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tachyondecay
Second review: April 2020
Honestly, I don't have much to add to my review from 12 years ago (!). This remains an excellent mystery wrapped in deep medievalist philosophy and thought. It once again took me a long time to read, but it was a nice distraction from what's going on right now.
First review: December 2008
It took me a long time to finish this book (perhaps the longest time it's ever taken me to read a book). Umberto Eco sets out not just to provide another pulp fiction fodder for the masses, but to construct a richly-textured story--or rather, history--with elements of mystery, rhetoric, and religion. As a result of the book's depth, not to mention its lengthy passages of medieval rhetoric, I started this in October and am only now finishing it; I read other books on the side to keep myself occupied. But the length of time it takes me to read a book is irrelevant, as long as I enjoy it. And that I did.
By including discussions of contemporary events outside the secluded setting of the novel, Eco manages to draw me into 1327. The characters in the book are not cardboard cutouts, modern people wearing the clothing of fourteenth century monks but otherwise curiously resembling our own friends and family. Instead, their language, habits (no pun intended), and thought processes are those of fourteenth century monks. Yet at the same time, none of these digressions distract too much from the main plot. Sure, they may not be directly related to the mystery, but none of them feel artificially-induced for the sake of educating the reader about a particular facet of medieval life. Each conversation originates as a logical consequence of an event within the world of the novel. It helps that the narrator is, at the time of the events, a novice monk, companion to the protagonist--a Watson to William of Baskerville's Holmes would be the most obvious comparison, although not entirely accurate.
And what of our two main characters? Adso of Melk is everything a narrator needs to be. By having him tell the story much later in life, Eco can use the older, narrating Adso as a filter for the experiences of his younger self. We also get to see what life was like for a novice monk in the fourteenth century, the challenges he faces in an uncertain religious climate, and the temptations embodied by physical lust.
Adso's mentor, William of Baskerville, is a self-professed follower of Roger Bacon and William of Occam's schools of scientific method and deduction. As such, Eco devotes a good deal of dialogue to extolling the virtues of deductive reasoning and its function for an inquisitor. And this is the part where my estimation of The Name of the Rose rises from "enjoyable" to "clever": Eco has William spend so much time explaining his deductive methods that one becomes convinced he is a fourteenth century Shakespeare, and that a solution to the story's crime will naturally be forthcoming. So when it turns out that William actually fails, Eco's devotion to deduction provides a counterpoint to his exploration of a lack of order in the universe. Naturally, this is a problem for a monk who believes that there is a God who has a divine plan for every being in Creation. The existence of reasoning monks like William of Baskerville is therefore a quandary--how do they reconcile their two ideologies? Thus, Eco manages to raise quintessential metaphysical issues while still wrapping them around the nougaty goodness of an interesting plot.
For some, the length of the book and the ponderous pace of the first several chapters would make them discard it with a sigh of disinterest. I admit that at times I laboured to get through some of the particularly dense passages. Yet I persevered, and in the end, I feel rewarded. In fact, the failure of William to solve the crime in a timely fashion feels superior to the typical formula of a Christie or Conan Doyle mystery; I don't feel patronized because the detective has figured out the mystery when I could not. Rather, I enjoyed the journey for what it was: a dialogue between mentor and student, couched in a multiple-murder mystery at a monastery.
Eco explains his reasoning for writing The Name of the Rose (as well as his reasoning behind the title) in the postscript included in this edition. I liked the book; I loved the postscript. Not only did it make me appreciate parts of the book better, but I concur with many of Eco's remarks, not only as a reader, but as a writer. One part that I found particularly interesting was where he explains that he intentionally made the first one hundred pages a "penitential obstacle ... for the purpose of constructing a reader suitable for what comes afterward." This is something that many authors and readers often forget: not every story is meant for every person. People are, thankfully, infinitely diverse and different. Trying to cater to the tastes of everyone results in a very bland result. After all, reading a book is an investment. In order to deliver on that investment, the author wants to ensure that anyone still reading near the end of the book will enjoy the ending. The best way to do that is to weed out any other types of people near the beginning.
It's likely that I'll re-read this book in the future--several times, perhaps--and discover even deeper levels of meaning. These won't necessarily be the same interpretations you draw from the book; they might not even be the interpretations Eco intentionally designed for the book. That's the great thing about books so laden with symbolism and detail like The Name of the Rose: readers can find what they want in the book, without the burden of having to guess at what the author intends for us to find. Because after all, reading fiction--even active, thoughtful, intellectual reading of fiction--should not be a chore. While its length and rhetorical nature make The Name of the Rose seem like a chore on a superficial level, a closer examination reveals that it is instead a very enjoyable experience, as long as one keeps an open mind.
Honestly, I don't have much to add to my review from 12 years ago (!). This remains an excellent mystery wrapped in deep medievalist philosophy and thought. It once again took me a long time to read, but it was a nice distraction from what's going on right now.
First review: December 2008
It took me a long time to finish this book (perhaps the longest time it's ever taken me to read a book). Umberto Eco sets out not just to provide another pulp fiction fodder for the masses, but to construct a richly-textured story--or rather, history--with elements of mystery, rhetoric, and religion. As a result of the book's depth, not to mention its lengthy passages of medieval rhetoric, I started this in October and am only now finishing it; I read other books on the side to keep myself occupied. But the length of time it takes me to read a book is irrelevant, as long as I enjoy it. And that I did.
By including discussions of contemporary events outside the secluded setting of the novel, Eco manages to draw me into 1327. The characters in the book are not cardboard cutouts, modern people wearing the clothing of fourteenth century monks but otherwise curiously resembling our own friends and family. Instead, their language, habits (no pun intended), and thought processes are those of fourteenth century monks. Yet at the same time, none of these digressions distract too much from the main plot. Sure, they may not be directly related to the mystery, but none of them feel artificially-induced for the sake of educating the reader about a particular facet of medieval life. Each conversation originates as a logical consequence of an event within the world of the novel. It helps that the narrator is, at the time of the events, a novice monk, companion to the protagonist--a Watson to William of Baskerville's Holmes would be the most obvious comparison, although not entirely accurate.
And what of our two main characters? Adso of Melk is everything a narrator needs to be. By having him tell the story much later in life, Eco can use the older, narrating Adso as a filter for the experiences of his younger self. We also get to see what life was like for a novice monk in the fourteenth century, the challenges he faces in an uncertain religious climate, and the temptations embodied by physical lust.
Adso's mentor, William of Baskerville, is a self-professed follower of Roger Bacon and William of Occam's schools of scientific method and deduction. As such, Eco devotes a good deal of dialogue to extolling the virtues of deductive reasoning and its function for an inquisitor. And this is the part where my estimation of The Name of the Rose rises from "enjoyable" to "clever": Eco has William spend so much time explaining his deductive methods that one becomes convinced he is a fourteenth century Shakespeare, and that a solution to the story's crime will naturally be forthcoming. So when it turns out that William actually fails, Eco's devotion to deduction provides a counterpoint to his exploration of a lack of order in the universe. Naturally, this is a problem for a monk who believes that there is a God who has a divine plan for every being in Creation. The existence of reasoning monks like William of Baskerville is therefore a quandary--how do they reconcile their two ideologies? Thus, Eco manages to raise quintessential metaphysical issues while still wrapping them around the nougaty goodness of an interesting plot.
For some, the length of the book and the ponderous pace of the first several chapters would make them discard it with a sigh of disinterest. I admit that at times I laboured to get through some of the particularly dense passages. Yet I persevered, and in the end, I feel rewarded. In fact, the failure of William to solve the crime in a timely fashion feels superior to the typical formula of a Christie or Conan Doyle mystery; I don't feel patronized because the detective has figured out the mystery when I could not. Rather, I enjoyed the journey for what it was: a dialogue between mentor and student, couched in a multiple-murder mystery at a monastery.
Eco explains his reasoning for writing The Name of the Rose (as well as his reasoning behind the title) in the postscript included in this edition. I liked the book; I loved the postscript. Not only did it make me appreciate parts of the book better, but I concur with many of Eco's remarks, not only as a reader, but as a writer. One part that I found particularly interesting was where he explains that he intentionally made the first one hundred pages a "penitential obstacle ... for the purpose of constructing a reader suitable for what comes afterward." This is something that many authors and readers often forget: not every story is meant for every person. People are, thankfully, infinitely diverse and different. Trying to cater to the tastes of everyone results in a very bland result. After all, reading a book is an investment. In order to deliver on that investment, the author wants to ensure that anyone still reading near the end of the book will enjoy the ending. The best way to do that is to weed out any other types of people near the beginning.
It's likely that I'll re-read this book in the future--several times, perhaps--and discover even deeper levels of meaning. These won't necessarily be the same interpretations you draw from the book; they might not even be the interpretations Eco intentionally designed for the book. That's the great thing about books so laden with symbolism and detail like The Name of the Rose: readers can find what they want in the book, without the burden of having to guess at what the author intends for us to find. Because after all, reading fiction--even active, thoughtful, intellectual reading of fiction--should not be a chore. While its length and rhetorical nature make The Name of the Rose seem like a chore on a superficial level, a closer examination reveals that it is instead a very enjoyable experience, as long as one keeps an open mind.
