I rang in 2017 with a Holly Bourne, so I was hoping to wait until the New Year to read this. But Thursday saw me feeling a little down—not in any serious way, but just in the sense that I wanted a book that wouldn’t be too sad. Bourne’s writing, despite involving sensitive issues—in this case, bullying, sexual harassment/assault, and self-harm and attempted suicide (trigger warning: I will discuss these later)—always puts me in a better mood. She has this way of buoying you, of making you feel hopeful even as she portrays adolescents at the nadir of their experiences. So I opened up The Manifesto on How to be Interesting, figuring I would read the first few chapters in the bath, then knit and watch a movie for the rest of the evening. I should have known better: I ended up reading nearly two-thirds of the book that night and finished it early the next morning.

Bree begins this book as a self-professed “loser” whose obsession with writing and disappointment over her rejections clouds her enjoyment of her college (A-Level) years. A comment from her English teacher gives her the idea to start an anonymous blog, titled the same as this book, and completely change her look, behaviour, and attitude in an effort to become more “interesting”. Bree’s alterations will have her growing closer to her mom, at least superficially, and befriending the Popular Girls at her school—but she will alienate her best friend, make decisions she will come to regret, and sacrifice her core beliefs, all in the name of experiencing enough that she might finally write something “good”.

Bourne perfectly captures the particular brand of desperation that follows you around in adolescence. This is not the same desperation that those of us in our late twenties feel—that ticking clock of “Wait, is this all there is? I haven’t even figured out my life yet! Oh God, don’t tell me I need to do grad school to get a real job!” No, this is a fresher sense of desperation; it still has that new-hormone smell. Bree needs to be published, needs to be recognized, needs to be interesting. It’s a conflict created by her internal ambition trying to express itself in a world that, sadly, often tells teenagers to sit down and shut up—or encourages them to funnel their self-expression into acceptable, muted, channelled avenues.

On the surface, Bree’s journey into the land of pretty and popular follows the trajectory of numerous other, similar stories: she gets herself a makeover, shows up at school a Whole New Girl™, knocks the socks off everyone, and slides into the Popular Girls clique. She takes on a new persona—kind of, though she’s allowing herself little breathers by helping her English teacher with the Year 8 creative writing club. She collects as much material as possible and begins to formulate the “rules” that make up her manifesto, the ways in which to live in order to ensure maximum Life Experience and therefore, hopefully, maximum interesting writing.

Dig deeper, though, and that’s where The Manifesto on How to be Interesting really gets … well … interesting. Bourne is here to remind us that all those stock characters in the books and movies like this one are actually, when you dig down, real people. Bree’s mom isn’t aloof—she’s confused and conflicted about her daughter’s teenage reticence to bond, and until Bree asks her to go shopping, has no idea how to talk to her daughter. Jassmine, Jessica, Gemma, and Emily aren’t plastic bitch-queens-in-training: they’re girls Bree’s own age, just as human and damaged as she is, just coping with it differently.

The best and rawest moments of this book are when Bree has a heart-to-heart with the least likely of people. For example, when she and Jassmine are preparing for a party, and the latter discovers Bree’s cut marks on her thighs, Jassmine confesses to her own type of self-harm. It’s a significant, genuine moment undercut by the dramatic irony of Bree deceiving Jassmine when it comes to the reasons behind their newfound friendship. Bourne has a knack for depicting teenagers’ behaviours in interesting, dynamic, and accurate ways. From the interactions among the girls to the posturing of Hugo or the actual meanness beneath his exterior, Bourne shows us the myriad ways in which teenagers are constantly re-evaluating their relationships with one another.

As a high school teacher myself, I have to confess I found the relationship between Bree and Mr. Fellows difficult to read at the best of times. This is not a criticism of Bourne for including it; she definitely portrays it the way it should be portrayed. I just hate subplots involving teacher–student relationships … I kept yelling at the book as I watched these two characters orbit each other, Bree enjoying the attention, Fellows acting like a creepy, skeevy man who shouldn’t be allowed near children.

And then we reach the climax and what, as I’m coming to realize, is Bourne’s hallmark: everything goes pear-shaped. In this particular case, Bree reaches a point where the only recourse seems to be to begin cutting again, and she takes it too far and nearly kills herself. She doesn’t, though, of course, because this is not that kind of book. She wakes up in a hospital, under careful watch—and her parents and her live happily-ever-after, and everything is fine. Except it isn’t, because this is not that kind of book either.

No, this is the brilliance of Bourne and the reason I keep reading her books: she finds a middle way. She finds this hopeful path through the dark forest, and it feels very true. Bree is not automatically going to be All Right now that she has had her crisis moment. Nor is she totally lost. There is a darkness in The Manifesto on How to be Interesting, but there is also so much compassion and empathy. There is a message reminding us that even in those moments of absolute loss, there is still hope. But we have to fight for it. And when we are too weak or tired of fighting, we have to be willing to let those who care about us in, so they can fight on our behalf.

