What do you mean I have to wait a year for Book 3?? I guess I’ll manage, but I have spoiled myself by waiting a year to read Her Majesty’s Royal Coven, resulting in almost no wait between it and The Shadow Cabinet. Juno Dawson has created an excellent new urban fantasy series. However, I am going to be harder on this book than the first one for precisely that reason: she has set me up to expect great things from her!

As always, spoilers for the first book but not for this one.

The Shadow Cabinet picks up a few months after the end of the first book. Following the disastrous events that culminated in the execution of Helena Vance, previous High Priestess of HMRC, Niamh Kelly is poised to be crowned the new High Priestess. Except she isn’t Niamh Kelly—she is actually her evil twin sister, Ciara, who has swapped bodies. Ciara tries to conceal, with varying degrees of success, this veritable soap operatic twist while she uses her newfound consciousness and freedom to seek out Dabney Hale, disgraced warlock with delusions of grandeur. Leonie is on the case! Meanwhile, Theo and Holly push the bounds of their magic, Elle worries about how her magical life might impinge on the stability of her mundane one, and there’s something going on with simple, uncomplicated Luke.

This book took longer to get going, in my opinion, than the first one. Despite plenty happening, it felt like for several chapters nothing was happening. I honestly was much more invested in the smaller personal arcs of Ciara, Elle, Theo, etc., than I was Leonie’s cross-country hot pursuit of Hale and his evil plan for world domination. Yawn. It’s not a terrible plot as far as Bond-level plots go; nevertheless, Dawson’s ability to write interesting, complicated interpersonal dynamics is what The Shadow Cabinet showcases best. There is no better evidence of this than Ciara.

Look, I will level with you: an easy seventy-five percent of my reservations about this book have to do with how salty I am that Ciara replaced Niamh as one of the viewpoint characters. So you can imagine how frustrated I became when Dawson actually made me start liking Ciara or at least empathizing with her? As if she was a real human being with complex motives rather than an evil monster? What is this, 2020? I thought I was done with empathy, but no, apparently I still have a shred of it left over from somewhere. No, I never stopped hoping Niamh would somehow return from the dead to reclaim her body—at the same time, I started hoping that there would be redemption for Ciara. In fact, my prediction was that Ciara would eventually sacrifice herself to save the world (if not also Niamh). I won’t tell you if this prediction came true!

The same complex dynamics play out in the relationship between Theo and Holly. Theo’s transness was a key point of both plot and character development in the first book, which culminated in Theo’s literal transmogrification: her body changed into one we would typically associate with a cis woman. This complicates things a hell of a lot, and I want to take a moment to unpack this as a trans woman reading a book written by a trans woman.

First, I respect the hell out of Dawson for going this route and engaging with these ideas. My thoughts are messy because this is a messy thing complicated by internalized transphobia and internalized ideas of a gender binary. Theo’s reaction to her new body is given to us in Chapter 9:

 

Any trans person who uses gender-affirming care to help them feel more aligned with their body will recognize something in these words. Transition is literally a journey of rediscovery. When one has access to the care one desires, it is also a journey of wonder. Waking up each morning and feeling a little bit more like yourself because of how you look in the mirror, how your limbs move, how you smell, etc.—it’s not something to be taken for granted. It is a revelation.

 Down the page, however, we start to get into the more complicated part of Theo’s experience:

 

(“Mundane” in this sense simply means not a witch.) Dawson gives voice to this again in this chapter, first with Theo musing to herself: “There; that stab of guilt again. She was too trans and not trans enough” and then with Holly, a bit later in the chapter, asking, “Do you still consider yourself transgender?” and Theo answering in the affirmative.

Theo’s transformation allows her the ultimate kind of passing privilege, the ultimate way to live “stealth” should she choose. It is very similar to Danny’s in Dreadnought, another great book with a trans character written by a trans woman. Fantasy allows both Dawson and Daniels to pose a hypothetical question about the nature of being transgender: what is it that actually makes one trans? Theo says, “I was born one way, and now … I’m another.” Is that all? A surface reading of this arc might open Dawson to charges of transmedicalism. However, I actually see the opposite here—reaffirming Theo’s understanding of herself as trans reinforces the idea that biology is not destiny and that one’s genitals do not make one a woman. This was a stance Dawson already loudly proclaimed in Her Majesty’s Royal Coven with Theo’s power level pretransmogrification already at witchy levels rather than warlock levels (the magic knows!). Instead, through Theo Dawson offers us one reading of a transition story—it won’t be every trans woman’s story, but it aligns with some women’s visions of themselves. Theo is still trans because she identifies that way—however, she also acknowledges that she has privileges many trans women don’t, and this affects how society relates to her along the axis of gender identity.

All of this is to say that I really like how Dawson explores these ideas. Theo figures much less prominently in this book than the previous one, something that disappointed me. However, what Theo we get in this story is very good. I admire Dawson for tackling big questions around what it means to be transgender, how we decide these things for ourselves, and how society polices these ideas.