If I had read this book last year shortly after it came out, I would be writing this review from the position of a cisgender man and, like Amanda Jetté Knox, hopefully a trans ally trying to educate himself. Instead, I recently came out as transgender, not too long after having the epiphany that I am a trans woman (I’m still trying to work out the precise language I want to use to describe that experience—but that’s for another blog post). So I picked up Love Lives Here: A Story of Thriving in a Transgender Family because I wanted to see other perspectives on coming out. In particular, I’m quite interested in stories of people who, like me, come out later in life rather than as teenagers or very young adults. Finally, as I wade into some trans spaces online, I want to be able to bring my love of books to bear when it comes to recommending trans-friendly and trans-supportive books to my fellow trans friends and cis allies—and that means I need to read more!
Who is this book for, by the way? Despite its heavy focus on the transition of her daughter and her wife, Love Lives Here really is Jetté Knox’s memoir and really is about her. Although Jetté Knox shares some key moments in Alexis and Zoe’s stories, this book does not chronicle their experiences in detail—nor should it, of course, because that’s not Jetté Knox’s story to tell. So, is this book for potential allies, or is this book for trans people looking for some love and support? Who should read this?
The facile answer would be “everyone,” and it’s also true, although as I often tell my English students, somewhat uninteresting. As someone who is still very much recalibrating her mindset from “cis male ally” to “trans woman,” I feel like I can bridge these potential audiences and almost see the book from both perspectives.
For trans readers, this book may be difficult at times. I’d also add that cis people might find parts of this book triggering too. Jetté Knox mentions this up front, adding in content/trigger warnings not just for transphobic incidents but also when she discusses her history with alcohol and sexual abuse. But for trans readers in particular who have struggled with being closeted for much of their lives, reliving Zoe and Alexis’ experiences through Jetté Knox’s eyes might be a bit much in some cases. However, I’m not saying this because I want to discourage you from reading it. On the contrary, for most trans people, I think this book will feel like a warm blanket. Just have a box of tissues next to you, because you will cry a lot, happy tears and sad ones. Love Lives Here is a reassuring balm to the firehose of transphobic and trans-exclusionary rhetoric that spaces like Twitter inculcate. I’ll be spending the rest of my review discussing the book from my perspective.
For cis readers, you could not really do better than this book when it comes to learning about being an ally. Jetté Knox is refreshingly honest and open about her internalized transphobia and her missteps in her reactions to her daughter and wife coming out. I think “you will screw up and have to apologize and learn but that doesn’t make you a bad person” is a very important message that cisgender people need to hear (and internalize) if they are going to be good allies. Jetté Knox tries very hard not to self-aggrandize or sugarcoat how she handles what transpires (pun intended). When someone close to you comes out as trans, no matter how supportive you think you are of trans right, it’s totally understandable for it to be a shock.
Love Lives Here reminds all readers that life is a constant learning process. Friction comes about when one is confronted by an unexpected change, and instead of pausing to take in that change and re-evaluate one’s attitude, one reacts instinctively, perhaps even lashes out, because the change is so startling. This book reminds us that it is important to take time, and to have faith that even if you don’t understand something right now, you will eventually get there in the end.
As a memoir, this book is about more than Jetté Knox’s adaptation and adjustments to having a trans child and partner. Those are obviously very important, but we also learn about her growth and the challenges she faces as her family relocates a couple of times and has to put down new roots. In particular, I was really fascinated by how Jetté Knox realizes that she constructed her sense of self around the identity of being “a good mother,” and that some of her apprehension regarding Alexis’ transition was rooted in how this affected her self-worth as a mother. That’s probably (I don’t know, I’m not a parent) something many parents can empathize with. She also discusses how the transition of two people in the family affect the other two children, both in the sense of the worries she projects on these children as well as the collateral damage that might happen as a result of being a high-profile trans-inclusive family.
Indeed, Love Lives Here is a chronicle in many ways of Jetté Knox’s personal journey from thinking of herself merely as an ally to being an an accomplice. (For more on allyship versus accomplice, this article is a good primer. And I want to recommend this site specifically for being an accomplice around racial justice, although that is not the topic of this book. The entire framework originates from anti-racist/anti-colonialist work done by Indigenous Action.) Not everyone who has a transgender family member ends up speaking and writing about trans rights, of course, but there are plenty of other ways to become an accomplice. It’s a matter of moving from “I support you/trans people in general” to “I will actively work to make the world around you a better place and remove the unfair institutions that oppress you.”
It is honestly so reassuring and wonderful that even in the short time since Alexis came out around 2014/2015, we have moved forward here in Canada and Ontario when it comes to accepting trans people. Jetté Knox observes that 2014 was really the beginning of a surge in trans visibility and acceptance, and I agree. When I came out publicly (by which I mean on social media, because that’s my version of “public”!) and at work at the end of February, I was inundated with love and support. My work has very explicit policies around how to include trans students; I was a little apprehensive because I couldn’t find any policies regarding trans staff, but turns out we have a dedicated “human rights and equity advisor” who, bonus, knows what she’s doing. So even in the span of a few years, supports and access have measurably improved. It still isn’t good enough—there is still far too much violence against trans people, and as the TPL kerfuffle demonstrates, still too many people who think trans rights are up for debate. But it is getting better.
But if it’s getting better, that’s because of people like Jetté Knox, and hopefully you too, dear reader. Love Lives Here is an example of why advocacy, activism, and accomplices are so crucial. Perhaps the most important takeaway from the book, something that Jetté Knox repeats a few times and with which I heartily agree, is this: the hardship and struggles that trans people face are never a result of being transgender. These struggles are a result of the society around us not accepting us. The solution will never be to change transgender people, to question our certainty, to ask us to take a seat or maybe not be so loud about our transness. If you really do support trans rights, then you need to work towards changing society until it supports us. When trans people are loved and supported, and when we work towards a better future together, the world is better for all of us. Jetté Knox makes it clear that working through this challenging time with her family has improved her personally, whether it involves coming to terms with her own sexuality or growing as a person and a self-made professional.
One final thing to discuss: the role of allies and accomplices in taking up space. Certainly I was a little apprehensive going into this book. As Jetté Knox acknowledges in the preface, it’s not her place to take up space in the conversation around gender identity. When you take on that accomplice mantle but don’t share that particular marginalization, you run the risk of taking up space that should be given to those who have that identity. Should I be reading a book by a cis person about transgender issues? Seems like a strange decision.
In my opinion, Jetté Knox avoids most of the pitfalls that even the most well-intentioned ally can fall into when speaking up about these issues. As previously mentioned, Love Lives Here really is the memoir it claims to be, and I think that’s very important. This is definitely a book about trans rights, but it is a book about trans rights wrapped up in a very specific story of one Canadian family adjusting to two people coming out and told from the perspective of one of its cisgender members. Jetté Knox is very careful to try to give back space when possible and point out where her voice can’t go; it sounds like she consulted carefully with her daughter and her wife when it comes to how much information she should include in this story. Ultimately, I would hope that cis people who read this don’t come away thinking, “Oh, cool, I can go out there and speak all about trans issues everywhere!” That’s definitely not what Jetté Knox is saying. Love Lives Here is an exemplar but not a blueprint for advocacy. That has to come from within, from your particular circumstances.
I’m still reeling a little bit from my abrupt pivot and coming out, to be honest. I’m struggling to understand what my new public gender identity means for how I interact with the world—and as a recent blog post explains, the current situation in the world complicates this! So I came to Love Lives Here looking for some reassurance, perhaps—and I found it—and maybe some answers. Of course, that is a bit much to ask of any single book; I need to write the answers for myself, and I know that they will probably be years in coming. Nevertheless, this was a really good place to start.
Who is this book for, by the way? Despite its heavy focus on the transition of her daughter and her wife, Love Lives Here really is Jetté Knox’s memoir and really is about her. Although Jetté Knox shares some key moments in Alexis and Zoe’s stories, this book does not chronicle their experiences in detail—nor should it, of course, because that’s not Jetté Knox’s story to tell. So, is this book for potential allies, or is this book for trans people looking for some love and support? Who should read this?
The facile answer would be “everyone,” and it’s also true, although as I often tell my English students, somewhat uninteresting. As someone who is still very much recalibrating her mindset from “cis male ally” to “trans woman,” I feel like I can bridge these potential audiences and almost see the book from both perspectives.
For trans readers, this book may be difficult at times. I’d also add that cis people might find parts of this book triggering too. Jetté Knox mentions this up front, adding in content/trigger warnings not just for transphobic incidents but also when she discusses her history with alcohol and sexual abuse. But for trans readers in particular who have struggled with being closeted for much of their lives, reliving Zoe and Alexis’ experiences through Jetté Knox’s eyes might be a bit much in some cases. However, I’m not saying this because I want to discourage you from reading it. On the contrary, for most trans people, I think this book will feel like a warm blanket. Just have a box of tissues next to you, because you will cry a lot, happy tears and sad ones. Love Lives Here is a reassuring balm to the firehose of transphobic and trans-exclusionary rhetoric that spaces like Twitter inculcate. I’ll be spending the rest of my review discussing the book from my perspective.
For cis readers, you could not really do better than this book when it comes to learning about being an ally. Jetté Knox is refreshingly honest and open about her internalized transphobia and her missteps in her reactions to her daughter and wife coming out. I think “you will screw up and have to apologize and learn but that doesn’t make you a bad person” is a very important message that cisgender people need to hear (and internalize) if they are going to be good allies. Jetté Knox tries very hard not to self-aggrandize or sugarcoat how she handles what transpires (pun intended). When someone close to you comes out as trans, no matter how supportive you think you are of trans right, it’s totally understandable for it to be a shock.