At over 400 pages, this is a pretty long book. But it moves so fast, and it is so fascinating, and it is so good, that you will probably inhale it like I did. The Manifesto on How to be Interesting is just another example of why I love Bourne’s work and will keep picking up her stuff, hopefully for years to come.

Oh, and pat on the back for making it through this entire review without a Mean Girls comparison!

Loves me some time travel, so of course when I saw this on NetGalley, I jumped on it. Thanks NetGalley and World Weaver Press for the eARC. The Continuum is a quick jaunt, if you will, into both past and future. Wendy Nikel keeps us guessing with numerous twists and turns, though I wish I were more interested in both the protagonist and the overall plot.

The Continuum opens with Elise Morley in 1912. She is there to Extract a wayward temporal tourist; that’s her job. When she succeeds, she returns to 2012, only for her boss, the enigmatic Dr. Wells, to whisk her away to a top-secret facility. Turns out he has been dealing with some black-ops type people on the side, and that contrary to what he told Elise, the technology they use can also take them into their future. Soon she’s in 2112, attempting to retrieve wayward agent sent to investigate the future and report back. Of course, that’s not all she was lied to about, and she soon finds herself trapped, with no real options. And some dude originally from 1912 is there, somehow, with knowledge and technology far beyond what he should have….

As far as time travel mechanics go, Nikel keeps this pretty simple. The timelines are “synced” in that “Meanwhile, In the Present…” kind of way; you can only travel to the current date, just certain years in the past or future. The technology is crude: for the most part, you have to use a specific machine to get you where you need to go. And there isn’t much in the way of advanced technology beyond that—even in the 2112 setting, Nikel doesn’t invest too much time trying to establish that technology has advanced all that much. Everyone has some suped-up Google Glasses and retinal scans, and that’s about it.

Taken altogether, this means your mileage may vary here. As a SF nerd, I was loving the travel but a little tired of the set-pieces. There is little here in terms of whizz-bang, gee-wow, that’s-new SF territory. A more casual SF reader, or someone just dipping their toes into this subgenre, won’t be as bothered by that. They might prefer the clean-cut action-paced nature of this novel. And I’ll give it that: The Continuum does not linger or waste any time (no pun intended).

I actually really like the situation Elise finds herself in. Cut off from allies, she basically discovers that she can’t return to her present and expect to live, nor can she stay in this future, because reasons. So for a good chunk of the book, she seems to have zero options. This kind of pressure on a protagonist always appeals to me, because it’s when their back is to a wall that you can really see their mettle.

I also like that there doesn’t seem to be any sexual or romantic tension between Elise and her target, Agent Chandler. It would have been very easy for Nikel to go down that route. I’m glad she didn’t—I love reading books where romance, especially with a female protagonist, isn’t on the agenda. Elise and Chandler develop a grudging respect for one another, and they work well enough together.

Ultimately, though, the plot just seems to lose steam. After the climax, the denouement drops a predestination paradox on us that seems to put Elise on a bus, even as it hints that this is not the end of this story arc. And so, I’m just left with a sense of … mehhhhh. Like, what was the point? It doesn’t help that the character development is practically nonexistent: I didn’t learn much about Elise outside of this immediate job, nor did I ever get attached to any of the other named characters, most of whom we saw for about 2 pages, if that. We spend almost all of this book in Elise’s head, yet at the end of all this, I feel like I hardly know her.

The Continuum has its moments and isn’t half-bad, but it doesn’t measure up to my standards. I’m not saying you won’t enjoy it (and wouldn’t judge you if you do), but there is nothing here that grabs me and says, “this is a series you need to be following”. And that’s a shame, because I do love me some time travel.

One last book review from 2017! I almost forgot I read this, because I read it into a microphone. I recorded a bespoke audiobook of Stardust as a Christmas gift for a friend who hasn’t had a lot of time to read and is trying to get back into it with audiobooks. I chose Stardust for its length and because it has an upbeat ending, which is something my friend expressed more interest in after not really enjoying Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Much to my surprise, when I went to read my previous review of this book … there wasn’t one! I have never read this book since I joined Goodreads in May 2008. So I guess I need to review it now that I’ve recently read it again.

Stardust is a Neil Gaiman novel and has many of the hallmarks of such. Yet it’s also somewhat odd. When I started re-reading it this time, I actually found myself … not enjoying it at first. Gaiman adopts a somewhat more stylized approach to narration and storytelling. Although elements of his typical wit shine through in places, there are moments when the story seems to get bogged down. Also, I forgot how whiny and entitled Tristran is, at least at first. And not a little bit creepy when the discovery that the fallen star he wants to retrieve is a woman with a mind of her own.

Basically, the book took a while to endear itself to me—but endear itself it did. The gradual raising of the stakes and masterful use of dramatic irony to increase the tension leads to some delightful moments as the various subplots come together. And as much as I’m not a fan of Tristran at the start, I enjoy his character arc across the novel. Stardust is part fairytale and part bildungsroman.