As far as the other viewpoint characters go—honestly, there are just too many. Leonie and Elle again from the first book, but then Dawson tosses in Luke and even a few Chinara chapters? I can’t. Let’s do a quick Kara Kharacter Review Lightning Round.

Leonie: love her arc of realizing she needs to stop sidelining Chinara. Love the open relationship stuff and her need to find her brother. Again, I think she suffers from the dilution caused by so many POV—neither the overall plot with Hale nor Leonie’s journey receive the time and nuance they deserve.

Luke: suddenly turned into the fucking Riley (of Buffy) of this series. Do not like. I don’t see him redeeming himself in my eyes any time soon. Indeed, his role in the climax reminded me too much of Xander at the end of Season 6. (More thoughts on that in a few months on Prophecy Girls.)

Chinara: Barely a POV character, clearly a badass, would read a whole book about her but her inclusion here feels extraneous.

Would have appreciated more Theo, more Holly, even more Elle—honestly Elle is the unsung hero of this story, intentionally so, and I love her for it. Not every witch needs to be glamorous or 100. Elle’s got a heart of gold and must be protected at all costs—even Ciara thinks so!

The Shadow Cabinet is a rad sequel. Did I love it in the same way that I loved the first book? No, for the first book was new and shiny. However, there is no second-book syndrome here. This is an action-packed story with wonderful character development, and if parts of the plot are a bit clunky or predictable or the pacing is off … well, I read literally seventeen installments of The Dresden Files, and this is already way better. So there. If you like witchy stuff and all the juicy drama from the early-2000s TV shows Dawson clearly grew up on, this series is for you.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

It has been a while since I delved into Dickens. Barnaby Rudge was the most recent volume I found at my used bookstore, and this summer seemed like a good time—plus, I wanted to slow down my reading for a week, and this certainly did the trick. What I wasn’t expecting was such an interesting example of Dickens experimenting with his style and indeed the form of the novel itself. Barnaby Rudge is a delightful example of nineteenth-century historical fiction.

The eponymous character does not actually loom large in the story. According to the introduction of my edition, Dickens originally intended to name the book after Gabriel Varden, the locksmith. The first part of the novel takes place several years prior to the anti-Catholic Gordon Riots before jumping forward in time to tell the story of the riots through the lens of the characters Dickens has established. In addition to Varden and Barnaby, you have Varden’s wife and daughter; John Willet, an innkeeper, and his son, Joe; Barnaby’s mother; Lord Gordon himself; Simon Tappertit, Varden’s apprentice; and Hugh, a ne’er-do-well who throws his lot in with Gordon’s crew because, hey, why not?

This novel sees Dickens merge his slice-of-life social commentary with an attempt at retelling historical events and reinterpreting them for his contemporary audience. The “riots of eighty,” as he calls them, were sixty years past when he is writing. It’s so fascinating to read historical fiction written at quite a remove in history from the present day; Dickens himself needed to do research and read both contemporary and historical accounts of the riots to better understand them. As a result, I suspect Barnaby Rudge might be one of the more difficult Dickens novels for a modern reader to follow, simply because of how much it immerses itself in a time even more removed from the modern reader.

The actual story is fine but never quite approaches the depth of tragedy or comedy that Dickens is best known for in his other works. Barnaby himself is a sympathetic figure. He has a developmental disability, and Dickens portrays Barnaby as existing in a state of atemporal, child-like wonder and contentment—even when he is about to be hanged for allowing himself to be swept up in the rioting. But some of the other characters, like Joe Willet or even Simon Tappertit, are just a bit too much of a caricature for my tastes.

The novel is at its best when it is slowly building the scene towards a short-term confrontation. As the story wears on and the riots reach their peak, there’s actually a good deal of tension—this is especially evident in the imprisonment of Dolly Varden and Emma Haredale. Alas, the Dickensian resolution is rushed, with a trite marriage and a lot of reveals that are not as shocking as perhaps they should be.

These issues aside, however, Dickens’s trademark enthusiasm for storytelling is on full display here. It’s hard to deny, or indeed fail to delight in, the cast of characters he has created. The dynamic between the Willet father and son, mirrored by that of the Chester father and son, is interesting, as is the nascent but largely unexplored friendship between Dolly and Emma (oh would a woman had written this book and chosen instead to focus on these two, what a story that might have been). There is much about this novel that can be fulfilling, yet you have to deliberately look for it.

Additionally, as I mentioned at the start of my review, I really enjoy the historical nature of the story. It’s neat to see Dickens interpret the riots from his position and draw connections to what’s happening in the 1830s, especially around labour movements. Dickens clearly wants to tell a story about the dangers of dispossession and discontent, but because he has chosen to bind himself to a historical framework, he ends up projecting his ideas onto a series of actual events in a way that doesn’t quite work—but it is fascinating to see how things don’t quite line up. Tappertit, for example, could be such a sympathetic character given how he feels hard done by his employer. Yet he very quickly subsumes his pro-labour beliefs into the larger, more nebulous anti-Catholic sentiments as stoked by Gordon and Gashford.