Love Lives Here reminds all readers that life is a constant learning process. Friction comes about when one is confronted by an unexpected change, and instead of pausing to take in that change and re-evaluate one’s attitude, one reacts instinctively, perhaps even lashes out, because the change is so startling. This book reminds us that it is important to take time, and to have faith that even if you don’t understand something right now, you will eventually get there in the end.
As a memoir, this book is about more than Jetté Knox’s adaptation and adjustments to having a trans child and partner. Those are obviously very important, but we also learn about her growth and the challenges she faces as her family relocates a couple of times and has to put down new roots. In particular, I was really fascinated by how Jetté Knox realizes that she constructed her sense of self around the identity of being “a good mother,” and that some of her apprehension regarding Alexis’ transition was rooted in how this affected her self-worth as a mother. That’s probably (I don’t know, I’m not a parent) something many parents can empathize with. She also discusses how the transition of two people in the family affect the other two children, both in the sense of the worries she projects on these children as well as the collateral damage that might happen as a result of being a high-profile trans-inclusive family.
Indeed, Love Lives Here is a chronicle in many ways of Jetté Knox’s personal journey from thinking of herself merely as an ally to being an an accomplice. (For more on allyship versus accomplice, this article is a good primer. And I want to recommend this site specifically for being an accomplice around racial justice, although that is not the topic of this book. The entire framework originates from anti-racist/anti-colonialist work done by Indigenous Action.) Not everyone who has a transgender family member ends up speaking and writing about trans rights, of course, but there are plenty of other ways to become an accomplice. It’s a matter of moving from “I support you/trans people in general” to “I will actively work to make the world around you a better place and remove the unfair institutions that oppress you.”
It is honestly so reassuring and wonderful that even in the short time since Alexis came out around 2014/2015, we have moved forward here in Canada and Ontario when it comes to accepting trans people. Jetté Knox observes that 2014 was really the beginning of a surge in trans visibility and acceptance, and I agree. When I came out publicly (by which I mean on social media, because that’s my version of “public”!) and at work at the end of February, I was inundated with love and support. My work has very explicit policies around how to include trans students; I was a little apprehensive because I couldn’t find any policies regarding trans staff, but turns out we have a dedicated “human rights and equity advisor” who, bonus, knows what she’s doing. So even in the span of a few years, supports and access have measurably improved. It still isn’t good enough—there is still far too much violence against trans people, and as the TPL kerfuffle demonstrates, still too many people who think trans rights are up for debate. But it is getting better.
But if it’s getting better, that’s because of people like Jetté Knox, and hopefully you too, dear reader. Love Lives Here is an example of why advocacy, activism, and accomplices are so crucial. Perhaps the most important takeaway from the book, something that Jetté Knox repeats a few times and with which I heartily agree, is this: the hardship and struggles that trans people face are never a result of being transgender. These struggles are a result of the society around us not accepting us. The solution will never be to change transgender people, to question our certainty, to ask us to take a seat or maybe not be so loud about our transness. If you really do support trans rights, then you need to work towards changing society until it supports us. When trans people are loved and supported, and when we work towards a better future together, the world is better for all of us. Jetté Knox makes it clear that working through this challenging time with her family has improved her personally, whether it involves coming to terms with her own sexuality or growing as a person and a self-made professional.
One final thing to discuss: the role of allies and accomplices in taking up space. Certainly I was a little apprehensive going into this book. As Jetté Knox acknowledges in the preface, it’s not her place to take up space in the conversation around gender identity. When you take on that accomplice mantle but don’t share that particular marginalization, you run the risk of taking up space that should be given to those who have that identity. Should I be reading a book by a cis person about transgender issues? Seems like a strange decision.
In my opinion, Jetté Knox avoids most of the pitfalls that even the most well-intentioned ally can fall into when speaking up about these issues. As previously mentioned, Love Lives Here really is the memoir it claims to be, and I think that’s very important. This is definitely a book about trans rights, but it is a book about trans rights wrapped up in a very specific story of one Canadian family adjusting to two people coming out and told from the perspective of one of its cisgender members. Jetté Knox is very careful to try to give back space when possible and point out where her voice can’t go; it sounds like she consulted carefully with her daughter and her wife when it comes to how much information she should include in this story. Ultimately, I would hope that cis people who read this don’t come away thinking, “Oh, cool, I can go out there and speak all about trans issues everywhere!” That’s definitely not what Jetté Knox is saying. Love Lives Here is an exemplar but not a blueprint for advocacy. That has to come from within, from your particular circumstances.
I’m still reeling a little bit from my abrupt pivot and coming out, to be honest. I’m struggling to understand what my new public gender identity means for how I interact with the world—and as a recent blog post explains, the current situation in the world complicates this! So I came to Love Lives Here looking for some reassurance, perhaps—and I found it—and maybe some answers. Of course, that is a bit much to ask of any single book; I need to write the answers for myself, and I know that they will probably be years in coming. Nevertheless, this was a really good place to start.
This review will be shorter than usual because I broke my elbow and have one hand in a cast.
I read this because I remember reading a later book in the series, The Warrior Returns, featuring Amalric's sister, Rali, as the narrator. I don't think I ever read The Far Kingdoms itself, so I decided to go back and give it a try. I don't regret this, but it didn't do much for me either.
In many ways, this is a generic fantasy quest novel. My younger self probably would have loved it, as I cut my teeth on Modesitt's Recluce books or Eddings' Belgariad. This is in that same mould. Indeed, Amalric comes off as a Marty Stu in some ways, or at least a more mature version of Harry Potter. Everything just works out for him, and his only flaw is trusting too much.
This book is progressive, but only in very clear-cut, male-gazing ways. Amalric becomes an abolitionist—low bar, that. He can acknowledge that women are as capable as men, yet he still objectifies them, even his sister. And of course, she is a lesbian, but only in the most Amazonian way of portraying it. Lots of discussion of loins and sexytimes and whatnot.
The plot is episodic in nature and fairly predictable in overall notes and character development. That doesn't diminish the potential for enjoyment, but don't expect too much from it.
Fun for nostalgia purposes. Not all that interesting beyond that.
My reviews of the Anteros series:
← The Warrior’s Tale →
I read this because I remember reading a later book in the series, The Warrior Returns, featuring Amalric's sister, Rali, as the narrator. I don't think I ever read The Far Kingdoms itself, so I decided to go back and give it a try. I don't regret this, but it didn't do much for me either.
In many ways, this is a generic fantasy quest novel. My younger self probably would have loved it, as I cut my teeth on Modesitt's Recluce books or Eddings' Belgariad. This is in that same mould. Indeed, Amalric comes off as a Marty Stu in some ways, or at least a more mature version of Harry Potter. Everything just works out for him, and his only flaw is trusting too much.
This book is progressive, but only in very clear-cut, male-gazing ways. Amalric becomes an abolitionist—low bar, that. He can acknowledge that women are as capable as men, yet he still objectifies them, even his sister. And of course, she is a lesbian, but only in the most Amazonian way of portraying it. Lots of discussion of loins and sexytimes and whatnot.
The plot is episodic in nature and fairly predictable in overall notes and character development. That doesn't diminish the potential for enjoyment, but don't expect too much from it.
Fun for nostalgia purposes. Not all that interesting beyond that.
My reviews of the Anteros series:
← The Warrior’s Tale →
I do so enjoy stories set during World War II that are not about battles or even soldiers. (One could make the argument, of course, that the people in this tale are soldiers, albeit of a different sort.) The Ventriloquists is a based-on-a-true-story story that will appeal to those of us who believe the pen is mightier than the sword. It’s a story about stories, about writing, about propaganda and other dark arts. E.R. Ramzipoor’s dramatization of an actual event during the Nazi occupation of Belgium brings a potent mixture of inspiration and sorrow, of soaring highs and equally poignant lows. This is a book begging to become a movie. It’s also probably a hundred pages too long.
It’s 1943, and Brussels is Nazi territory for now. Most newspapers have either been shut down or become nothing more than puppet voices for Nazi propaganda. The new Nazi in town captures a select group of resistance fighters and coerces them into preparing the most dastardly, most effective, most convincing propaganda issue of a newspaper ever seen. But this group has a plan to get away with a bait-and-switch. They don’t expect to survive; they don’t even know if what they plan to pull off will have an effect—but they are going to try, damn it!
The Ventriloquists works because none of these characters are heroic, at least not in the melodramatic sense of that word. I’m not going to analyze each player in detail, but whether we’re discussing Marc or Lada or Spiegelman, these characters are people, not heroes. Messy, complicated, conflicted people. Ramzipoor conveys what I can only imagine is the accurate sense of desperation that people in these situations must have felt while occupied during wartime. A strange cognitive dissonance exists, wherein everything is “the new normal” (a phrase I’ve come to loathe during our current pandemic) yet also everything sucks.
I also like how Ramzipoor humanizes our main Nazi antagonist, Wolff, without making him a sympathetic character. This is a tough line to walk. I’m not interested in stories that make me feel sorry for Nazis. Nevertheless, I do think it’s important to explore what motivates an individual within such an incredibly hateful yet efficient organization. Ramzipoor calibrates Wolff’s interactions with Spiegelman and Aubrion in particular to help with this.
I am not as big a fan of the frame story and Helene/Gamin’s arc in general, not because I disliked her, but mainly because it draws out the story without seeming to add much to it. Why do we keep checking in with older!Helene for these little bits of foreshadowing that don’t add much? In general, the way Ramzipoor switches perspectives doesn’t work for me.