I don’t actually enjoy this as a love story. Putting aside for the moment the way Yvaine falls for a guy whom she meets when he kidnaps her, I’m not sure what they see in each other. Yvaine is (understandably) pissed off about her fall and subsequent situation, yet beyond that, we don’t really learn much about her personality. Tristran grows, matures, and learns, for certain, but he basically seems to stick with Yvaine because that’s what he has been doing this entire time.

I’ll divulge a dirty little secret now: this is one of the few books in existence whose movie adaptation I feel is superior. Almost always the book is better than the movie, but Stardust is an exception. From the changes to the story to the actors and the new characters, the movie is a revel and romp that I absolutely adore. The novel, while it has its high points, feels like a very flawed work in comparison.

In the end, if you’re looking for some fairytale-esque fantasy, then this book has something for you. It has a quest-like structure and a happily-ever-after and various set-pieces that might feel familiar. And I really did enjoy re-reading it, and literally reading it, and I hope it warms my friend’s heart when she listens to it. Yet Stardust is far from one of my favourite of Gaiman’s works. That’s not a bad thing—he has some pretty strong entries!—but it makes me less eager to revisit this in the future.

This is my second reading of The Mill on the Floss. You might want to read my original review of 6 years ago. I stand by it; however, I have additional thoughts to augment what I said previously.

George Eliot is one of my favourite Victorian novelists (one of my favourite novelists, indeed), and The Mill on the Floss is my favourite of her works and one of my favourite books—so much so that I actually own 5 copies. I have two different editions of the Penguin Classics, then a few antique editions I found in England. The edition I chose to read this time is relatively recent—1981—published by the Franklin Library with illustrations by Herbert Tauss. To be honest, the illustrations are extremely lacklustre. They lack much in the way of detail, and there aren’t even captions below them. Not appoint. However, the rest of this edition is quite beautiful and high quality, from the texture and weight of the paper to the cover to the print. It was nice to read.

Re-reading my old review, I’m mostly struck by how verbose and descriptive I am, and how much plot summary I give. How things have changed in 6 years! Back then, I was deep into academia and writing essays. Nowadays sometimes I can barely be bothered to record my thoughts—but I do, because I love looking back and remembering what my past self thought about a book.

In this case, my feelings remain the same, but my appreciation is rekindled. I’d remembered that The Mill on the Floss has some very feminist messages in it, but I’d forgotten how overt and continuous those messages are! From the very beginning of the novel, Eliot’s narrator points out that Maggie is going to suffer because she is far too clever for “a gell”. Her mother laments her intractable hair and “dark” colouring; her father laments that she wasn’t born a boy. We see Maggie wrestle with the conflict between what’s expected of her as the daughter of a fairly well-off, and then bankrupted, miller and what she desires as a curious, intellectually-driven individual. And we see the gatekeeping, the way that even people who recognize Maggie’s precocity attempt to channel it into socially-acceptable avenues, or suppress it simply because that’s what’s done.

I didn’t forget the importance of the sibling relationship to this novel, but I had forgotten how much of it takes place while Tom and Maggie are children. This time around, too, I was more sensitive to the way people treat Tom and force various expectations upon him. The difference, of course, between Tom and Maggie is that Tom has the privilege of proposing and, ultimately, taking courses of action. Even if his relatives disagree with him or think that he’s wrong, they will allow him to act as he sees fit. Maggie, on the other hand, isn’t even responsible for her unplanned excursion with Stephen, yet she is held responsible and judged anyway.

So much more appreciation this time around too for Mr. Tulliver’s legal battles and bankruptcy. Now that I’m older and I’ve bought property myself and hold a mortgage, maybe I’m just more sensitive to these issues! Eliot seems to want us to both sympathize with Tulliver and shake our heads at him, which I’m happy to do, on both counts. In general, though, I just love the development of this plot. I love the way that Tulliver is so confident he can always produce the money, that he can outsmart the “raskill” Wakem, and the way that Mrs. Tulliver inadvertently provokes Wakem. There’s a delightful combination here of tragic flaws and terrible happenstance.

One new criticism: the ending kind of feels hokey and contrived now that I read it. Actually, it reminds me a lot of some of Hardy’s endings, the way he conjures up nature as an avenging force. Compared to everything else that has happened in the book, the sudden flood and Maggie’s subsequent attempt to find and save Tom happens very quickly. It’s all over far too fast. But, like Tulliver’s ill-timed fall from his horse just as he’s having a go at Wakem, this all seems par for the course in novels from this era—a certain amount of convention, in the twists and turns of the story. In this case, Eliot gives us the best ending for this drama—she can’t very well have Maggie and Tom grow into old age as if nothing else interesting happens in their lives, can she?

