I was somewhat skeptical about this book going into it simply because of how it was marketed as a retelling of Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare retellings can be hit-and-miss. Thankfully, These Violent Delights is a hit! Chloe Gong takes the broad strokes of Romeo and Juliet but adapts the story quite heavily. There are some subtle nods (like a bar named Mantua) and some really nice set pieces (like the mistaken-for-dead moment) that Gong makes her own. All in all, I was able to sink into this story and not worry about comparing it to the material that inspired parts of it.

Juliette Cai is the heir to the Scarlet Gang, which runs one half of 1920s Shanghai. Their rivals are the White Flowers, and Juliette once had a forbidden romance with their heir, Roma Montagov. That was nipped in the bud, but Juliette is back after four years away in the United States—just in time for a madness to sweep through Shanghai, the people afflicted all tearing out their own throats. Juliette and Roma both become the investigators for their respective gangs, so they get thrown together under extreme circumstances: enemies turned lovers turned enemies again—can they put aside the betrayal of the past to prevent a betrayal in the present?

It took me a while to get into the story. I think this is because of how Gong throws us into the plot very quickly. I barely had time to get to know Juliette before Roma’s first appearance, and that apprehension in the back of my mind about how closely this story might hew to the play likely had a role as well. So it says something about Gong’s storytelling that, eventually, I got sucked in. I wanted Juliette and Roma to find the solution to this deadly mystery as much as they did.

On top of the mystery, there is a lot happening regarding the power relations in Shanghai. Partly historical, partly science fictional, this book plays fast and loose with the political situation in Shanghai in the 1920s. Nevertheless, as someone who isn’t familiar at all with Shanghai and its history, I found it fascinating. The cast are diverse in terms of race as well as gender—I was pleasantly surprised to see a trans character among Juliette’s allies—and Gong explores how this Chinese city has been encroached upon by foreign powers (i.e., white people). Indeed, the mystery itself is a kind of commentary on the fight for the very heart of Shanghai and its people.

My one criticism? The cliffhanger ending. This appears to be a duology, and I am so glad that the second book is out (and also available from my library), because I was incensed. Yes, the primary mystery gets solved—but enough of the plot is left unresolved that it almost ruined my enjoyment of the rest of the book! Again, this says a lot about how much faith I’m putting in Gong that I will read the sequel after such a betrayal. I need to find out if Juliette Cai is truly the ruthless killer she has told herself that she must be.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

When I heard Janelle Monáe had a book coming out, of course I was going to read it! My public library even had a copy right away. The Memory Librarian is an anthology of science-fiction stories set in the world Monáe created for her Dirty Computer album and emotion picture. Jane 57821, the protagonist from those pieces, returns in one novelette (Nevermind). Other stories explore more corners of this world in which memories have been weaponized in white supremacy’s war to maintain its grip on our society.

I cracked open this book on one of our first sunny days of spring on my deck. The first story, also called The Memory Librarian, is one of the longest. It follows Seshet, who is essentially a collaborator: she is the Director-Librarian for a town called Little Delta. She has risen to a position of great responsibility in a racist organization, New Dawn, that has acquired great power and convinced people they should surrender “unclean” thoughts or be branded “dirty computers” and taken in for cleaning. In this story, Monáe continues to explore some of the ideas of conformity that she brings up in her album. This novella was fascinating for the romance that Seshet embarks on and the conflict of interest that lies at the heart of the story.

I also really enjoyed the next story, Nevermind, for its commentary on gender identity and roles. Though Jane 57821 is one protagonist, the story actually revolves around a friend, Neer, who is a non-binary woman. Another member of the Pynk Hotel community objects to the presence of people like Neer; she believes that Neer and others dilute the definition of womanhood to the point where the hotel might open itself up as a space to (gasp) men. This is such a powerful story—Monáe, of course, recently came out as non-binary, and this (and all the other stories) display a nuanced grasp of the gender identity issues rocking our society today. (It’s worth noting that the co-author of this story, Danny Lore, is non-binary as well.) This is the one of the types of queer stories I think we need more of. So many of our queer stories focus on things like coming out, but I want to read about the messiness within queer communities. I feel like Monáe and Lore are channelling Audre Lorde in this story, the way they interrogate how members of marginalized communities will further marginalize one another.