The story itself draws out about 14 days into over 500 pages, and there’s probably a case to be made here for some more revision and paring down. However, that’s a stylistic quibble. Ramzipoor creates atmosphere in her descriptions and her characters’ ruminations, and there are times when it works and times when I found myself less interested in returning to the book because I wasn't in the mood to wait another ten pages for something to happen (I exaggerate, I know).
The Ventriloquists is one of those novels where the author’s reverence for the history they’ve studied clearly shines through. I’m glad I read it, because it is engrossing and enthralling in many places. It just doesn’t always keep me on the edge of my seat or quite have a style of storytelling that appeals to me.
It’s 1943, and Brussels is Nazi territory for now. Most newspapers have either been shut down or become nothing more than puppet voices for Nazi propaganda. The new Nazi in town captures a select group of resistance fighters and coerces them into preparing the most dastardly, most effective, most convincing propaganda issue of a newspaper ever seen. But this group has a plan to get away with a bait-and-switch. They don’t expect to survive; they don’t even know if what they plan to pull off will have an effect—but they are going to try, damn it!
The Ventriloquists works because none of these characters are heroic, at least not in the melodramatic sense of that word. I’m not going to analyze each player in detail, but whether we’re discussing Marc or Lada or Spiegelman, these characters are people, not heroes. Messy, complicated, conflicted people. Ramzipoor conveys what I can only imagine is the accurate sense of desperation that people in these situations must have felt while occupied during wartime. A strange cognitive dissonance exists, wherein everything is “the new normal” (a phrase I’ve come to loathe during our current pandemic) yet also everything sucks.
I also like how Ramzipoor humanizes our main Nazi antagonist, Wolff, without making him a sympathetic character. This is a tough line to walk. I’m not interested in stories that make me feel sorry for Nazis. Nevertheless, I do think it’s important to explore what motivates an individual within such an incredibly hateful yet efficient organization. Ramzipoor calibrates Wolff’s interactions with Spiegelman and Aubrion in particular to help with this.
I am not as big a fan of the frame story and Helene/Gamin’s arc in general, not because I disliked her, but mainly because it draws out the story without seeming to add much to it. Why do we keep checking in with older!Helene for these little bits of foreshadowing that don’t add much? In general, the way Ramzipoor switches perspectives doesn’t work for me.
The story itself draws out about 14 days into over 500 pages, and there’s probably a case to be made here for some more revision and paring down. However, that’s a stylistic quibble. Ramzipoor creates atmosphere in her descriptions and her characters’ ruminations, and there are times when it works and times when I found myself less interested in returning to the book because I wasn't in the mood to wait another ten pages for something to happen (I exaggerate, I know).
The Ventriloquists is one of those novels where the author’s reverence for the history they’ve studied clearly shines through. I’m glad I read it, because it is engrossing and enthralling in many places. It just doesn’t always keep me on the edge of my seat or quite have a style of storytelling that appeals to me.
So! Many! Thoughts! About this one. I was so excited for Pretending, Holly Bourne’s second adult novel, after really loving How Do You Like Me Now?. My initial reaction to this novel was bemusement … I didn’t identify with April as much as I did with Tori, and for a moment I worried that would make me like this novel less. Indeed, if you pressed me, I would happily confess that How Do You Like Me Now? is my favourite of the two. Nevertheless, Pretending establishes that Bourne’s capabilities as a writer and storyteller continue to grow, and it provides a great example of how you can love and appreciate a novel even when you don’t identify as much with the main character.
Trigger warnings in this book and to some extent in my review for discussion of rape/assault.
April would love to find romantic love in a man, but all the men she tries to date turn out not so great. Her last long-term relationship was abusive and rapey. Each man she has seen since then gets turned off by some facet of her. Meanwhile, she works for a sexual health charity and often must answer anonymous frontline emails from people—usually women—asking if something was rape. This all takes its toll, and April is fed up. She decides she wants revenge. She decides she would rather be Gretel: an idealized, manic-pixie-dream-girl version of a woman. She’ll make a man fall for Gretel, and just as he is expresses his love for her, she’ll break up with him and ruin his life.
You can imagine, of course, how well that works. Up until this point (crisis email charity work aside), I would agree this sounds like the plot of a fairly standard Hollywood rom-com. If you’ve never read anything else by Bourne, you could be forgiven for thinking that’s all that Pretending could be. Of course, it’s much more than that. At the same time, Pretending might be the rom-commiest of all Bourne’s writing so far, and maybe that’s one reason it took a while for me to really wrap my head around why it works so well. I’m not sure how much I can say without going into spoiler territory, so let’s just say that this book ultimately isn’t about revenge or even about finding love. This is a book about accepting that you can change yourself and that it’s important to work to avoid letting trauma define you.
I struggled at first to identify with April mostly because, as someone who has been aromantic and asexual her whole life, I just don’t get dating. April’s constant refrain of wanting to be with someone, of not wanting to be alone … that’s not something I spend time thinking about. So for the entirety of the plot to revolve around that definitely made me yearn for Tori, whose more generalized adulting struggles were ones that I could recognize in myself. Yet I pressed on, because this is Holly Bourne, and her books are always worth it.
It’s really at the point where April is crying on the shoulder of her flatmate and best friend, Megan, and makes an observation that resonated with me, that Pretending lands for me:
That last sentence. Wow.
If men cold love women the way women love each other. Yes. Wow.
See, having only recently, at 30 years old, realized that I’m trans and made the decision to transition and come out to everyone, I have been doing some intense re-evaluation of my life and re-examining my choices through the hindsight of my true gender identity. One thing that has always been true is that my strongest friendships have always been with other women. Always. And I always loved them, not in any romantic or sexual way, but in a deep and unconditional platonic way. For a long time, I just ascribed that to my aro/ace orientations, not my gender identity. But For the Love of Men triggered a little mini-crisis in me that ultimately led to my gender epiphany, and since then I’ve been doing a lot more thinking. Certainly, my sexual and romantic orientations have played a role in how I form my friendships—but so has, unwittingly, my gender. I’ve always been female, and deep down, I recognized that and sought out friendships on those terms, even if I didn’t quite recognize what I was doing. I’m not saying that every man who treats women honestly and with unconditional platonic love the way some female friends do is actually a closeted trans woman—but in my case, this was true!
Up until now, reading Bourne’s books has always been a journey for me to understand certain corners of feminism and female experiences that, growing up as a man, I did not have access to. I wanted to sympathize with and better grasp the intricacies of micro-aggressions that Bourne is so good at portraying honestly and comedically. And for a while, I think that the realignment of my gender identity made me question what I was hoping to get from Pretending. I’m a woman, but I didn’t grow up being socialized as a woman, and I lack a lot of the experiences that cis women and trans women who begin transitioning earlier in life have had. This doesn’t make me any less of a woman, but it definitely leads to moments where I struggle with how to situate myself authentically. I am a woman, but there are many of experiences of womanhood I simply can’t speak to—that’s true of all women, but most women have more ground to fall back on to reaffirm their own sense of femaleness. Mine feels shaky sometimes.
I’m no longer presenting as a feminist cis man reading these books. I’m still a feminist; that much hasn’t changed. But I’m a different reader from who I was a year ago, and that’s very interesting. So for me, Pretending was less about identifying with April’s struggles to date and find a man as it was a glimpse at how all women, regardless of how their gender identity has developed, struggle with the arbitrariness of femininity. April constructs Gretel because she has ideas about how “all men” expect your everywoman to behave on a date. Others, when they eventually learn of her scheme, rightly call her to task for this and point out that even if men have unrealistic expectations, those expectations are often varied. Similarly, Bourne reminds us how women are often the ones who enforce these expectations of feminine behaviour in larger social situations—a tense exchange when “Gretel” finally meets her man’s coworkers and their wives illustrates this beautifully.
See, Pretending eventually arrives at the truth that we are, all of us, regardless of our gender, bound up in these incredible social constraints and expectations on our behaviour. We construct our prisons ourselves, out of our beliefs and values, from what we are taught explicitly by parents and teachers and media, along with what we absorb implicitly from life lessons, big and small. For the most part, we enforce expectations of gender roles on ourselves, with a little help from our friends. Layer on top of that the trauma that April has internalized as a result of her abusive ex-boyfriend raping her, and you arrive at a truly perfect storm of an identity crisis.
I enjoyed Bourne’s exploration of April’s trauma and her healing. I can’t really speak to the accuracy of such events; I know that Bourne worked in a position similar to the one that April held, so she understands that part well enough. But I loved the survivor kickboxing class that April attends and slowly integrates into her life. The way she expresses her pain, and the advice she receives from her fellow classmates and survivors, is a good reminder that healing is never a straightforward, linear process. Healing isn’t something we can rush, or really control. It takes time and it takes work, and it took April a while to come to terms with that.
Pretending didn’t make me laugh as much as How Do You Like Me Now?, but it’s still funny. It doesn’t feature quite as big a meltdown as the other book, but it still has its trademark “Holly Bourne moment” at the climax. April isn’t as identifiable to me as Tori. These are all reasons I liked Bourne’s first novel for adults better, but none of these are reasons to call Pretending disappointing by any stretch of the imagination. It’s different. There’s more of an edge to it, certainly, which I appreciate. Bourne packs a little more bite with each novel she writes.