One of my friends asked me what I was reading for my first book of the year while she was over, and I showed her The Mill on the Floss and explained my feelings for it. We chatted about nineteenth-century novels; she asked about the language in this, confessed she hadn’t made it through Pride & Prejudice as a result of the novel’s style. Here’s the thing: I love this book, love Eliot’s writing, and view both as sublime examples of human storytelling. Her grasp of the human condition, of the way families interact like constructive and destructive waveforms, of the tension between desire and duty, is second to none. I would love for nothing better than to see more people reading this book—but I’d also like them to enjoy it. And I also know that I just happen to be privileged to have the patience, tolerance, and background that lets me get through a book so far removed from our current literary styles and cultural touchstones.

That is the thing about classics. Sometimes we forget that we don’t have to enjoy a classic, even if others do, because it might not speak to us. There are certainly classics I’ve put aside or given low ratings to because I couldn’t identify with it. And I think that if you do want to start reading older classics like this, you have to start from this position of understanding why they are more difficult to read. They aren’t “harder” in the sense that you need to be more intelligent; they’re just different. They may or may not be for you. But if you want to read them, and if you work at them, and you get help when you need it, then you just might find something spectacular.

The Mill on the Floss remains, hands down, one of my favourite books of all time. This is how I chose to start my 2018 reading year. I hope this puts me on the right foot: now I move forward, seeking fresh books, new experiences, and more challenges.

To whoever finds this,

I say unto you now thrice, look, this isn’t really a novel.

Reader, I write this with the hope that, one day, we might be successful in undoing (redoing? doing? DOing?) what has already been undone. But if you are reading this and scratching your head, then perhaps all our efforts have come to naught.

I believe that a concerted time-travel project (or “diachronic operation”) has been carried out, in secret, for years, for the express purpose of rewriting our timeline (Strand) to the betterment of the authors Neal Stephenson and Nicole Galland.

Stop and think for a moment: is there really any reason you would willingly sit down and read nearly-thousand page books full of extraneous exposition? And this particular example is, actually, one of the shorter Stephensons I’ve read. Either it’s Stockholm syndrome or there are temporal shenanigans afoot. Alas, since I am not a witch, I have no ability to sense the GLAAMR that might surround each and every copy of these pernicious texts.

Stephenson and Galland (whose work I’m not familiar with) have previously collaborated on The Mongoliad, a cross-platform, intertextual storytelling experience. As such, I can understand some of the influences on the structure of The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O. One might argue that Stephenson and Galland are intentionally experimenting with what makes a book a novel. Just as writers of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century departed more and more from the epistolary style of narration and broadened our understanding of novel narrative, Galland and Stephenson are almost returning that more primitive form, while simultaneously expanding the channels of information.

In one sense, this is an AGU (ambitious and grand undertaking). No doubt it required the coordination of many a KCW, across multiple DTAPs, and countless DEDEs pushing the Strands every which way. Reader, I applaud Stephenson and Galland for their courage, even as I urge you to fight against the obvious dominion under which they have yolked us. Regardless of one’s opinion of or enjoyment of this book, it’s definitely an interesting attempt at doing something different. Perhaps, ultimately, that’s why I am still given to reading Stephenson’s experiments, despite liking few enough of them.

The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O. succeeds and suffers upon Stephenson’s fascination with particular things (history, swordfighting, other arcana)—I blame Stephenson more so because I’m familiar with his oeuvre, so, having no direct experience of Galland, have a more difficult time identifying what traces she may have left upon this manuscript. As with many a Stephenson story, this one seems to be a “what if” experiment crossed with the research for an intense D&D campaign.

It pains me to admit, but upon my soul, I am a sucker for time-travel adventures. And ultimately, whether you classify this as science fiction or fantasy or speculative fiction or whatever, that’s what this is. I admire the blend of science and magic, the attempts to syncretize explanations of how magic might work and why it faded away with modern quantum physics technobabble. Galland and Stephenson’s attempts to emulate the discourse of national security apparatuses isn’t quite as smooth as Charles Stross (and even he tries me at times), but I suppose it livens up the narrative somewhat.

Time grows short, my supply of paper shorter still. Soon I must surrender up this letter into the hands of the Fuggers, who I pray might keep it safe, and melt back into the crowds, lest the agents of Stephenson and Galland find me, and devise a DEDE such that I trouble these Strands no more. So, to summarize: if you pick up this book and say, “Huh, a 750-page book by Neal Stephenson. I probably shouldn’t bother” then don’t bother. This is not going to change your opinion of Neal Stephenson one way or the other. If, on the other hand, you really enjoy reading these massive Stephenson tomes, then … hey, here is yet another one. This time with time travel!

Indeed, if The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O. accomplishes anything, it’s by grasping at a fundamental philosophical dilemma surrounding time travel. Supposing it is possible to travel into the past and alter it, are such actions moral? Indeed, one might argue that such actions are morally imperative, and that not altering the past would be evil. Alas, these ideas, while hinted at throughout the story, never find themselves centre stage until quite literally the final pages of the book, and that saddens me to no end. I would much have preferred such debates over the tedious foreshadowing and telegraphing of Gráinne’s machinations. Even skimming certain portions I was able to foresee the outcome of that plot from dozens of pages away.