“Timebox” was an intriguing story, but I confess I don’t get the ending. (I’m not sure if I am just missing something, but my understanding of how the timebox dilates time for the user means that what happens at the end … doesn’t matter? I feel like I’m missing something.) Nevertheless, the theme is a good one. I am all on board with questioning how we use our time under our capitalist system.

The other stories I could take or leave. That’s not to say that they weren’t good, but I just wasn’t as enraptured with them as I was with the ones I have highlighted. Overall, though, The Memory Librarian is a great collection, and I just love its whole vibe. From the talented Black and Latinx and queer writers Monáe chose to collaborate with all the way to the way that the stories interrogate the intersections of Blackness and queerness in a near-future society that highlights our own society’s shortcomings … yes. Just yes. This is a book that really exemplifies what science fiction can be: painful and beautiful and inspirational and hopeful, all at once and in various times.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

I’ve always maintained that Jenny Lawson is hilarious in the best possible way, and Broken (In the Best Possible Way) only sustains this opinion. What is the best possible way to be hilarious? With a generous helping of compassion. With self-deprecation that also recognizes that your self is human and valuable too. Even as Lawson makes fun of herself and others, she acknowledges that she deserves compassion and patience. To be broken is not to be without value—a message that our capitalist society forgets at times.

If you have read either of Lawson’s previous books, you’ll know what to expect for this one. If you haven’t: basically, it’s a series of essays that pose as memoirs and hilarious stories but are also, often, thoughtful reflections on our lives. Lawson lives with several chronic illnesses, such as rheumatoid arthritis, anxiety, and depression. In several of her essays, she describes to varying degrees her frustrations with her mind, her body, and the insurance company that seems determined not to let her treat either (fuck the American healthcare system, wow). She talks about undergoing transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS). But she also writes about trying to befriend an owl, about shaving her dog’s vulva, and so many other things (actually, a lot of it is animal related, now that I think about it). While the goal is certainly to make us laugh, it’s the kind of laughter that comes with an awareness of the heavier things in life.

One part of the book that really got to me was when she described her experiences with family members with dementia. This runs in my family and scares me. I understand that Lawson’s framing of senility as a kind of second childhood is meant to be reassuring, but it left me uneasy (this is not a criticism, just a reflection of my reaction to this essay). This is not something I like to think about, the prospect that one day, I too may begin to lose myself, or at least become unmoored from the linear experience of time and left to drift on the ocean of my memories.

It was a little easier to absorb Lawson’s moving discussions of things that feel a little more removed from me. I haven’t experienced depression or serious anxiety, and I appreciate how open she is about her battles with both. In particular, I appreciated her acknowledgement that TMS worked for her but has not cured her, that it is a wonderful treatment and could potentially benefit others but isn’t some miracle therapy we should immediately recommend to everyone. So often, when someone with clout undergoes such a treatment, they stan it so hard that it makes me uncomfortable. Lawson responsibly and honestly documents her experiences, diary-style, in a way that I imagine will resonate with many.

I also enjoyed Lawson’s honesty about how difficult a marriage is, and her opinion that the secret to not getting divorced is, in her case, a combination of laziness and a faulty memory!

Finally, as someone who has recently started a career as a freelance copyeditor, I enjoyed the chapter where all she does is share notes between her and her editors. Brilliant. I definitely think copyediting this book would have been … interesting.