It’s funny, that: men write books about the anguish of their lives, and they get to be called tortured artists and authors of literary fiction. Women who write such books, on the other hand, are consigned to the “chick lit” section. That’s why, ultimately, whether or not I “identify” with April’s struggle (regardless of my gender identity and experience), is really irrelevant here: as long as we continue to deem women’s stories and struggles as less widely important or interesting than men’s, we’ll never have equity in our literature.
Pretending is a valuable story. Yes, it is a woman’s story, but it should not just be read by women. It’s valuable because it captures how abuse and rape, misogyny and patriarchy, macro- and micro-aggressions all contribute towards the stresses that many women experience every day in our lives. And in the end, if we can understand these things, and then work towards mitigating them and removing them in our society, we might all be better off.
Trigger warnings in this book and to some extent in my review for discussion of rape/assault.
April would love to find romantic love in a man, but all the men she tries to date turn out not so great. Her last long-term relationship was abusive and rapey. Each man she has seen since then gets turned off by some facet of her. Meanwhile, she works for a sexual health charity and often must answer anonymous frontline emails from people—usually women—asking if something was rape. This all takes its toll, and April is fed up. She decides she wants revenge. She decides she would rather be Gretel: an idealized, manic-pixie-dream-girl version of a woman. She’ll make a man fall for Gretel, and just as he is expresses his love for her, she’ll break up with him and ruin his life.
You can imagine, of course, how well that works. Up until this point (crisis email charity work aside), I would agree this sounds like the plot of a fairly standard Hollywood rom-com. If you’ve never read anything else by Bourne, you could be forgiven for thinking that’s all that Pretending could be. Of course, it’s much more than that. At the same time, Pretending might be the rom-commiest of all Bourne’s writing so far, and maybe that’s one reason it took a while for me to really wrap my head around why it works so well. I’m not sure how much I can say without going into spoiler territory, so let’s just say that this book ultimately isn’t about revenge or even about finding love. This is a book about accepting that you can change yourself and that it’s important to work to avoid letting trauma define you.
I struggled at first to identify with April mostly because, as someone who has been aromantic and asexual her whole life, I just don’t get dating. April’s constant refrain of wanting to be with someone, of not wanting to be alone … that’s not something I spend time thinking about. So for the entirety of the plot to revolve around that definitely made me yearn for Tori, whose more generalized adulting struggles were ones that I could recognize in myself. Yet I pressed on, because this is Holly Bourne, and her books are always worth it.
It’s really at the point where April is crying on the shoulder of her flatmate and best friend, Megan, and makes an observation that resonated with me, that Pretending lands for me:
“Are you OK?” Megan leans forward, her face the picture of concern and love and understanding. The sort of face it would be amazing to see on just one boyfriend, just one. If men could love women the way women love each other, everything would be terribly easier.
That last sentence. Wow.
If men cold love women the way women love each other. Yes. Wow.
See, having only recently, at 30 years old, realized that I’m trans and made the decision to transition and come out to everyone, I have been doing some intense re-evaluation of my life and re-examining my choices through the hindsight of my true gender identity. One thing that has always been true is that my strongest friendships have always been with other women. Always. And I always loved them, not in any romantic or sexual way, but in a deep and unconditional platonic way. For a long time, I just ascribed that to my aro/ace orientations, not my gender identity. But For the Love of Men triggered a little mini-crisis in me that ultimately led to my gender epiphany, and since then I’ve been doing a lot more thinking. Certainly, my sexual and romantic orientations have played a role in how I form my friendships—but so has, unwittingly, my gender. I’ve always been female, and deep down, I recognized that and sought out friendships on those terms, even if I didn’t quite recognize what I was doing. I’m not saying that every man who treats women honestly and with unconditional platonic love the way some female friends do is actually a closeted trans woman—but in my case, this was true!
Up until now, reading Bourne’s books has always been a journey for me to understand certain corners of feminism and female experiences that, growing up as a man, I did not have access to. I wanted to sympathize with and better grasp the intricacies of micro-aggressions that Bourne is so good at portraying honestly and comedically. And for a while, I think that the realignment of my gender identity made me question what I was hoping to get from Pretending. I’m a woman, but I didn’t grow up being socialized as a woman, and I lack a lot of the experiences that cis women and trans women who begin transitioning earlier in life have had. This doesn’t make me any less of a woman, but it definitely leads to moments where I struggle with how to situate myself authentically. I am a woman, but there are many of experiences of womanhood I simply can’t speak to—that’s true of all women, but most women have more ground to fall back on to reaffirm their own sense of femaleness. Mine feels shaky sometimes.
I’m no longer presenting as a feminist cis man reading these books. I’m still a feminist; that much hasn’t changed. But I’m a different reader from who I was a year ago, and that’s very interesting. So for me, Pretending was less about identifying with April’s struggles to date and find a man as it was a glimpse at how all women, regardless of how their gender identity has developed, struggle with the arbitrariness of femininity. April constructs Gretel because she has ideas about how “all men” expect your everywoman to behave on a date. Others, when they eventually learn of her scheme, rightly call her to task for this and point out that even if men have unrealistic expectations, those expectations are often varied. Similarly, Bourne reminds us how women are often the ones who enforce these expectations of feminine behaviour in larger social situations—a tense exchange when “Gretel” finally meets her man’s coworkers and their wives illustrates this beautifully.
See, Pretending eventually arrives at the truth that we are, all of us, regardless of our gender, bound up in these incredible social constraints and expectations on our behaviour. We construct our prisons ourselves, out of our beliefs and values, from what we are taught explicitly by parents and teachers and media, along with what we absorb implicitly from life lessons, big and small. For the most part, we enforce expectations of gender roles on ourselves, with a little help from our friends. Layer on top of that the trauma that April has internalized as a result of her abusive ex-boyfriend raping her, and you arrive at a truly perfect storm of an identity crisis.
I enjoyed Bourne’s exploration of April’s trauma and her healing. I can’t really speak to the accuracy of such events; I know that Bourne worked in a position similar to the one that April held, so she understands that part well enough. But I loved the survivor kickboxing class that April attends and slowly integrates into her life. The way she expresses her pain, and the advice she receives from her fellow classmates and survivors, is a good reminder that healing is never a straightforward, linear process. Healing isn’t something we can rush, or really control. It takes time and it takes work, and it took April a while to come to terms with that.
Pretending didn’t make me laugh as much as How Do You Like Me Now?, but it’s still funny. It doesn’t feature quite as big a meltdown as the other book, but it still has its trademark “Holly Bourne moment” at the climax. April isn’t as identifiable to me as Tori. These are all reasons I liked Bourne’s first novel for adults better, but none of these are reasons to call Pretending disappointing by any stretch of the imagination. It’s different. There’s more of an edge to it, certainly, which I appreciate. Bourne packs a little more bite with each novel she writes.
It’s funny, that: men write books about the anguish of their lives, and they get to be called tortured artists and authors of literary fiction. Women who write such books, on the other hand, are consigned to the “chick lit” section. That’s why, ultimately, whether or not I “identify” with April’s struggle (regardless of my gender identity and experience), is really irrelevant here: as long as we continue to deem women’s stories and struggles as less widely important or interesting than men’s, we’ll never have equity in our literature.
Pretending is a valuable story. Yes, it is a woman’s story, but it should not just be read by women. It’s valuable because it captures how abuse and rape, misogyny and patriarchy, macro- and micro-aggressions all contribute towards the stresses that many women experience every day in our lives. And in the end, if we can understand these things, and then work towards mitigating them and removing them in our society, we might all be better off.
So here we are, over 2 years after I read Blood of Tyrants: the last Temeraire novel!
It’s times like these I always want to take a deep breath before I dive into writing this review.
Let’s get the verdict out of the way: League of Dragons is a good conclusion to the series, but it is not without its strange elisions. Naomi Novik proves up to the task of wrapping up her sprawling and epic alternative history of the Napoleonic Wars (plus Dragons!). In so doing, she reprises the characterization and charm that has suffused this entire series since I started it 8 years ago. These books are damn fun to read, and I wouldn’t change that for the world.
Laurence and Temeraire are in Russia, pressing Napoleon on the Prussian front with their allies. Soon, they are flying across the world to rescue Temeraire and Iskierka’s egg, however, from Lien’s clutches. After a series of events I won’t spoil here, our buddy cop protagonists end up pressing Napoleon to the brink of defeat. Do they win? How much does Novik depart from established history? I’m not going to tell! I shall limit this review to my observations on this book and the series overall, spoiler-free.
Let’s start with the obvious: Laurence and Temeraire. This book is our last chance to see them in action together, and I love it. There is a certain depth of trust here that is a nice contrast to the events of the previous book, when they hardly knew one another. Yes, they don’t always do what the other expects or desires, as both of them demonstrate at different points in this story. Yet they always find their way back to the other again. This is a love story in the strongest, richest sense: a love story of family bonded by mutual trust and aid, not blood. Laurence and Temeraire’s love is the strongest love there is in this series, and it’s beautiful.
Laurence’s growth over the past 9 books is on full display here. From stuffy Navy captain from a somewhat well-off family to traitor and now to … well, no spoilers … Laurence has had his share of ups and downs. He has gradually come around to the idea that dragons are intelligent creatures deserving rights commensurate to human beings. It’s cool to see how his tireless championing of such rights, and the impact he and Temeraire have had on European attitudes towards dragons, all come together in this final book.