Ours is a strange reality, yes, one altered beyond my very ability to recognize. I have fuzzy memories of an alternative Strand, one where … a woman became President of the United States … and there is some kind of video game called “Half-Life 3” (why anyone would begin a franchise with the third instalment, I have no clue). Are these just delusions of my increasingly restive mind? Or have the diachronic operations of these two authors twisted our universe out of shape so intensely? I suppose, ultimately, we will never know.

After over a year, I stumbled across the last three Temeraire books while browsing Chapters and realized the time has come to pick up this series and put it to rest. Crucible of Gold, the seventh instalment in these adventures, sees Laurence and Temeraire reinstated in the Aerial Corps for an urgent mission to Brazil. Napoleon has a shaky alliance with the Tswana, and they are raiding the Portuguese colonies there for their enslaved kin. Along the way, however, Laurence, Temeraire, and their party are sidetracked by shipwreck, the French, and the Inca.

As with many long-running series, it becomes difficult to recap and review these books without sounding like a broken record. Worldbuilding, characterization, blah blah blah—it’s all here. Overall, I definitely liked this over the last book, because it doesn’t drag. Novik constantly changes up the game, raises the stakes, and generally keeps us guessing as to how this will all work out. A little bit of foreshadowing at the beginning warns us that even once Laurence and Temeraire reach Brazil, they aren’t just going to let the Tswana slaves remain in bondage to the Portuguese—some kind of abolition is on the table, even if it makes their Portuguese allies unhappy.

Fans of the series (and I assume that makes up the large majority of the people who survive to book 7) will love the character development here. The relationship (if that’s the right word) between Temeraire and Iskierka deepens. Granby undergoes a dramatic change in fortunes. We even learn a little more about Gong Su’s role beyond cook and camp hanger-on.

Similarly, I like Novik’s portrayal of the Incan empire. In particular, she takes the time to show us the Sapa Inca’s perspective on the British party’s arrival. I like that we’re shown how the Sapa Inca wants to play the British and French off against each other long enough to avoid any of her local suitors to become a rival for her power. Too often, foreign ruler characters in a book tend to exist solely as obstacles for the protagonists to overcome, with little thought for how their actions towards a protagonist will affect their own power base. In Crucible of Gold, it feels like Temeraire and Laurence have genuinely stumbled upon a very delicate situation, one that their arrival could upset or aid.

I could have spent a lot longer in the Incan empire. Still, Brazil poses a whole new set of challenges for the team. Once again, Novik achieves a fine balance between intense fight sequences and the sweet, sweet song of negotiation. I love how, as the series branched out from military action in the Channel, Novik found ways to keep the action going even while giving us breathing room.

Crucible of Gold is a fine return to form for this series. You can easily skip the previous book and jump straight to this one.

My reviews of Temeraire:
← Tongues of Serpents | Blood of Tyrants →

Watching GamerGate unfold from the outside and listening to Zoë Quinn describe it in her own words are two very different things. Crash Override: How Gamergate (Nearly) Destroyed My Life, and How We Can Win the Fight Against Online Hate is more than a memoir; it’s a comprehensive dissection of a flawed facet of the Internet. I read it not just because I wanted to hear Quinn’s account of what happened but understand, from the perspective of someone who has endured so much online abuse, how the systems are failing her and countless others. Trigger warnings for misogynistic slurs and imagery of rape and violence; Quinn reprints some of the threats and abuse she has received.

Crash Override begins with an extremely personal account of the events leading up to what became GamerGate. This is grounded in Quinn’s childhood love for video games and culminates with her transformation from indie developer into co-founder of the anti-abuse program that shares this book’s name. In this way, Quinn reminds us that she never set out to become so notorious: all she wanted to do was code cool indie games. But an abusive ex with a grudge changed all that. His actions triggered an avalanche of abuse and hate targeting not just Quinn but anyone who dared look like they might possibly offer her support.

Pause a moment to unpack this. I still vaguely remember this unfolding, from the initial splash to the whole debacle that followed. I remember the “ethics in video game journalism” crowd loudly declaiming the importance of freedom of speech and making sure reviews are honest/fair/objective—as if anyone, anywhere, was seriously arguing they should be bought-and-paid-for. I remember this happening while people were being sent death threats and all manner of abuse, simply for showing up and saying, “Um, hey, maybe don’t dox Zoë?”

The issue here was never freedom of speech, but if your defence of free speech at all overlaps with defending people who, by spewing their “free” hate speech, silence and harm others, then reconsider where you’re drawing that line.

Quinn, while sharing the visceral effect of enduring this abuse on her life and relationships, also steps back and tries to analyze it dispassionately. She locates some of the blame for this torrent of hatred on how easy the Internet makes dehumanization, which she defines as opposite to empathy. When we can’t see the effect our words have on someone, it is much easier to regard them as less than human. Quinn is careful to distinguish this from trolls who are doing things “for the lulz”, because such an analysis undermines the idea that these actions come from actual hatred and disgust. Rather, the Internet emboldens people—even when they aren’t acting anonymously—because it feels like one’s actions online come without strings attached.