Overall, this was a good read and perfect for my mood when I read it. I do think that Lawson’s sense of humour is the kind to which I become inured over time. Don’t get me wrong—I definitely laughed out loud, multiple times, as I read this book. If anything, I am impressed that Lawson can so consistently produce these quality books. At the same time, I’m struggling to come up with praise that is unique from what I have said in the past. She’s a brilliant, funny writer, and if you want to laugh about the sensitive side of life, come and join her in these pages.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Here we are with the last Machineries of Empire book and possibly my favourite, even though I’m giving it a lower rating than Ninefox Gambit (go figure). I think I’m so well-disposed towards Revenant Gun because of Yoon Ha Lee’s dedication to wrapping up the story. Finishing a trilogy satisfactorily is no mean feat, especially when you’ve created a universe as intricate and far-flung as Lee’s.

We pick up nine years after Raven Stratagem, although some chapters are flashbacks set shortly after that book. The Nirai hexarch, Kujen, has resurrected Shuos Jedao—or bits of him, at least—in a new and “improved” body and given him command of what is left of the Hexarchate’s Kel forces. Meanwhile, Brezan leads the rebels, and Cheris/Jedao is missing—she has a plan of her own. As war flares up over and over, it starts to look like Jedao vs Jedao might be the only way to end things—but what will the price be for humanity?

It’s so interesting, all these viewpoint characters, and the sympathies that they create. New Jedao (as I will call him) is unsure of himself. He doesn’t trust Kujen (good), yet also has no idea how he could wrest more control over his own destiny. He also really has no purpose outside of being Kujen’s weapon. It’s fun watching him grow a conscience, of sorts.

Similarly, I enjoyed seeing more from the servitors’ perspectives. Without giving too much away, let’s just say that the servitors are not a united front. They too have factions and allegiances, and it’s interesting to see how those overlap and intersect with the human powers. There is one servitor main character in particular whose allegiance shifts quite a bit over the course of the book, propelling them from a servant of one person to an autonomous being that sets its own goals.

Then we have Cheris Jedao, who is making it her mission to assassinate the immortal Kujen at all costs. Although we don’t get to spend much time in her head compared to the other characters, hers is the journey I most enjoyed in this book. The ending, in particular, feels very fitting.

All of the main characters are, in a way, trying to find themselves. In a galaxy where the old ways have quite literally been supplanted by a new regime, everyone is uncertain. Some people, like the Jedaos and even, to an extent, Brezan, have been robbed of their identities in one way or another. Lee asks us to consider who we are when we are torn away from our old support systems, our friends or family, and told we instead have a different purpose.

I also enjoyed the political commentary. As much as it might be difficult for some to wrap their heads around the calendrical mechanics that underlie this story’s worldbuilding, at the end of the day, this series is about revolution. It’s about fighting back against the idea that it’s OK to sacrifice some people in order to preserve an order for the rest. Yet it also acknowledges that if revolution erupts into war, tough choices might result in the people you think of as the “good guys” looking an awful lot like the bad guys at times.

If I have a criticism of this book or this series, it’s that I would have liked more time outside of the faction-controlled spaces. I would have liked to hear more about civilian life in the hexarchate, and to understand how the foreign nations (which I’m given to understand are also human) operate. I understand why Lee might have wanted to keep the story razor-focused on these characters, and it works quite well. Nevertheless, I feel like I’ve only been skimming the surface of this interesting universe. I want more! At the same time, I’m also satisfied with the ending of this story, and I’m not sure I need more, if that makes any sense.

The comparisons to Ann Leckie and doubtless others are obvious, and I would agree with them, but don’t let those make you lose sight of the inarguable fact that Lee’s voice rises original and refreshing in this genre. The careful integration of math and art and science, the aesthetic that I can’t quite label correctly yet feel reverberating throughout each page—this is a series crafted with care and skill and thoughtful attention to the storytelling. This is good science fiction indeed.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Word on the street is that young adult books are “too woke” now. I chortle every time I hear such patently absurd allegations, for anyone who levels them clearly has spent little time around not only young adult literature but also young adults themselves! Adolescents and young adults are passionate and aware about social justice. They want to learn, want to share, want to act to make the world a better place. All too often, it’s us adults who are getting in the way—yes, we need to help younger people channel their enthusiasm in safe ways, but we shouldn’t mistake “safe” for “status quo.” This is what Rénee Watson and Ellen Hagan try to convey in Watch Us Rise, a book about two girls taking on “the Man” because the patriarchy is getting them down.