League of Dragons is probably too short to ever fully satiate my need for closure with this series. Novik seems to be aware of this issue, for she does her best to draw together many of the threads began in earlier books. We at least hear about the Incas, the Tswana, China, etc. We are left with a likely trajectory—the title of the book is a hint—along with the promise that there is still more, always more, left to accomplish. I love the little hints that the Industrial Revolution is approaching, particularly Perscitia’s ruminations over cannon that will fell even the mightiest dragon in a single shot. There is a richness to this world that, after so many novels, is so evident in every page and every exchange.
Four hundred pages is just not enough! I want to know what happens to all the side characters! Moreover, while I’m satisfied with the overall conclusion to the story, I am very disappointed by the climax. Without going too far into spoilers here: Lien plays a very small role in this book, and after building her up to be this master strategist, we see precious little of her in League of Dragons. It’s perhaps the one bit of closure I really miss from this book.
So, where does that leave us? I already rendered my verdict up top, and I’m not about to betray you now. If you have stuck with this series, you will not be disappointed. I suspect that, like me, you’ll find that some aspects leave you wanting more, both in a good way and a bad way. Would I read more books in this series? Hells yes. Maybe a spin-off set fifty years in the future, at the height of industrialization? (Dragons do live a long time after all.) However, I know that Novik has moved on to writing other, different fantasy series—and I’m all for that too.
It’s always bittersweet when a long-running series of books comes to an end. All I can say is that I’m happy I have these to return to, any time I feel like wrapping myself in the warmth of the relationship between Laurence and Temeraire, and distracting myself with this alternative history of the nineteenth century, but with dragons. If any of this sounds appealing to you, I can’t recommend this series enough.
It’s times like these I always want to take a deep breath before I dive into writing this review.
Let’s get the verdict out of the way: League of Dragons is a good conclusion to the series, but it is not without its strange elisions. Naomi Novik proves up to the task of wrapping up her sprawling and epic alternative history of the Napoleonic Wars (plus Dragons!). In so doing, she reprises the characterization and charm that has suffused this entire series since I started it 8 years ago. These books are damn fun to read, and I wouldn’t change that for the world.
Laurence and Temeraire are in Russia, pressing Napoleon on the Prussian front with their allies. Soon, they are flying across the world to rescue Temeraire and Iskierka’s egg, however, from Lien’s clutches. After a series of events I won’t spoil here, our buddy cop protagonists end up pressing Napoleon to the brink of defeat. Do they win? How much does Novik depart from established history? I’m not going to tell! I shall limit this review to my observations on this book and the series overall, spoiler-free.
Let’s start with the obvious: Laurence and Temeraire. This book is our last chance to see them in action together, and I love it. There is a certain depth of trust here that is a nice contrast to the events of the previous book, when they hardly knew one another. Yes, they don’t always do what the other expects or desires, as both of them demonstrate at different points in this story. Yet they always find their way back to the other again. This is a love story in the strongest, richest sense: a love story of family bonded by mutual trust and aid, not blood. Laurence and Temeraire’s love is the strongest love there is in this series, and it’s beautiful.
Laurence’s growth over the past 9 books is on full display here. From stuffy Navy captain from a somewhat well-off family to traitor and now to … well, no spoilers … Laurence has had his share of ups and downs. He has gradually come around to the idea that dragons are intelligent creatures deserving rights commensurate to human beings. It’s cool to see how his tireless championing of such rights, and the impact he and Temeraire have had on European attitudes towards dragons, all come together in this final book.
League of Dragons is probably too short to ever fully satiate my need for closure with this series. Novik seems to be aware of this issue, for she does her best to draw together many of the threads began in earlier books. We at least hear about the Incas, the Tswana, China, etc. We are left with a likely trajectory—the title of the book is a hint—along with the promise that there is still more, always more, left to accomplish. I love the little hints that the Industrial Revolution is approaching, particularly Perscitia’s ruminations over cannon that will fell even the mightiest dragon in a single shot. There is a richness to this world that, after so many novels, is so evident in every page and every exchange.
Four hundred pages is just not enough! I want to know what happens to all the side characters! Moreover, while I’m satisfied with the overall conclusion to the story, I am very disappointed by the climax. Without going too far into spoilers here: Lien plays a very small role in this book, and after building her up to be this master strategist, we see precious little of her in League of Dragons. It’s perhaps the one bit of closure I really miss from this book.
So, where does that leave us? I already rendered my verdict up top, and I’m not about to betray you now. If you have stuck with this series, you will not be disappointed. I suspect that, like me, you’ll find that some aspects leave you wanting more, both in a good way and a bad way. Would I read more books in this series? Hells yes. Maybe a spin-off set fifty years in the future, at the height of industrialization? (Dragons do live a long time after all.) However, I know that Novik has moved on to writing other, different fantasy series—and I’m all for that too.
It’s always bittersweet when a long-running series of books comes to an end. All I can say is that I’m happy I have these to return to, any time I feel like wrapping myself in the warmth of the relationship between Laurence and Temeraire, and distracting myself with this alternative history of the nineteenth century, but with dragons. If any of this sounds appealing to you, I can’t recommend this series enough.
This is one of those books where you kind of like it but also kind of don’t like it, and you're low-key impressed you don’t actively hate it? Yeah, I think that's what this is. Stolen Songbird is a hot mess of paradox: the plot is straightforward but also convoluted; the romance is broken but also kind of believable; the main character is annoying but also grew on me. I liked it enough that I almost want to read the sequel, yet I kind of never want to read anything else in this world again. How has Danielle L. Jensen caused such tumultuous emotions? Read on to find out!
Cécile has been groomed her whole life to be a singer. Born and raised in a backwater village to an undistinguished farmer, Cécile’s mother is a singer from the big city. Cécile has reached the age where she is expected to move to the city to begin her formal training. One wrinkle: Cécile gets kidnapped and sold to trolls! Yes, trolls. She ends up in Trollus (ugh), the city of the trolls, who are magically confined there. Forced to wed the Prince of Trollus in the belief that this will help to break that curse, Cécile finds herself trapped in a city with precious few allies or options. Can she escape Trollus and return to her old life? Does she even want that when her hubby Tristan is the hottest troll and the best at magic and also really kind and cool in a thorny bad-boy way? You’ll have to read the book!
From the get-go, the obvious romance between Cécile and Tristan grated on me because it is so forced. I’m not a fan of "girl falls in love with her captor," and no matter how you slice it, that’s what Tristan is. It doesn’t matter whether or not he eventually reciprocates: there is a power dynamic there that neither of them can fix, and that makes for an unhealthy relationship. That being said, Jensen seems to be aware of the problematic elements and wants to avert them. She makes the interactions between Cécile and Tristan believable in terms of their nuance. They bicker and they work together; they agree and disagree at different points.
That’s the frustrating thing about this book: the plotting is madcap (we’re going to get to that) but the characterization isn’t bad. Jensen has a handle on how to write dynamic, interesting heroes and villains and all the side characters in between. When it comes to throwing them into a believable, interesting, captivating world with conflicts? I don’t know.
There’s a moment about 2/3 through the book where Tristan reveals some very juicy hints about the true origins and nature of the trolls. Very cool—I see what you did there, Jensen, and that alone is almost enough to make me want to read the next book to see if you take it anywhere! Almost. Yet the rest of this world just feels … unencumbered by complexity. Trollus is conveniently mythical yet also prosaically available to trade with a bunch of humans Cécile knows (this is handwaved away with magic, but still…). The world beyond Trollus and Cécile’s home is not fleshed out much. That’s excusable, given that almost all of the book takes place in Trollus, but it’s not very interesting. Trollus itself doesn’t seem that fully realized to me.
And then we have Cécile and her voice.
When you name a book Stolen Songbird and you make a big deal about the protagonist’s singing and you intimate this protagonist might have some magic in her … it’s reasonable for a reader to expect this magic is going to be song-based, or at least song-related, yes? Yet with the exception of Cécile occasionally singing in captivity to lure Tristan into her presence or whatever, the title seems to be more for its alliteration than anything else. Big disappoint there.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that Stolen Songbird is a story of squandered opportunities. It’s not bad, but it could have been so, so much better than it is. There are parts that made me cringe. There are parts that made me want to stand up and cheer. There are parts that left me cold or bored and other parts that had me calling Jensen a genius. This book is incredibly, frustratingly uneven, and having written this review, I still don’t know if I want to read more.
Stay tuned, I guess!
Cécile has been groomed her whole life to be a singer. Born and raised in a backwater village to an undistinguished farmer, Cécile’s mother is a singer from the big city. Cécile has reached the age where she is expected to move to the city to begin her formal training. One wrinkle: Cécile gets kidnapped and sold to trolls! Yes, trolls. She ends up in Trollus (ugh), the city of the trolls, who are magically confined there. Forced to wed the Prince of Trollus in the belief that this will help to break that curse, Cécile finds herself trapped in a city with precious few allies or options. Can she escape Trollus and return to her old life? Does she even want that when her hubby Tristan is the hottest troll and the best at magic and also really kind and cool in a thorny bad-boy way? You’ll have to read the book!
From the get-go, the obvious romance between Cécile and Tristan grated on me because it is so forced. I’m not a fan of "girl falls in love with her captor," and no matter how you slice it, that’s what Tristan is. It doesn’t matter whether or not he eventually reciprocates: there is a power dynamic there that neither of them can fix, and that makes for an unhealthy relationship. That being said, Jensen seems to be aware of the problematic elements and wants to avert them. She makes the interactions between Cécile and Tristan believable in terms of their nuance. They bicker and they work together; they agree and disagree at different points.