In this way, Crash Override overlaps with another excellent resource, Haters: Harassment, Abuse, and Violence Online, by Bailey Poland. Both books seek to define, describe, and identify the source of online hate at a systemic level. Poland’s book is much more academic in style and format, whereas Crash Override is grounded both in Quinn’s personal experiences and in her experiences helping others deal with their own abusive situations. So, while a lot of this sounded familiar from Haters, this book still occupies a slightly different niche.

In particular, Quinn discusses at length working with various large companies to stop abuse on their platforms. This ranges from coordinating training and seminars on how to deal with abuse to contacting these companies’ abuse departments and trying to escalate specific cases when it seems like they are falling on deaf ears. Here again Quinn communicates palpable frustration with the broken system, often recounting examples of how certain companies or individuals just didn’t seem to “get it”—or worse, they “got it”, but they didn’t care enough to deal with it, because it might reduce their user base.

And that’s where we arrive at the thorny nugget of the problem. The Internet is not (and never was) the libertarian free-for-all that some dream of it being. But laws and regulation are slow to change, and while pressuring companies can have some effect, they’re ultimately in it for the money. This is not a problem that technology can fix, either. Savvy usage of technology to protect our privacy can go a long way, as Quinn points out when she describes the various steps one should take if one is the victim of these types of attacks. Yet this is ultimately a social problem, and it’s one we have to fix as a society. We have to take on the haters, the trolls, the abusers, and stop making excuses for them or turn a blind eye. We have to stop the apathy.

I think this is an invaluable read for most people who spend any amount of time online, but it’s most important for people like me—that is, people with enough combined privilege that we often don’t face abuse. Let me tell you: because I’m a white dude, my receipts folder is very, very slim. I’d have to work hard to have Eyes of Sauron turned upon me. Although marginalization is never a contest—there is no “oppression Olympics” and a winner of the “most oppressed identities” award—Quinn rightly points out that there are certain identities, certain intersections of identities in particular, that bear the brunt of online abuse. And if that seems doubtful to you, stop and consider for a moment if that’s just because of your perspective. It’s cold outside right now, but my house is toasty and cozy, so I couldn’t tell unless I open a window—and even then, I can just shut it any time I want.

Crash Override is far more open, engaging, and compassionate than we deserve from someone like Zoë Quinn. She could have chosen to bow out. She could have continued her work but decided not to write a book—I can only imagine how the abuse cycled up during this book’s release. She could have written a much more placid, less detailed account. She did none of these things, and she has chosen to work tirelessly on behalf of other abuse victims. I’m not here to make her out to be a hero—nor is she, for she points out how she has stumbled throughout her life, how she was once a bully in the way she was once bullied. We shouldn’t build individual actors up as gods or monsters of the interwebs; we should instead look for ways to encourage and reward each other for trying to change the system. One way to start the change is to understand the problem, and this book is a good tool in that respect.

Oddly enough I recall being worried I wouldn’t like this book as I started it. And, of course, having finished it, I don’t know whence that trepidation originated, because of course Laini Taylor has delivered another sound tapestry of rich, fantastical storytelling. Could not put down Strange the Dreamer and would have read it in a night if I had the time.

This lyrical title sounds like a play on word order or the opening of a Shakespearean monologue at first, but of course it’s actually just a title for the main character, Lazlo Strange. An orphan raised by monks, he finds himself work in a great library and starts to obsess over stories of a vanished city beyond the desert: Weep, though that isn’t its true name. Lazlo’s amateur scholarship attracts the attention of a pretty-boy alchemist, and then both find themselves invited to Weep by a delegation of its citizens, hoping to garner enough talent from these cities to help solve a unique problem. Lazlo, unlike the other representatives, has no official position, no talents, but finds himself among them anyway, living his dream of visiting Weep. As with any Taylor story, though, there is much more going on. There are gods, both dead and living, and scared people, and monsters—and some of these things are one and the same.

Strange the Dreamer establishes this entire fantasy world with a nearly-magical amount of minimal exposition. I know next to nothing about the political organization of this world. I know there’s a kingdom named Zosma, and a few other kingdoms, and whatnot. So in that sense, it might sound at first like your generic fantasy setting. Yet Taylor manages to hint at a richness that’s present, even if it’s never fully felt, leveraging that quality fairytales possess of tricking our minds into filling in the pieces without even realizing that’s what we’re doing. I feel so much more familiar with this world than with some more detail-filled stories I’ve read.