Jasmine and Chelsea are starting their junior year of high school. They go to an “alternative” school in New York City, and it requires all students to be enrolled in an after-school social justice club. Yet Jasmine and Chelsea realize that the clubs they naturally gravitate towards aren’t working for them—Jasmine because of an incident of anti-Black racism from her teacher and some fatphobic bullying from a student; Chelsea because her poetry club wasn’t interested in reading outside of the canon. So they make their own club and start posting radical blog articles—and soon they get in trouble from the administration because of the waves they make and the people they piss off.

An obvious comparison might be to Moxie, though I have only watched the movie and not read the book, so the comparison might be less commensurate. Moxie also features teen girls inciting others to stand up for feminism; however, my critique of that movie was that it centred a white girl as its protagonist when there were perfectly interesting protagonists of colour right there. In this respect, Watch Us Rise wins out by centering a fat, Black girl as one of its two protagonists. Indeed, some of the most intriguing moments of the book come not from racism but from fatphobia and the way Jasmine often feels erased as she navigates a world made for thinner people.

The trouble that both Jasmine and Chelsea land in as a result of their Write Like a Girl blog feels so timely right now. We live in an era where people with fascist sympathies claim to fight for free speech yet will do everything they can to drown out marginalized voices. The people who complain to Jasmine and Chelsea’s school about Write Like a Girl exist in real life. They complain about teachers who tweet too much about progressive issues and try to get books removed from school and public libraries. They complain that their white children are “harmed” by learning about the enslavement of African peoples or the genocide of Indigenous peoples.

These same people have no interest in letting kids speak their minds. As I mentioned in my introduction, part of what makes Watch Us Rise powerful is that everything in this book comes from Jasmine and Chelsea. The supportive adults in their lives—their parents, the bookshop owner—guide them, offering suggestions for how they can get their message out, but they never attempt to filter or minimize the girls’ messages. I especially appreciate how the bookshop owner lets the girls make mistakes but also nudges them as appropriate—such as when an act of resistance ends up making a lot of extra work for the school custodians, and Jasmine and Chelsea realize they should probably apologize.

This is the trajectory for anyone who is learning how to be an activist. All of us, no matter our age, will get things wrong. Chelsea screws up and has to apologize to Jasmine. Jasmine has a lot of trouble working out her feelings, whether they are her romantic inclinations towards a friend or how upset she is about being bullied by a pretty white girl at school. Activism is hard enough when you don’t have a chronically ill parent or a judgemental grandmother!

Watch Us Rise is incendiary yet also compassionate, interesting and eye-opening. I think it will make some adults groan and say it is “heavy-handed,” but I would disagree. It’s the perfect level for young adults who have the passion for activism but need some inspiration. I loved so much about this book, devoured it so quickly because I couldn’t wait to see how it ends. The ending, while far from perfect, might best be described as quite realistic yet also hopeful. Maybe that’s what we need in this world right now.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Personal essay collections are often hit-and-miss for me. So many elements must align: the writer’s voice and style, the topics of their essays, and what I take away from the book. Sometimes I Trip On How Happy We Could Be is a great example of an essay collection that I enjoyed reading a great deal, yet I’m not sure I emerged as transformed as I might expect. Which, honestly, is fine—not all reading has to be transformative! Sometimes it’s nice just to have fun.