Overall, Barnaby Rudge is not the first work one thinks of when Dickens comes to mind, and I can see why. At the same time, I think this might be one of his more enjoyable works (at least of those that I have read so far), certainly one with a very congenial ending for most of the sympathetic characters.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Prophecies are tricksy, especially when the prophecies are being manipulated by the humans who run a church for their own temporal ends. The Third Daughter explores what happens when various parties try to shift prophecy in their favour. From a slighted onetime heir to the throne to a power-hungry church official to just a girl from Harborside, everyone wants to have a say in how (or even if) the New Maiden will rule over Velle. Adrienne Tooley’s novel is a delicious mixture of mistakes and missteps, intrigue and indignation. I received an eARC from NetGalley and publisher Little, Brown.

Elodie is the eldest of three daughters of the recently deceased Queen of Velle. She should have inherited the throne save for a prophecy that the third daughter of a third daughter would be the reincarnation of Velle’s famous New Maiden. Elodie’s younger sister, Brianne, fits this description, and so the people of Velle crown Brianne instead. Though Elodie claims she has no desire for power for power’s sake, she believes she would be a better ruler—and more importantly, she doesn’t think thirteen-year-old Brianne is a match for the machinations of her new regent, the Chaplain of the Church of the New Maiden. Elodie obtains what she thinks is a sleeping potion from a poor girl in Harborside, but it is actually a magical elixir that plays right into the Chaplain’s hands. Desperate to save her country and retain her freedom, Elodie finds herself working with this girl—Sabine—to right the situation before everything spirals out of control.

Tooley sets up complex character dynamics, particularly between privileged Elodie and poor Sabine. Elodie is made out to be an unsympathetic character; Sabine the opposite. Their attraction to each other is also obvious—I really like this queernormative world where they don’t even feel a need to label stuff. Elodie is just very clearly into girls! The romance is an important part of the plot, yet this is not a romance story, and I also appreciate that distinction.

The differing motives and needs of Elodie and Sabine create layers of conflict atop the main one. Despite their mutual attraction, they don’t really want the same thing. Elodie wants to be queen without killing her sister. Sabine wants to rescue her sister from a terrible fate but needs money to do it. Both are motivated by sibling love, which is just as valid as romantic love.

I wish we had learned more about the Chaplain, his backstory, and the motivations of the Church. Every time the Chaplain shows up, he is such a sneering, supercilious, one-dimensional character. And it remains unclear to me why the Church, at least as Elodie saw it, was courting countries outside of Velle at the expense of Velle’s own citizens. I’m happy for organized religion to be the bad guy, especially when it’s a commentary on how many such religions are misogynist and eager to replace female saviours with male ones. Nevertheless, I would have liked to see more of the Church’s machinations.

I also found the overall plot rather predictable. This is not a charge I make lightly, for I understand the value of foreshadowing leading a reader to deduce information before it’s revealed to characters. That’s not what was happening here, in my opinion—Tooley telegraphs certain twists in such an obvious way that I was not at all invested in their eventual reveals. The Third Daughter hence lacks much in the way of suspense, though it still retains plenty of mystery.

Whether or not you decide to read the sequel (apparently this is a duology) will likely hinge on how invested you feel in that mystery. I, for one, enjoyed the book enough that I might read the sequel; however, I’m not champing at the bit for it.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Revenge plots are always fun. Give me a woman scorned any day. Charmed combines a revenge plot with another one of my favourite tropes—a fairy-tale remix setting. Jade Linwood takes elements of some of the most familiar fairy tales of the Western canon, turning their protagonists into women who are out to avenge themselves, and in some cases their countries, against none other than Prince Charming. I received an eARC from NetGalley and publisher Rebellion.

Like many fairy tales, Charmed contains stories within stories. The book opens with Prince Charming arriving to rescue Sleeping Beauty (Bella in this version). After he absconds with some of the palace wealth, the book jumps ahead to Bella meeting Marie Blanche de Neige (Snow White) and Doctor Emilia Rapunzel. These two each tell their tale in turn, and having discovered that the rogue in each tale is the same man, they make a revenge pact. The last act of the book comprises the actual plot unfolding, involving a deal with a dragon, another fairy tale protagonist, and more.

I love how Linwood has reimagined each of these protagonists. This feminist revisionism has itself almost become a trope of remixing fairy tales. Linwood takes it one step further, however, essentially syncretizing these tales into their own, imaginary European theatre. Each comes from a region clearly reminiscent of a specific part of Europe, such as Italy or France or Germany, albeit with the addition of creatures like dwarves, dragons, and demons. The three women at the centre of this story are each their own person, with different motivations, dreams, and goals. In particular, Bella proves very difficult for the other two to deal with (perhaps because her century of sleep has suspended her growth into adulthood)—however, I think Linwood makes it evident that Bella’s perspective is just as valid as Marie or Emilia’s.