Enjoyment of this book probably rests on the shoulders of its two protagonists, Lazlo and Sarai, and whether or not you like them and/or believe their romance. To be honest, although Taylor manages to convince me their romance is fairly inevitable, it also doesn’t interest me that much (maybe because it seems inevitable). There’s very little conflict between them, very little in the way of actually getting to know one another. Sarai dying before they could ever really meet in person (that one time excepted) is tragic, sure, but it also means that their romance never really goes beyond the “I’m kind of into you” stage. That being said, by bringing Sarai back as a ghost in thrall to Minya, Taylor certainly opens up the door to a lot more possibilities of personality and interaction in book 2.

I suppose that’s the part of Strange the Dreamer I liked least: the cliffhanger. I don’t feel cheated by any means—over 500 pages is more than enough book for me, and Taylor delivers a stellar story in that space. Obviously there’s just so much more story to tell. So I don’t begrudge her the cliffhanger itself. Maybe it’s just where the story ends that bothers me. For one thing, I kind of saw the reveal regarding Lazlo’s heritage coming from … oh, hundreds of pages away? Like, it’s fairly obviously telegraphed. This made him a less interesting character for me—I suppose, at this point in my fantasy-reading, I’m kind of over Chosen Ones or Special Protagonists and more into the Average Person who just ends up in a situation and has to Do the Best They Can. Nothing about Lazlo’s heritage invalidates how much I enjoy the rest of his actions, but it diminishes my overall enjoyment of his character.

Taylor also seems to set up a lot of characters who then fall by the wayside. We meet the various members of Eril-Fane’s handpicked delegation. Some of them, like Thyon, are a constant presence; others, like Drave, show up just to get killed off and provide some plot devices. But others seem to evaporate from the story, never to be heard from again, at least for now? I hope they return in the sequel, because otherwise, why bother introducing them to us in the first place? It just seems very uneven, and that left me less-than-fulfilled.

Fortunately, other aspects of Strange the Dreamer kept me much more interested. I love the dynamics among the Godspawn. Minya’s white-hot rage over the Carnage is such a contrast to Sarai’s forgiveness and compassion, and Taylor does a great job showing us why each of them feels the way they do. The subplot/lust-triangle between Feral, Rose, and Sparrow is well done, both because it isn’t overdone and because there’s a genuine sense of loss there, an acknowledgement that sometimes what you do is going to hurt people, and having done it, nothing you can do will ever make things the same between you again. Certain choices are irrevocable. These interactions are where this book seems like it’s at its most Taylor-esque, reminding me a lot of the moral ambiguity that so invigorates the Daughter of Smoke and Bone trilogy.

Speaking of which, I love the inclusion of the myth of the seraphim in this book. Seems like a clear hint that this book exists within the same multiverse as the previous trilogy (whether or not there is ever any crossover). It’s tastefully done without being too on-the-nose.

Laini Taylor back at it again with those good novels! Strange the Dreamer just really hit the spot: good, original fantasy. I don’t know what else to say. I’m satisfied, and yet I also want more. Bring it.

I don’t remember how The Devil You Know ended up on my to-read list, except maybe that a lot of people compare it to The Dresden Files, one of my favourite fantasy series of all time. Yet it’s worth noting that I like The Dresden Files in spite of its noir elements, and I like Harry Dresden in spite of the streak of casual chauvinism that runs through him. The Devil You Know is noir with a patina of paranormal, and Felix Castor is chauvinism on overdrive.

Maybe if I had read this book rather than listened to it I could have toughed it out past the 50% mark, which is where I called it. But my library only had the audiobook version, so needs must. When Felix described the latest femme fatale in the following manner, I nearly vomited:

But it was her smell that was having the strongest effect on me … subtle harmonies of musk and cinnamon and dew-wet summer air overlaid on sweet rose, heavy, seductive lily and undisguised human sweat … the total effect was indescribable, the smell of a woman in heat.

First, the the effect is not “indescribable” when you just literally described it. Second … ew. That’s gross. Like, people smell, sure, and sometimes people augment their smell so they smell differently, I guess, but if someone smells like that then there is a problem and you should run the other way, not have a drink with her.

But then it got worse, because not a minute later, the narrator utters the sentence, “I was disconcerted to find that I had an erection.”



(I so seldom put GIFs in my reviews, but this really calls for it. And I do love Kate Stark.)

SERIOUSLY, I DON’T NEED TO KNOW YOU’VE GOT AN ERECTION BECAUSE A WOMAN SAT NEXT TO YOU, BUDDY. OH MY GOD.

We won’t even get started about the exchange between Felix and a bad guy (?) about how Felix is “an arse man” and how apparently these little details are important things for this dude to know about the people he works with.

Look, the writing here is just crude. And I don’t care if that’s par for the course with this subgenre, nor do I care if you like that kind of thing—I don’t. So I am noping the hell out for more interesting and better pastures. The premise and plot development weren’t particularly compelling anyway. I don’t feel like I’m missing out.