Nichole Perkins shares her thoughts on childhood and adulthood and the ages in between, on growing up, on sex and dating and other such activities, and on how her existence as a Black woman from the southern United States intersects with all these experiences. Although all of the essays are tinged with humour, they also often tackle serious issues of sexism, racism, misogynoir, domestic abuse, etc.

Going to be honest: I had a hard time seeing myself in Perkins’s experiences—and no, it’s not because she’s Black. Rather, there are so many stories in here about sex! I find sex very fascinating in general, and I don’t mind reading about it, but there was something about the way Perkins writes about her sexual experiences that left me bemused. For example, the collection opens with “Fast,” in which Perkins describes the ways her body and behaviour were policed so that she wouldn’t be perceived as promiscuous, even in middle school. She includes an extremely graphic depiction of kissing boys on the playground at five years old. And I remember just reading this passage and being totally unable to relate to what she was describing—because I have never kissed anyone, aside from a quick peck on the check for a relative.

I want to be clear that this is not a criticism of Perkins or her writing but rather an observation I’m offering up about my reaction as I read. Even though her understanding of her sexuality is so incredibly different from my own, I still thoroughly enjoyed reading about her experiences.

Also, in a strange way, I feel like this book brought me closer to my bestie? She’s the one who lent it to me, and as I read it, all I could think was, “This is Rebecca. I am reading about Rebecca’s life.” Well, Rebecca also doesn’t have a lot in common with Perkins, but the way Perkins writes about her sexuality, the confidence and joy that she derives from it, fits Rebecca to a tee. So I am grateful to this book for making me feel almost like I’m talking to my friend on the phone, a long afternoon chat in which I get to listen to the latest in her love life.

That’s really what Sometimes I Trip On How Happy We Could Be feels like: extended, one-sided phone conversations. I always hate to use trite adjectives like “vulnerable” and “honest” when I revoir memoirs. They never really capture what’s going on between the covers. So instead let me describe this book as a careful consideration of love. Whether she’s talking about her sex life or her family, TV shows or her involvement in message boards … Perkins is really talking about love for oneself and love for one’s community. Hence the title, which invites us to meditate on the what-ifs of our lives (and the possibility that, just maybe, we could indeed be that happy, if only for a time).

Do I recommend it? Yes. Does that surprise you, given my ambivalence of spirit? This book perhaps isn’t for me as its ideal reader. I still liked it. I would read more of Perkins’s writing. That alone is enough for me to cast a recommendation out into the world, because some of you out there will love this book, and I hope it finds its way to you.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Heather O’Neill wormed her way into my brain with Lullabies for Little Criminals. I missed The Lonely Hearts Hotel when it first came out, but when I saw she has a new book coming out soon, I finally learned about this one and jumped on borrowing it from my library. Also set in Montréal, albeit decades prior to Lullabies for Little Criminals, The Lonely Hearts Hotel echoes motifs from O’Neill’s earlier work. Once more we have substance use and addiction, sex work, poverty, domestic violence, etc. But this novel digs deeper into the psyche. My library stuck a “romance” sticker on its spine. I don’t know if that is correct … I don’t know, actually, that I liked this book all that much. Nevertheless, I cannot deny the grip it held me in for the duration that I read it!

Rose and Pierrot grow up together in an orphanage in between the World Wars. Separated in their teens, their lives diverge despite living not that far away from one another. Pierrot finds himself in great luxury, only to be cast down into destitution and drug use. Rose finds herself a servant, only to be suborned further into the role of mistress. As each endures the vicissitudes of life, they dream of finding the other, of putting together a circus like they had fantasized about as children performing together in the homes of wealthy Montréalers. But life is seldom so accommodating.