The pacing of Charmed frustrated me a little, especially at first. I felt like it was taking too long to go from backstory to revenge story. I’m not sure if there is a solution for this (other than making each story-within-the-story shorter, but perhaps that would lose some of the rich character development). Similarly, I’m glad Linwood did her best to give Charming himself sympathetic motives. At the same time, the way in which that exposition is finally delivered to us was clunky.

Finally, our protagonists themselves don’t seem to grow or change all that much. We see a little bit of it in their backstories (any of which could make an interesting novel in its own right), and then the ending hints at growth that can happen now that they are each able to move on. But for the duration of the book itself, they don’t really develop as characters, which is frustrating.

Ultimately, Charmed is a charming book (yes, I went there), but like so many remixes, it felt like it was missing something. I don’t know if my bar is just too high or if I have unrealistic expectations. In any event, this is a book that has a great premise that is faithfully and competently executed—I had fun reading it over the course of an afternoon on my deck—but I’m not sure it is memorable.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Almost a exactly a year ago, I read the first and second books in The Keeper Chronicles. Now we conclude this trilogy with Long Hot Summoning. Tanya Huff increases the role of Claire’s younger sister, Diana, giving her a Summoning of her own and more responsibility for saving the world. It’s a fresh and fun adventure with much of the charm but also most of the flaws of the first two books. Also, the cover art is very DAW and very early 2000s and quite honestly I love it.

Diana has graduated high school, which officially means she is an active Keeper. She couldn’t be more thrilled. Her first Summoning comes as she walks out of high school on her last day, and it takes her to familiar territory: Kingston. Normally Claire’s domain, this Summoning requires the most powerful Keeper—and as the second child, that’s Diana. Along with Claire and their respective cats (Sam, a former angel; and Austin, a curmudgeon of a cat if ever there was one), they need to stop an evil shopping mall from manifesting in this dimension.

I enjoyed this much more than Second Summoning. I’m not sure if I just prefer Diana’s perspective to Claire’s or if the new main character just made things more interesting. This book is also less frenetic in setting than Second Summoning was: most of it takes place in the mall (albeit a distorted, Otherside version thereof), with secondary scenes back at Claire’s bed and breakfast. There’s also less snarky Hell banter, which I think helps as well.

I still struggled with the constant low-level horniness of all the characters. On the one hand, I don’t want to pan the book too much for this because, hey, normalize female protagonists being horny on main (including Diana, who is very obviously queer in this book, yay!). On the other hand, as a sex-averse aro/ace gal, the background horniness does little for me and is, if anything, a distraction.

As with the previous books, the way that Hell manifests as a general nefarious force that slowly aggregates its sentience into a single being is an interesting concept on paper but a less interesting concept … well, on paper. The book lacks a strong antagonist, and while we are constantly told that the stakes are high and the Otherside winning would be Bad, it never really seems to manifest. At the same time, the mummy subplot involving Dean, while fun, also feels very trite and predictable.

I am working my around to this opinion of Tanya Huff as an author: I really like her sense of humour and her writing, but I don’t know that I actually love her books all that much? Like I heartily recommend her to other people but I can’t call her one of my personal faves—and I guess that’s all right.

Not as good as the Gale Women series in terms of story, stakes, or characterization. But still a fun, undemanding read for a weekend on the deck.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Thunder Bay is not the most diverse place, demographically, in Canada, but that has been changing. For various reasons, more immigrants have been arriving here in recent years from a wider array of countries. This includes many Muslim immigrants, as well as people from MENA (Middle East and Northern Africa) countries. Not only do these newcomers often face challenges with language, but my city can be a racist place. So I was intrigued by Broken: The Failed Promise of Muslim Inclusion because I hoped that I could learn more about the systemic anti-Muslim racism in our society. As is often the case, this book primarily talks about the United States yet the lessons are applicable to Canada as well. Evelyn Alsultany speaks from a potent combination of lived experience and scholarly knowledge.

I received this book for free in exchange for a review.

This is an exquisitely organized book. The introduction and epilogue are excellent end caps, wherein Alsultany lays out her thesis about how Muslim inclusion primarily works through a kind of neoliberal crisis diversity. Each of the five main chapters explores how this crisis diversity (dys)functions. Chapter 1 discusses stereotypes in entertainment; Chapter 2 is about the limits of increasing representation in industries like Hollywood or even politics. Chapter 3 introduces the idea of racial gaslighting, i.e., that how authorities and media downplay crimes against Muslim people (and other marginalized people) when classifying them as hate crimes is, Alsultany argues, important. Chapter 4 looks at examples of what we often call cancel culture: the purging of prominent individuals after they do or say something so racist that their sponsoring organizations have no choice but to distance themselves. Finally, Chapter 5 looks at the issues with diversity and inclusion on college campuses and similar places.