That’s the frustrating thing about this book: the plotting is madcap (we’re going to get to that) but the characterization isn’t bad. Jensen has a handle on how to write dynamic, interesting heroes and villains and all the side characters in between. When it comes to throwing them into a believable, interesting, captivating world with conflicts? I don’t know.
There’s a moment about 2/3 through the book where Tristan reveals some very juicy hints about the true origins and nature of the trolls. Very cool—I see what you did there, Jensen, and that alone is almost enough to make me want to read the next book to see if you take it anywhere! Almost. Yet the rest of this world just feels … unencumbered by complexity. Trollus is conveniently mythical yet also prosaically available to trade with a bunch of humans Cécile knows (this is handwaved away with magic, but still…). The world beyond Trollus and Cécile’s home is not fleshed out much. That’s excusable, given that almost all of the book takes place in Trollus, but it’s not very interesting. Trollus itself doesn’t seem that fully realized to me.
And then we have Cécile and her voice.
When you name a book Stolen Songbird and you make a big deal about the protagonist’s singing and you intimate this protagonist might have some magic in her … it’s reasonable for a reader to expect this magic is going to be song-based, or at least song-related, yes? Yet with the exception of Cécile occasionally singing in captivity to lure Tristan into her presence or whatever, the title seems to be more for its alliteration than anything else. Big disappoint there.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that Stolen Songbird is a story of squandered opportunities. It’s not bad, but it could have been so, so much better than it is. There are parts that made me cringe. There are parts that made me want to stand up and cheer. There are parts that left me cold or bored and other parts that had me calling Jensen a genius. This book is incredibly, frustratingly uneven, and having written this review, I still don’t know if I want to read more.
Stay tuned, I guess!
I had finally caught up on my NetGalley reading, so I went on the hunt for more books to request, and Aethon Books was kind enough to grant my request for Black Sheep: A Space Opera Adventure. The description sounded very promising, and for the most part I would say that Rachel Aukes delivers on that promise. The protagonist is also disabled! Content note: the book contains ableist language, which I will discuss shortly in this review.
“Throttle” Reyne is the captain of a colony ship out of the violent Trappist system. When the ship suffers a catastrophic failure, she and her small but plucky crew must abandon it to search for help. They find a derelict vessel that might be their answer—except, when they return to their original ship, they find that pirates have stolen it! Eventually, Throttle and her crew end up in the Ross system, which has previously been colonized by other Earth expeditions. They are at odds with the pirates who stole the colony ship, and they need to find a way to get the ship and the cryogenically-preserved colonists back before it's too late.
I was pleased to encounter a disabled person as a protagonist! Specifically, Throttle has a childhood spinal injury resulting in paraplegia. To be clear: I am not disabled, so I’m not going to comment overly much on Aukes’ portrayal of Throttle’s disability. That being said, I have to question whether Aukes had any sensitivity readers for this book, because some of language used to refer to Throttle and her disability made me cringe. Almost at the very beginning of the book, Aukes refers to Throttle as “after spending much of her life confined to a wheelchair” (emphasis mine). I’m given to understand, in my learning about how to be less ableist, that many wheelchair users feel this language is harmful because their wheelchairs actually provide them with freedom and mobility they wouldn’t otherwise have. They are therefore confined/restricted without their wheelchairs.
A bit later in the book, Aukes mentions:
I’m sure there are more examples throughout the book, or even subtler things I’m not picking up on because I’m abled. Look, I get that you want to explain how your protagonist’s disability makes her more comfortable in zero g, because it obviously alleviates some of her mobility concerns. There are ways to do that, however, that don’t compound ableist portrayals of disabled people. And this is an excellent example of why we need (paid) sensitivity readers in publishing: this is careless use of language and therefore easily fixed. Aside from the word choice, I didn’t pick up on any hugely problematic aspects of Throttle’s portrayal (but, again, I’m not qualified to do a sensitivity read here).
Ok, let’s move on from that and look at the rest of Black Sheep. Let me confess this book grabbed me more than I expected. I didn’t want to stop reading after I began it later one night, and I finished it the next day. I was into it! I like the snappy characterization, the way Aukes differentiates between their various personalities, and the way that each character gets a little more depth throughout the book. Certainly some of the tropes felt a little too worn—the computer with a heart of gold that just wants a friend, for example—but Aukes is skilled enough at making you not care about those clichés because you’re just having a good time.
The plot is fairly sensible and keeps to a good clip. Aukes sets up realistic problems and her characters come up with realistic solutions, with a good amount of wrenches thrown into the works for dramatic effect. My only real quibble here is with the ending itself. Without going into spoilers, let’s just say that Aukes pulls one of those fake-outs where you think everyone is safe and then BAM, disaster strikes. I understand the desire to leave on a cliffhanger to get people reading the next book. Nevertheless, on a purely subjective level, I would have preferred a happy ending and for this … explosive event … to occur at the beginning of Book 2, to jolt me out of my seat.
I also like the world into which Aukes throws us: for the first part of the book, Throttle and her crew from the Trappist-1 system believe theirs is the only one successfully colonized by Earth. So there’s a good element of mystery throughout, such as Rusty’s origins, and this doesn’t disappear once they reach the also-inhabited Ross system. Indeed, I love how Aukes answers a few of our questions but leaves more of them open for future books—or perhaps never to be answered at all (life isn’t fair)!
The subtitle is a little on the nose, but what can I say? It’s true. Black Sheep is space opera, is adventure, is fun with pirates. Throttle is that sassy-yet-capable heroine in the style of Dutch from Killjoys, and she has a good crew around her. Will I read the next book? Definitely maybe.
“Throttle” Reyne is the captain of a colony ship out of the violent Trappist system. When the ship suffers a catastrophic failure, she and her small but plucky crew must abandon it to search for help. They find a derelict vessel that might be their answer—except, when they return to their original ship, they find that pirates have stolen it! Eventually, Throttle and her crew end up in the Ross system, which has previously been colonized by other Earth expeditions. They are at odds with the pirates who stole the colony ship, and they need to find a way to get the ship and the cryogenically-preserved colonists back before it's too late.
I was pleased to encounter a disabled person as a protagonist! Specifically, Throttle has a childhood spinal injury resulting in paraplegia. To be clear: I am not disabled, so I’m not going to comment overly much on Aukes’ portrayal of Throttle’s disability. That being said, I have to question whether Aukes had any sensitivity readers for this book, because some of language used to refer to Throttle and her disability made me cringe. Almost at the very beginning of the book, Aukes refers to Throttle as “after spending much of her life confined to a wheelchair” (emphasis mine). I’m given to understand, in my learning about how to be less ableist, that many wheelchair users feel this language is harmful because their wheelchairs actually provide them with freedom and mobility they wouldn’t otherwise have. They are therefore confined/restricted without their wheelchairs.
A bit later in the book, Aukes mentions:
Throttle found herself as comfortable, if not more so, in zero g. There, her useless legs weren’t nearly as much of a detriment as they were in gravity.
I’m sure there are more examples throughout the book, or even subtler things I’m not picking up on because I’m abled. Look, I get that you want to explain how your protagonist’s disability makes her more comfortable in zero g, because it obviously alleviates some of her mobility concerns. There are ways to do that, however, that don’t compound ableist portrayals of disabled people. And this is an excellent example of why we need (paid) sensitivity readers in publishing: this is careless use of language and therefore easily fixed. Aside from the word choice, I didn’t pick up on any hugely problematic aspects of Throttle’s portrayal (but, again, I’m not qualified to do a sensitivity read here).
Ok, let’s move on from that and look at the rest of Black Sheep. Let me confess this book grabbed me more than I expected. I didn’t want to stop reading after I began it later one night, and I finished it the next day. I was into it! I like the snappy characterization, the way Aukes differentiates between their various personalities, and the way that each character gets a little more depth throughout the book. Certainly some of the tropes felt a little too worn—the computer with a heart of gold that just wants a friend, for example—but Aukes is skilled enough at making you not care about those clichés because you’re just having a good time.
The plot is fairly sensible and keeps to a good clip. Aukes sets up realistic problems and her characters come up with realistic solutions, with a good amount of wrenches thrown into the works for dramatic effect. My only real quibble here is with the ending itself. Without going into spoilers, let’s just say that Aukes pulls one of those fake-outs where you think everyone is safe and then BAM, disaster strikes. I understand the desire to leave on a cliffhanger to get people reading the next book. Nevertheless, on a purely subjective level, I would have preferred a happy ending and for this … explosive event … to occur at the beginning of Book 2, to jolt me out of my seat.
I also like the world into which Aukes throws us: for the first part of the book, Throttle and her crew from the Trappist-1 system believe theirs is the only one successfully colonized by Earth. So there’s a good element of mystery throughout, such as Rusty’s origins, and this doesn’t disappear once they reach the also-inhabited Ross system. Indeed, I love how Aukes answers a few of our questions but leaves more of them open for future books—or perhaps never to be answered at all (life isn’t fair)!
The subtitle is a little on the nose, but what can I say? It’s true. Black Sheep is space opera, is adventure, is fun with pirates. Throttle is that sassy-yet-capable heroine in the style of Dutch from Killjoys, and she has a good crew around her. Will I read the next book? Definitely maybe.
I’m slowly working my way through my Angry Robot/Strange Chemistry backlog from back when I had a subscription to every book they published. Anna Kashina’s name was familiar: turns out I read a similarly named Shadowblade that also features cool sexy sword-wielding ladies. I’m not saying these books are clones, but yeah … Kashina has a theme here.