One of my most favourite episodes of the new Cosmos (because, honestly, they are all so good) is Episode 10: “The Electric Boy”, which focuses on the life and discoveries of Michael Faraday. In particular, the episode emphasizes how the invention of the dynamo and the electric motor spurred on a whole new technological revolution. The electric motor is just ubiquitous now, even more so than smarter digital electronics, and we take it for granted as such a basic piece of technological craft. Yet it is in fact a marvel of science and technology. With its somewhat sensationalist title, The Spinning Magnet: The Force That Created the Modern World—and Could Destroy It captures some of that same sense of wonder. In addition to Faraday, science journalist Alanna Mitchell takes us on a tour through history, introducing us to the people who marvelled at, experimented on, and made discoveries about electromagnetism. Thanks to Dutton and NetGalley for the e-ARC.

As the title implies, the book focuses heavily on magnetism as it relates to our physical planet. There was quite a bit more geology and geophysics in here than one might initially expect (not that that’s a bad thing). Mitchell always links each point back to the central topic: our Earth is one, giant magnet, and the strength of the magnetic field plays an important role in protecting us from solar and cosmic radiation. Historically, understanding the way the magnetic field works—how it is laid out, and how it is changing—has been important for navigation and theoretical science. Now, though, as our technology base and even things like our power grids become increasingly dependent upon electronics, understanding the Earth’s magnetic field is increasingly a matter of survival.

Reading this gave me a serious hankering to read more of Dava Sobel, and it isn’t just because Mitchell briefly relates John Harrison’s development of the marine chronometer. Like Sobel, Mitchell has the talent for breaking down complicated scientific concepts and putting them into a socio-historical context. I do so love when scientists can cross the line into writing popular science books, but even when they do, their closeness to the topic colours the way they explain it. Science communicators have such an important niche in our society: they understand the science enough to represent it truthfully, but because they haven’t devoted a lifetime to researching it actively, they have enough distance to interpret rather than explain. Mitchell comfortably covers topics like vectors, electron valences, and wave-particle duality, in a way that isn’t going to make your head spin like the very electrons she’s talking about.

One important feature of The Spinning Magnet: it doggedly rejects the Great Man approach to telling stories about scientific discovery. Oh, it spotlights certain individuals in order to point out their contributions. Bernard Brunhes figures prominently, given that he is the originator of the idea of geomagnetic reversals. Some of the more usual suspects—Galvani, Volta, Franklin, Faraday—show up as well. Yet at every step of the way, Mitchell reminds us that science is ultimately, and has always been, a collaborative effort. This was true in the past, when each person stood on the shoulders of the giants who came before. It is true now, when scientists meet regularly in conferences to discuss all the things they have discovered that make their pet theories untrue. Although I feel like I could have done without a lot of the modern-day descriptions of where and how Mitchell met with the various people she interviewed that begin most of the chapters, I will give her credit for showing us how most contemporary scientists operate within this very interconnected community.

It was also delightful to spend some more time thinking about geology and geophysics. Much like Simon Winchester’s The Map That Changed the World, The Spinning Magnet is a potent reminder of how much we can learn about the history of our planet and our universe just by examining the rocks beneath our feet. There are so many stories these stones can tell us; I am constantly surprised and stunned by how much scientists can uncover by devising new and intricate ways to interrogate and interview these otherwise silent artifacts. I’ve always stereotypically seen myself as a “space” person; I like outer space and the impersonality of physics involving inhospitable regions of the cosmos. So it’s nice to have a reminder that our own planet has secrets of the universe to unlock as well, and that we have a lot to learn from it.

In the final chapters of the book, Mitchell turns to that sensationalist question implicit in the title: could a geomagnetic reversal be in the cards for our lifetimes, and if so, does that mean The End? Fortunately, she doesn’t buy into the hype. She pursues the question with the proper amount of skepticism. She points out the real dangers, such as the damage done by more intense solar storms back in the 1990s and early 2000s. She mentions the need for us to be prepared, to consider how better to shield our technology, to take this seriously—which, indeed, it seems like many countries are. Yet she is careful not to hype up the alarmist angle.

Even though this book, really, just confirms my long-stated belief that the Sun has it out for us all!

Goodreads tells me the hardcover version of this book clocks in at 300 pages. It’s always hard to tell in ebook form (this is the first book I read, by the way, on my brand new Kindle Paperwhite, huzzah for eInk!), but The Spinning Magnet felt very long to me. Maybe it’s simply because it has so many—thirty!—chapters, even if the chapters themselves aren’t as long. Mitchell certainly tries to be comprehensive. Yet I almost found myself wishing for … I don’t know … something more, some kind of story or theme to tie together everything that she shows us, beyond her quest to learn more about the obscure Brunhes or, of course, this spectre of geomagnetic reversal.

This is a satisfying read and one I’d happily recommend to anyone interested in the topic. It’s edifying without being confusing or patronizing, and there is so much to learn in here. Sometimes it goes off on a tangent or I got a little bored (and that isn’t necessarily Mitchell’s fault). Overall, though, The Spinning Magnet is a great example of what I like to see in my popular stories of science, history, and how they come together.