjected to), the setting was strange and compelling, and Kingfisher’s writing style made The Twisted Ones a spine-tingling page-turner that deserves a spot on the bookshelves of everyone who loves horror and folklore.

The Memory Police - Yoko Ogawa

 

About the Book

A haunting Orwellian novel about the terrors of state surveillance, from the acclaimed author of The Housekeeper and the Professor.

On an unnamed island, objects are disappearing: first hats, then ribbons, birds, roses. . . . Most of the inhabitants are oblivious to these changes, while those few able to recall the lost objects live in fear of the draconian Memory Police, who are committed to ensuring that what has disappeared remains forgotten. When a young writer discovers that her editor is in danger, she concocts a plan to hide him beneath her floorboards, and together they cling to her writing as the last way of preserving the past. Powerful and provocative, The Memory Police is a stunning novel about the trauma of loss.

228 pages
Published July 28, 2020

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Yoko Ogawa’s The Memory Police is, on its surface, a story about a novelist living on an island where people’s memories, and thus their connection to and understand of things, disappears. When something from the island disappears – for instance, shoes – people burn or throw away the useless vestiges of items that no longer mean anything. What good is having a shoe around when you don’t know what to do with it, when you can’t remember doing anything with it at all?

This is all facilitated by the Memory Police, who ensure that people properly dispose of their unneeded disappeared-memory items, while also seeking out those few in society who, for whatever reason, are still able to remember.

For most of the book, this character, known only as R, hides out in a small room inside the protagonist’s house, keeping himself safe from the Memory Police, at great risk to the protagonist herself. Nobody knows what will happen if the Memory Police catch them, only that they’ll be taken away and never return. Lack of knowing keeps them both paralysed, stuck in place due to their fear.

It’s not hard to see how this setup makes for some brilliant commentary on society, on language and memory, and on oppressive regimes. The unnamed protagonist (almost nobody has a name in The Memory Police) takes it upon herself to hide a close acquaintance after he reveals that he’s on of those few who can still remember. His ability to retain his memories makes an heartbreaking but fascination juxtaposition, with him trying his best to get the protagonist to remember again, to reform her heart and soul with memories of beloved things from the past, and the disappointment the protagonist feels when she can’t, when at most she gets fleeting feelings that dissipate almost as quickly as they came.

And I do meant heartbreaking. At the beginning of the story, things feel interesting, and it’s easy to get invested in the life of the novelist and those around her. But the more I read, the more it became clear that there was no happy ending here, no way it could all be turned around and everyone could get their memories back and live happily ever after. I read the final page, closed the book, and felt hollow inside.

On one hand, this makes for a delightfully evocative story that draws a reader in and uses that investment to dig the knife in a little deeper. You feel the sorrow of a loss that even the protagonist doesn’t fully understand. It must be something akin to what R felt, seeing the protagonist lose so much of herself to the disappearances, while he remembered and knew exactly what was lost, could see the ripple effects of that loss.

There’s never an explanation for any of this. What causes people to lose their memories like that? Why are animals also affected, like the day birds disappeared? Why did fruit fall from the trees and rot upon the ground the day that fruit itself became a vanished memory? Why do people like R seem incapable of forgetting? If this were a YA dystopian novel, for instance, there would have been sci-fi explanations, a glorious rebellion where people overthrow the Memory Police and reclaim their memories and lives and thus their freedom. But there’s none of that here, making The Memory Police feel like an almost dream-like fairy tale. The point isn’t to explain. The point is to experience.

This all came together to create a powerful allegory for how oppressive regimes destroy themselves from within. Even the Memory Police themselves were subject to the disappearances. They weren’t immune to having novels vanish, to losing the concept of candy, and nor were they immune to losing the use of their bodies, eventually becoming faint wisps of voice like everyone else, to drift away on the breeze and allow all those who escaped, all those who hid, to come out of their hiding places and resume living in the outside world.

But here’s the rub. The regime fell. But the survivors were few in number, and emerged into a world that had been devasted by the actions of the Memory Police and their actions. Could fruit ever grow again? Would birds return, if people remembered them and could recognize them? Or would they have to find a way to leave the island and try to live elsewhere, shouldering their trauma of events that those on the outside couldn’t possible understand?

The effects of oppression don’t just vanish the moment the regime falls. Survivors are still affected by their past. They don’t just forget.

I can’t say for certain that was what the author intended with The Memory Police, but that was how it read to me. Spare on answers, but heavy with meaning, the protagonist’s story resonates with too many events from real-world history, enough to create an unsettling and uncomfortable atmosphere throughout while also making the characters and events compelling enough to keep me reading despite my discomfort. Sometimes books aren’t meant to be comfortable relaxing reads before bed. Sometimes they invite you to think, to reflect, and to confront ideas that you’d normally rather not. So I can’t say I enjoyed it, per se. But I did think it was an amazing piece of speculative literature, and one that was well worth reading.