Throughout, Alsultany establishes a firm line when it comes to not letting institutions off the hook. At the same time, I really appreciated her ability to empathize with people’s ignorance and prejudice. I am definitely biased, but I think she portrays other perspectives fairly and with nuance. This is particularly true whenever she discusses anti-Palestinian discrimination: she is unapologetic in her analysis of Israel as an apartheid state and condemnation of how Zionist groups weaponize and distort the definition of antisemitism; however, she also recognizes that Muslims and Jews both face a lot of discrimination. Indeed, a great deal of her discussion in Chapter 5 relates to how systems try to divide and conquer, pitting different minority groups against one another.

I really appreciated the wealth of examples and analysis that Alsultany brings to each chapter. She looks at specific TV shows, such as All-American Muslim and Shahs of Sunset. She engages with specific scholarship, citing her own contributions to research (like the Obeidi-Alsultany Test) as well as those of scholars whose names I recognized and many I did not. This book is a great entry point into the wider literature around anti-Muslim racism (Alsultany explains in her introduction why she prefers this term to the more common Islamophobia, a distinction I found very interesting!).

The nuance I mentioned earlier is also present in how Alsultany discusses improvements we have seen so far. Notably, her analysis of Shahs of Sunset points out that while the show is far from perfect, there are aspects of it that improve the portrayal of Muslims on screen. But she is adamant that there is no “quick fix” for diversity on or off the screen. I think this is an important takeaway—so often people are looking for the easiest, fastest solutions, but the problem here is neoliberalism and a deeply baked-in white supremacy that will take more than bandaid solutions to fix.

Broken is a very considered and detailed exploration of an important topic of our day. If we are going to make our society a better place for everyone, we need to make it a better place for Muslims. I appreciated the solidarity Alsultany shows to trans people here, and I hope other non-Muslim trans people will return that solidarity—we are all in this together. Allow this book to arm you with the knowledge you need, regardless of your background or privilege, to change the systems that have failed for so long to include Muslim people in authentic and compassionate ways.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

First, some praise for the simplicity of this title. Too often novels think they need to be cleverer by half and jam entire sentences into their titles or create cute, quirky subtitles in emulation of the eighteenth century. Thrust is as prosaic a title as its contents are poetical. Lidia Yuknavitch says in the acknowledgements that she wanted to play with the novel as a form, and that is evident throughout. Now, I like me a straightforward novel, so in that sense the artistic and literary boundaries that Thrust probes didn’t work well for me personally. At the same time, I can recognize good literature when I see it.

Laisvė is a teenager living in The Brook, a post-apocalyptic part of New York City sinking into the rising sea. Her father works on repairing the partially submerged Statue of Liberty. Meanwhile, she is a carrier—she has a rare ability to bring objects (and even people) through time via waterways. Laisvė visits people out of order across American history, some of them connected to each other throughout their lives, bringing them objects like pennies and rope. Along the way, Yuknavitch tells us stories within stories: of birth and death, childhood and senescence, of loss and finding. The architect of the Statue of Liberty corresponds with a one-legged woman in the States who oversees not so much a brothel as a kink parlour. A young man runs from a violent past towards a baby girl he found and then gave up. Oh, and there are turtles and whales.

There is also a lot of sex and sexual imagery. I’m asexual and sex-averse—I don’t mind reading the occasional sex scene, if it is well written. Honestly the stuff here is pretty tame, just a little florid (on purpose), but for people who are more sex-repulsed or just don’t enjoy explicit writing, you won’t like it.

This book was lent to me by the same neighbour who lent me Signs Preceding the End of the World. She, in turn, borrowed it from a coworker. I commented to my neighbour that she “likes weird books” and observed the similarities between these two titles—both involve a young female protagonist who undergoes a journey through space/time that is itself a metaphor for death and rebirth. Laisvė ability also reminded me of The Water Dancer, by Ta-Nehisi Coates. But the closest comp I can make is actually a TV series: The OA produced by Netflix, has extremely similar vibes to Thrust.

These connections don’t surprise me. Yuknavitch is undoubtedly trying to decolonize the novel here (as much as a white woman can decolonize anything). Laisvė’s heritage is Sakha (Yakut); there are Kanienʼkehá꞉ka (Mohawk) characters as well, and several times the languages and democracy of the Haudenosaunee is referenced. Laisvė’s journeys into the water have her talking to animals such as turtles, whales, and worms, all lamenting what the colonial parts of human civilization have wrought. The ongoing epistolary plot between Frédéric and Aurora and the hulking presence of the Statue of Liberty throughout problematize coloniality and the idea of the triumph of modernity. Aurora’s ending, in particular, and the gift she returns to Frédéric, seems to symbolize a rejection of a mechanistic, transhumanist philosophy in favour of one rooted in harmony and nature. Now, I have complicated feelings about all of this, but we will get there.