In Blades of the Old Empire, an ancient enemy has returned and has an outsized interest on the Crown Prince, Kyth. Fortunately, Kyth is protected by a mercenary named Kara (when I got this book, of course, I had no idea I would one day come to share the name of one of its main characters, yay). Kara seems to be the only one immune to the magic that Kyth’s attackers use to disable everyone in their path. Oh, and Kyth and Kara have a thing for each other—because of course they do. Determined to find out more about these new (old) enemies, Kyth and Kara and their retinue set off on a little quest, only to be waylaid (of course). Meanwhile, Kyth’s daddy (that would be King Daddy to you and me) sets off on his own little quest, with some politics and shenanigans for him to enjoy. Also there is some death and a fair amount of scenery-chewing.
Don’t let my insouciance fool you: I liked most of this book well enough. Kashina has some interesting ideas in here, from the whole Majat’s gem ranking setup to the evil cult brotherhood to the various powers within this world—the Church, the Keepers, the crown, etc. It’s clever, very detailed, with lots of hints that the lore goes deeper. Exactly what I like in my fantasy.
As much as the romance between Kyth and Kara annoys me, I’ll also praise their characterization. Kyth isn’t a Marty Stu with a whole bunch of random powers that lets him get out of scrapes: Kashina develops his powers gradually and in a logical way from the beginning of the book to the end. Similarly, even though Kara is literally the most elite warrior in existence, she has her flaws too.
I’m less satisfied with the plotting. The parallel storytelling structure works well enough for me, but the actual plot leaves much to be desired. So much that happens is just very convenient, from the way that Mai conveniently knows how to disable instead of kill someone important to the way that Kyth and Mai meet up again with the others at just the right time. Similarly, while some of the characters are great (as noted above), others, like the Duke, seem like cardboard left in the rain too long.
Blades of the Old Empire has a lot going for it, and while I wouldn’t jump at recommending it, I’ll say this: I wanted a nice fantasy novel to read on my deck in the sun, and Kashina delivered on that.
In Blades of the Old Empire, an ancient enemy has returned and has an outsized interest on the Crown Prince, Kyth. Fortunately, Kyth is protected by a mercenary named Kara (when I got this book, of course, I had no idea I would one day come to share the name of one of its main characters, yay). Kara seems to be the only one immune to the magic that Kyth’s attackers use to disable everyone in their path. Oh, and Kyth and Kara have a thing for each other—because of course they do. Determined to find out more about these new (old) enemies, Kyth and Kara and their retinue set off on a little quest, only to be waylaid (of course). Meanwhile, Kyth’s daddy (that would be King Daddy to you and me) sets off on his own little quest, with some politics and shenanigans for him to enjoy. Also there is some death and a fair amount of scenery-chewing.
Don’t let my insouciance fool you: I liked most of this book well enough. Kashina has some interesting ideas in here, from the whole Majat’s gem ranking setup to the evil cult brotherhood to the various powers within this world—the Church, the Keepers, the crown, etc. It’s clever, very detailed, with lots of hints that the lore goes deeper. Exactly what I like in my fantasy.
As much as the romance between Kyth and Kara annoys me, I’ll also praise their characterization. Kyth isn’t a Marty Stu with a whole bunch of random powers that lets him get out of scrapes: Kashina develops his powers gradually and in a logical way from the beginning of the book to the end. Similarly, even though Kara is literally the most elite warrior in existence, she has her flaws too.
I’m less satisfied with the plotting. The parallel storytelling structure works well enough for me, but the actual plot leaves much to be desired. So much that happens is just very convenient, from the way that Mai conveniently knows how to disable instead of kill someone important to the way that Kyth and Mai meet up again with the others at just the right time. Similarly, while some of the characters are great (as noted above), others, like the Duke, seem like cardboard left in the rain too long.
Blades of the Old Empire has a lot going for it, and while I wouldn’t jump at recommending it, I’ll say this: I wanted a nice fantasy novel to read on my deck in the sun, and Kashina delivered on that.
I thought I would balance out my recent mathematical non-fiction read with a non-fiction read about the English language. Not only did I have one gathering dust on my to-read shelf for years, but it’s one that is just as technical and interested in education as The Math(s) Fix was. So, of course, it took me longer to read too. Also, I was apprehensive regarding Steven Pinker (more on that at the end of the review). Nevertheless, while I wouldn’t say that I’m going to come back to The Sense of Style again and again, I’ll grudgingly admit that Pinker has done an adequate job summarizing the challenges of writing English. He also lays out some sensible guidelines and ways to think about writing English that move us beyond unproductive attempts to codify strict “rules” for a language that has never met a rule it didn’t like to break.
Pinker’s prologue and first chapter discuss what it means to “write well.” He tackles the long history, to which he contributes with this volume, of style guides for the English language. He provides specific examples of what he considers good writing, breaking them down to point out exactly which elements and decisions make the examples work. I’m an English teacher, and I teach high school to adults. A great deal of my time involves helping my students with their grammar, especially students taking the literacy course they must pass to finish their diploma. While grammar is important, many of my students get tunnel vision. They don’t realize that there is a whole universe of writing skills beyond good spelling, punctuation, and word choice. So I appreciate that Pinker begins with a more macro-level view of style before drilling down into the mechanics of syntax and semantics in later chapters.
That being said, Pinker’s background as a cognitive scientist is on full display here. He approaches linguistics from a technical and cognitive view: how does the human brain parse language? There are moments in this book where he might lose you or bore you. Pinker strives to affect a kind of down-to-earth voice. He frequently references somewhat nerdy comics (no memes, alas) to back up his arguments or illustrate a point. Nevertheless, this is not a “cool” book about grammar and style, and maybe that’s my fault for wanting it to be something it’s not. But I’m reading this and thinking, there’s some good stuff in here, but I could never show this to my students. Or even to my best friend, who recently completed her PhD. after a lot of assistance from me in the revision and editing department—she says her next goal is to improve her writing skills. The Sense of Style has useful tidbits for her, but taken as a whole it would be overwhelming
The final chapter exemplifies this: it is a survey of grammar rules. Pinker debunks the idea of descriptivism versus prescriptivism, then goes on to look at different rules we often believe are correct and tell us if we are correct in thinking they are correct. (Clear?) It’s useful information, yet it is literally encyclopedic in style and not the way I wanted to conclude a volume about writing English. I skimmed most of it.
The Sense of Style is detailed, rich in thought, and full of interesting facts and ideas. I’m glad to have read it. I’m just not sure exactly to whom I’d want to recommend this except other extreme English language nerds like me! This is not for a general audience.
Ok, now to dish: Steven Pinker has made numerous comments about sex differences in brains (just search on Twitter, and if you want to read more about that and its debunking, I highly recommend Delusions of Gender by Cordelia Fine), and I’m not about supporting people who support gender essentialist science. Nevertheless, I had already bought this book, and to be fair, Pinker doesn’t engage in any of that nonsense here at least. I’m not going out of my way to buy more books by Pinker, however.
Pinker’s prologue and first chapter discuss what it means to “write well.” He tackles the long history, to which he contributes with this volume, of style guides for the English language. He provides specific examples of what he considers good writing, breaking them down to point out exactly which elements and decisions make the examples work. I’m an English teacher, and I teach high school to adults. A great deal of my time involves helping my students with their grammar, especially students taking the literacy course they must pass to finish their diploma. While grammar is important, many of my students get tunnel vision. They don’t realize that there is a whole universe of writing skills beyond good spelling, punctuation, and word choice. So I appreciate that Pinker begins with a more macro-level view of style before drilling down into the mechanics of syntax and semantics in later chapters.
That being said, Pinker’s background as a cognitive scientist is on full display here. He approaches linguistics from a technical and cognitive view: how does the human brain parse language? There are moments in this book where he might lose you or bore you. Pinker strives to affect a kind of down-to-earth voice. He frequently references somewhat nerdy comics (no memes, alas) to back up his arguments or illustrate a point. Nevertheless, this is not a “cool” book about grammar and style, and maybe that’s my fault for wanting it to be something it’s not. But I’m reading this and thinking, there’s some good stuff in here, but I could never show this to my students. Or even to my best friend, who recently completed her PhD. after a lot of assistance from me in the revision and editing department—she says her next goal is to improve her writing skills. The Sense of Style has useful tidbits for her, but taken as a whole it would be overwhelming
The final chapter exemplifies this: it is a survey of grammar rules. Pinker debunks the idea of descriptivism versus prescriptivism, then goes on to look at different rules we often believe are correct and tell us if we are correct in thinking they are correct. (Clear?) It’s useful information, yet it is literally encyclopedic in style and not the way I wanted to conclude a volume about writing English. I skimmed most of it.
The Sense of Style is detailed, rich in thought, and full of interesting facts and ideas. I’m glad to have read it. I’m just not sure exactly to whom I’d want to recommend this except other extreme English language nerds like me! This is not for a general audience.
Ok, now to dish: Steven Pinker has made numerous comments about sex differences in brains (just search on Twitter, and if you want to read more about that and its debunking, I highly recommend Delusions of Gender by Cordelia Fine), and I’m not about supporting people who support gender essentialist science. Nevertheless, I had already bought this book, and to be fair, Pinker doesn’t engage in any of that nonsense here at least. I’m not going out of my way to buy more books by Pinker, however.