The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms - NK Jemisin

 

About the Book

Yeine Darr is an outcast from the barbarian north. But when her mother dies under mysterious circumstances, she is summoned to the majestic city of Sky. There, to her shock, Yeine is named an heiress to the king. But the throne of the Hundred Thousand Kingdoms is not easily won, and Yeine is thrust into a vicious power struggle with cousins she never knew she had. As she fights for her life, she draws ever closer to the secrets of her mother's death and her family's bloody history.

With the fate of the world hanging in the balance, Yeine will learn how perilous it can be when love and hate -- and gods and mortals -- are bound inseparably together.

417 pages
Published December 2, 2009

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It's not often that I come across books that are so full of political turmoil and murder and other dark subjects, and yet I end up slipping into them like a warm bath, the sort that never gets cold and you don't really want to leave even though you have other things to be getting on with. That's how The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms was for me. It's the sort of book that draws you in and gives you ample reason to stay, even when the subject matter can get distinctly uncomfortable at times. It's the sort of book that's so expertly composed that you can't help but get caught up in the story.

Written in the first person, from Yeine's perspective, we see her struggles to survive a political landscape she in no way is prepared for, and in which almost nobody wants her. She gets caught up in the machinations of both human and god, conflicted between the two, and while there's very little action in the story, it always feels like Yeine just can't catch a break. She's always being pulled from one side to the other. Not always because she agrees with either side, but because she gets herself entwined in situations that require careful navigating, making allies or making enemies. It's such a compelling story.

Yeine herself is an unreliable narrator, her thoughts occasionally jumping around as she tries to figure out situations, certain about some things that turn out to be completely wrong. Or at least, her interpretations of them are wrong. It's a little disorienting sometimes, as nearly everything involving an unreliable narrator can be. You get so used to books giving you what you need, telling you the facts of a situation, that when you encounter a narrator who stops in the middle of sentences to backtrack and add clarity, or who says that this is how things are only to change that later... It can be a little strange to adjust how you read to accommodate that sort of dissonance.

But the best thing is that this book improves with a second reading, which I did as soon as I finished it the first time. So many sections look like Yeine is talking to herself inside her own head, the way most of us do, but toward the end we get the revelation that some of what we thought were Yeine's thoughts actually weren't. That knowledge changes the flavour of certain scenes, gives additional perspective that only becomes clear when you, the reader, looks back and re-examines things in the same way that Yeine had to. This aspect was so well done, and it made me wonder how many times the author had to rewrite those scenes so that both interpretations made sense to the reader, that fine balance between giving hints that are clear in hindsight but without spoiling anything the first time around.

I was particularly fascinated by the gods in The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms. NK Jemisin has written a very deep and realistic theology here, the gods having their own complicated relationships and associations and emotions toward each other and to their slavers and to Yeine, and none of it feels extraneous. It all feels relevant to the story at hand without feeling incomplete. I admit a particular fascination with Nahadoth, being the Nightlord and not being entirely sane due to the trauma and betrayal he's gone through, and with Sieh, the god of childhood and who has all the love and cruelty that children can harbour. Admittedly, these two are the gods that are seen by Yeine most often, so it's not difficult to get attached to them. They're definitely the most developed. But I love it when deities play a clear and tangible role in stories. It's a weakness of mine, especially when it's done as well as it was here.

I will say, though, that there's some very difficult subject matter within The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms. Even beyond the political plotting that sometimes results in death, all of the gods are enslaved by the Arameri, rulers of the city of Sky and of most of the world. There's painful betrayal. There's the examination of family bonds being tested, strained, broken, and questioning how much loyalty one owes to their family, how much family can hurt you and yet you still love them. There's abuse aplenty, sometimes abuse of children, and it's horrible to read about. It's written so unflinchingly, and yet it's clear that we're not supposed to condone what's happened, not supposed to side with the abusers (as though there was risk of that; what decent person condones child abuse, anyway?). But interwoven with that material is also the matter of cultural relativity. What might seem abusive to one culture is just a matter of course to another, and we may not always have the right to judge how other people live their lives. It's a fine line to walk, and I think the author did it well, though that didn't make some scenes any more comfortable to read. I might have enjoyed reading this book, and as I said, sometimes returning to it felt like the literary equivalent of getting into a nice warm bath, but there were still a number of events that weren't exactly cozy. It's funny how that can happen with some books, isn't it?

Though this book is hardly a new release, it feels timeless. It's the sort of book that you can read 10, 20, 30 years after publication and still enjoy the story without it feeling outdated. It's fantastically evocative, with brilliant world-building and a writing style that I can't help but love, unreliable narrator and all. There's such rich depth to this novel that I don't think I can really do it justice in a review, except to highly recommend it to people. If somehow you haven't read The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms yet (after all, I hadn't until recently), then you're missing out on a stellar story filled with danger and mystery and romance and everything else you could crave in a fantasy novel. I couldn't ask for a better beginning to a trilogy.