Let’s talk a little more about form and style first. Ever since I finished university, I’ve tried my best to hang up the hat that was my pretensions about literature and, as they say, slum it. After all, my first love has and always will be epic fantasy, including the works of David Eddings, who was fairly vocal about how he was just slapping plots together (with a lot of initially unacknowledged assistance from his wife, Leigh) using formulas. The same goes for my other first love, mysteries in the style of Agatha Christie. So as much as my minor in English and love of Regency and Victorian novelists might have you envisioning a classy lady in a monocle and top hat sipping tea while she writes reviews (well, the tea part is at least correct), really I just like a good yarn.

So I guess Yuknavitch has triggered this tension within me between the recovering English lit student and the exhausted teacher who just wants to escape into a straightforward story. I would love to just throw this novel across the room (metaphorically, of course, since this book is borrowed), cross my arms, and slide down against the wall while muttering, “literary fiction, ugh.” Alas, that is an oversimplification of my feelings about Thrust and perhaps literary fiction altogether.

It’s cool that in 2022 novelists continue to experiment with the form. Literature, like all art, must continue to evolve as our societies evolve. Poetry often gets the most attention when it comes to being avant garde; I think this is a mistake. I love prose, and the novel in particular, precisely because its apparent structure belies an inherent chameleon-like nature. Novels are empty vessels into which authors pour and then sieve their consciousness.

So with all of that in mind, I respect what Yuknavitch is doing with Thrust. It’s not a book that I would necessarily have picked up all on my own—but that is why it’s good to have friends whose literary appetites overlap but do not perfectly match yours! However, it’s always nice to once in a while stretch the mind and see how authors are playing with form. There’s a lot going on here: epistolary chapters, first person, third person, ethnographies, prose poems, time slips, streams of consciousness … Yuknavitch doesn’t make it easy on the reader. I pity the translators!

In that sense, if I were to offer serious critique of Thrust’s form and style, it has to be how it feels overstuffed with experimentation. Yuknavitch has put so much into this short novel, transforming it into a kaleidoscope of storytelling that is not so much dazzling as it is dizzying. I prefer my experimental literature to be far more precise; the messiness on display here makes me recoil.

I also found it very challenging to connect with our main characters. Of all of them, Aurora was probably the one who felt most tangible to me with her letters and other perspective chapters. Yuknavitch’s heavy reliance on metaphor and other figurative language left me at a loss when it comes to characters like Aster. This is why, as I mentioned earlier, I’m ambivalent about the endings of so many of these characters. With so much going on, despite the intricate intersections created by Laisvė’s travel and storytelling, the characters’ disparate stories did not always come together for me.

On the other hand, I really appreciate how Yuknavitch challenges readers with what a novel’s structure should be. In particular, a lot of what she is doing reminds me of Indigenous concepts of circular storytelling—Lee Maracle explains this exquisitely in her essay “Scent of Burning Cedar”. Again, I temper my praise in this regard given that, ideally, we should be reading Indigenous authors who are doing this. But I think it is important to remark on how Yuknavitch is deliberately tapping into our existential dread of climate change through a structure that questions the colonial aspects of our society while championing storytelling that deviates from the dominant, Eurocentric norms of Western literature.

Oh boy. All of that in 1200 words simply to say, Thrust is a calculated and messy story that makes for an ambitious read. One of the blurbs on the back cover of this edition calls it “trenchant,” which is a fantastic word, and I agree. If you like intense, evocative sexuality, circular storytelling, anticolonial rhetoric, and vibrant explorations of violent grief, this book will appeal to you. Just don’t expect it to make a whole lot of sense the first time through.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

This is one of those books I heard so much buzz about I nearly didn’t read it just to be contrary—and what a mistake that would have been. Kate Heartfield’s fantastical take on the lives of two queens—Marie Antoinette and her sister Maria Carolina, also known as Charlotte—at the end of the Enlightenment is exactly the kind of historical fiction I love. From 1768 to 1793, The Embroidered Book charts the rise and fall of these two monarchs: how they came to their respective countries, the challenges each faced, and how they rose to the occasion.

Charlotte and Antoine, as Heartfield styles them herein, are two daughters of Maria Theresa, Empress of Austria, who is anxious to secure alliances across Europe. Charlotte is originally intended to marry the Dauphin of France; however, when one of her older sisters dies from smallpox, she must step into the role of betrothed to the King of Naples, and Antoine is sent to France. Thus are their destinies decided. Yet in Heartfield’s telling, Charlotte and Antoine have a secret: they have a book with an embroidered cover that they accidentally inherited from their late governess. This book contains nigh-indecipherable spells that, with sufficient sacrifices, allow the magisters who wield them to achieve great things. Charlotte and Antoine embark on becoming rare female magisters in a world that frowns upon women and disbelieves in magic. But as they turn to magic to secure their realms and their families’ safety, the rest of Europe begins to crumble.

I’m sure this story could have been fascinating had Heartfield hewed closely to historicity and eschewed any semblance of magic. Yet for anyone who might worry that this ahistorical addition might stand out, I want to reassure you that it does not. First, Heartfield devises a clever ending that helps to align the events of this novel with the historical record. Second, the presence of magic only enhances the very real dangers and issues at play in this book.

Magic or not, the Habsburg queens were always witches. They were women, you see.

That’s really what stands out to me about The Embroidered Book: its skillful portrayal of embattled women, queens under siege not only by armies from other nations but their own courtiers and advisors as well. Both Charlotte and Antoine need to be more than chess pieces and heir-bringers, yet their gender makes that difficult to achieve. And while in reality these queens and their contemporaries might not have had the ability to enchant gloves that make people more amenable to persuasion or talk to each other through portraiture, Europe still had no issue with taking down women—especially powerful women—through allegations of witchcraft. So I like how Heartfield must have essentially approached this with the idea of “you want witches? Fine, let them be witches!”

There are two central cores of conflict in The Embroidered Book. First you have the relationship between Charlotte and Antoine. Second, the tension between competing philosophies of magic, which also feeds into the first conflict. Charlotte wants to work within the system, remake the Order of 1326. Antoine feels more comfortable working with the rogue magisters who eschew the Order at all. These sympathies mirror the two queens’ political differences as well, with France aiding the American Revolution against Great Britain while Charlotte pursues intense, autocratic and totalitarian policies to keep Naples under her thumb. As the two sisters’ uses for magic and political needs diverge, their personal relationship deteriorates apace.

At the same time, Heartfield explores the usual problems that you might expect in a story about two royal women. The pain and heartache of childbirth and child loss. Falling in love, having affairs. Not being taken seriously at court. Being terribly lonely, only to have one’s friends and allies betray one. At first I found Heartfield’s writing overly intricate and slow-paced, but her style grew on me as I came to fall in love with her characterizations of Antoine and Charlotte. The letters between the two sisters are, in particular, a highlight.

If you like historical fiction and can tolerate a drop of magic in the mix, The Embroidered Book is everything the hype makes it out to be and more. Adapt this series now, streaming services, and then never broadcast it and use it as a tax write-off!

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

When it comes to queer fiction, especially queer YA, it is becoming trendy for reviewers—myself included—to say that we need to move beyond coming-out stories. We need stories about young queer people who are already openly, joyously queer. This is true. However, with Friday I’m in Love Camryn Garrett demonstrates why a coming-out story is still viable and valuable.

Mahalia Harris didn’t get a Sweet Sixteen—her mother couldn’t afford it. A year later, she decides to throw herself an alternative: a coming-out party. Her plans are complicated by two factors: first, Mahalia doesn’t have much money herself; second, she is crushing hard on the new girl in school, Siobhan, who also happens to have a boyfriend. Oops. Mahalia puts a plan into motion that, if successful, would see her coming out to family and friends by the end of the summer. But, as usual, life finds a way to get in the way.

Ever since I first read Full Disclosure, Garrett has been one of my must-buy authors. I love the layers she gives her stories. On one hand, Friday I’m in Love is a romance. It’s Mahalia crushing on and attempting to woo Siobhan, and it is every but as cute and dorky as it sounds (there are playlists involved!). Yet Mahalia has her flaws—she is a teenager after all—and can hurt those around her, like her best friend, Naomi, or her mom, while focused exclusively on her party. This is as much a story about existing in community as it is about individual drive, passion, or love.

Along the same lines, I love that even though this book is about coming out, Mahalia herself is very clear on her sexuality (and Naomi is along on the ride with her). Again, there is still a valuable place for books about protagonists who are questioning and discovering their sexuality. But I love that Mahalia is confident and clear: she likes girls, and right now she likes Siobhan in particular. As I often remark, I’m not the right reader to discuss how good the romance tropes are! Nevertheless, I enjoyed the romance in this book and would actively recommend it to my more romantically inclined friends for their reading lists.

Each chapter has a banner at the top that displays any recent transactions and then Mahalia’s bank account balance. This is a very overt reminder of how perilous Mahalia and her mother’s financial situations are: even as money comes in to Mahalia’s account from paydays, it goes out again just as easily. Naomi, her family more privileged, acts as Mahalia’s foil in this regard. Through her, Garrett demonstrates how even just a little more money—and more security of capital—can set someone apart. Naomi works at the grocery store just like Mahalia, but she doesn’t have the same constant existential concerns around finances that Mahalia has. And this tension, latent in their friendship, manifests more strongly both because of issues with Mahalia’s mother and because of Mahalia’s focus on pulling off her party.

Garrett puts a lot of emphasis on the value of friendship, which I also appreciate. As Mahalia began brushing off Naomi’s attempts to talk about her issues, I smiled to myself, knowing this would led to conflict—perhaps even a blowout—down the line. I love how Garrett walks the line of creating a protagonist who, while very likeable, also needs to be held accountable by others.

This is also evident in Mahalia’s complex relationship with her mom. Like so many families where money is an ever-present anxiety, Mahalia’s mother tries her best to shield her daughter from that anxiety while also instilling a sense of fiscal respect and responsibility. When setbacks, racism, and ableism affect Mahalia’s mom’s income, Mahalia unfortunately has to step up. This puts a strain on their relationship in a way that some readers, including myself, have the privilege of never knowing.

I could go on about all the other relationships in this book, particularly Mahalia and her dad. But what it boils down to is this: Garrett has created a story that is very slice-of-life. It’s as colourful as its cover. I love the ending, love the way Garrett balanced romance and reality. It was a perfect read for Pride month, but it is also a perfect read any time.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Once again Heather O’Neill proves her ability to cut deep. When We Lost Our Heads is an invigorating, frustrating, dark, beautiful, terrible tragedy. As much as I loved Lullabies for Little Criminals, I think if I went back and reread the book for a third time I would be more critical of it now—both because I’m older and because O’Neill’s writing has improved since then. When We Lost Our Heads displays a mastery over characterization that O’Neill was only beginning to explore in that debut fifteen years ago.

Set in Montreal in the nineteenth century, When We Lost Our Heads follows two very different women: Marie Antoine and Sadie Arnett. One is born into privilege, the heiress to a sugar factory, and wants for nothing. The other belongs to a family whose patriarch is a social climber, owner of an expensive house but without much else to their name. The two girls forge an unlikely friendship until an accident causes their families to tear them apart. Years later, they reunite briefly and catastrophically. As their respective personalities crystallize around the environments in which they grow up, they diverge, reunite, diverge again—bad for each other yet unable to stay away.

Your enjoyment of the book will depend on how much you buy into Marie and Sadie and their relationship. I loved every moment of it. O’Neill grapples with the messiness of female friendship and attraction. Sadie is like a little Wednesday Addams, all “I love the darkness; the darkness is me.” Marie, on the other hand, is much more sheltered up until her father’s death. Their attraction to one another might feel like opposites attracting, but what I saw cuts right to the theme of the book: two women constrained by patriarchy (albeit in slightly different ways) drawn to each other like moths to a flame. They are both passionate to a fault, both needing some kind of release that they cannot get from other relationships. You know, from the very beginning, it will be their downfall. But you can’t stop reading.

Many of the characters are named quite transparently for people involved in the French Revolution, with their personalities and the events in the book loosely following those people’s politics and experiences. It’s clever and, while not subtle, also doesn’t overpower the narrative. Readers with more than a passing familiarity with the French Revolution will enjoy the reference while those who miss it won’t miss out. (The connection is also ironic given that most of the characters in the book are anglophone.) Yet this reference also highlights how When We Lost Our Heads is about class as much as it is about gender.

Sadie and Marie’s love transcends the restrictions on queerness in their time. It also breaks rules about class. Sadie moves effortless across class barriers, meeting Marie on her level while also happily slumming it in a brothel. She is a cipher, and Marie is not the only one to get obsessed with—and feel betrayed by—her. George, another prominent queer figure, falls for Sadie’s confidence and the passion with which she hates Marie when she and George first meet. Genderqueer, nonbinary or transmasc (labels are difficult in this time period), George helps Sadie explore not only queer sex but also radicalizes her politically. If Marie is Sadie’s muse, George is Sadie’s enabler. But like all of Sadie’s relationships, this one sours because George, like Marie, mistook Sadie’s interest for investment.

The wake of betrayal Sadie always leaves behind is delicious. She isn’t evil; she isn’t really even the antagonist of this book. She is as much a victim as any of the other women herein. Sadie merely refuses to be cowed by her victimhood—nor, I should point out, is Marie, and their reactions have striking parallels. Sadie turns to art and expression, finds her voice in slanderous speech; Marie seizes control of the one thing she can control—the sugar factory—even if it means aligning herself along class lines.

This brings us to the heart of the novel, the twisted and sickening knot that underlies every page. O’Neill looks at loyalty from every angle. What does it mean to be loyal in a relationship, romantic or platonic? To one’s family? To an ideal? To one’s gender, one’s class, one’s peers? It is impossible to preserve all of one’s loyalties equally, and it is the conflict between and the intersection of all these loyalties that is ultimately the downfall of our antiheroines. At first abandoned by each other and then seeking to remain loyal to each other, they each sabotage themselves, sabotage one another.

I enjoyed this book so much because it is actually a very simple tragedy. You know how it’s going down from the very first page—but you still can’t put it down. There are predictable twists and turns, elements of plot that feel somewhat clichéd—but in the way that a good melodrama feels that way. O’Neill has written a stage play but given it the depth and descriptive power of a novel, and the result is a trenchant work of Canadian historical fiction that leaves me with all the feels. I am really happy her voice is with us, growing more powerful with every book.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.