O’Neill really knows how to sucker punch her readers, let me tell you. This is a bleak book at times. If I were to give content warnings, I’m not even sure where to start, but let me try: pregnancy, miscarriage, abuse, sexual assault, murder, substance use … and a lot more. This is a book where bad things happen to bad people and to good people and to everyone in between. Indeed, I’m not so sure by the end of the book that we can call our protagonists “good people” any more, if ever they were. O’Neill might be trying to show us that people are not good or bad per se but rather that we are products of our environment. There is nothing naturally angelic or diabolical about Rose, or Pierrot for that matter—they act as they need to survive. They seldom ever flourish.

O’Neill’s writing style remains quite narrative, with dialogue almost an afterthought. I see why she attracts nominations for such things as the Giller Prize and Canada Reads. This is exactly the kind of CanLit that CanLit loves to celebrate: seedy and sensational, focused exquisitely on the tragedy of white people, writing steeped in references to a version of Canada that no longer exists (and perhaps never did). I say none of this to mock the book, mind you, but rather to demonstrate that if there were a formula for CanLit award bait, O’Neill has cracked it. This book has serious Fall On Your Knees vibes (and remember, I cite that as one of my faves as well).

Now, all this being said, I’m actually not sure that I enjoyed this book. I’m not sure that I would enjoy Lullabies for Little Criminals if I were to reread it now. I’m a different person from the one I was ten or even six years ago, when I last read that book. Having lived through the trauma of a pandemic, I find my tastes gravitating ever more strongly to more hopeful, happier fiction.

Is there a place for the grimdark historicity of The Lonely Hearts Hotel? Absolutely. Indeed, I want novels like this that depict the grimy past of our cities and culture as much as I want war movies that show war as messy, dirty, and bloody. We need fiction that doesn’t glamourize and romanticize past eras. We need fiction that tells us the truth as much as we need fiction that lets us escape. Of course, one could question whether a book like this is any more truthful and any less of an escape than a happily-ever-after romance—after all, does not O’Neill romanticize a certain type of absurd serendipity that can only ever exist in art?

Some authors, I feel, write because they yearn to live within a story themselves.

That is ultimately where I think I must land on The Lonely Hearts Hotel. As captivating as it is haunting, this book is a melody played on a sad grand piano by a pianist with healed broken hands. It washes over you, crashes against you, asks you to let it in lest it break you down—your choice. I don’t think I enjoyed it, but I respect it, as art and story and something both truthy and escapist. O’Neill remains talented, and she deserves those award nominations and wins.

And yet, I still yearn to leave behind the bleakness in favour of a little more hope.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

I love it when I take a chance on a book and it pays off. I knew nothing about Freya Marske or this novel, A Marvellous Light, but the description was sufficient to persuade me to buy it. No regrets. This Edwardian fantasy novel about magicians, with a gay romance and plenty of class and family drama, is a perfect spring read (or indeed, a perfect read for any season). Marske takes a mystery and spins it out into a tight drama with an interesting cast of supporting characters.

Robin Blyth learns about magic on his first day appointed to a new civil servant position. Still dealing with the death of his parents and becoming head of his small household, Robin struggles to make sense of what he has learned. But he has no time to adapt: the shady people who killed his predecessor come after him, hoping he knows more, forcing him to team up with his sullen colleague, Edwin Courcey, magician. Together, Robin and Edwin need to figure out what these people want, why they are willing to kill for it, and how to save Robin for a curse that might otherwise kill him.

Let’s get right into talking about magic. I enjoyed Marske’s portrayal of magic as a combination of power and technique. Some magicians have a great deal of power but struggle to use it well. Others, like Edwin, have very little raw power yet have the intelligence and wherewithal to figure out more innovative spellwork. The actual casting, involving complicated finger positions (cradling) would doubtless be visually intriguing if this book were ever adapted—your aphantasic reviewer here had to put her book down and rearrange her fingers in order to visualize it!

The relative inequities among various magicians, and the intersection of this with class in Britain, works very well. I like how magic is secret yet not a particularly closely guarded one. Edwin’s frustration that Britain’s magic has ossified compared to other countries, some of which actually do research, is really interesting and something I hope we get to explore further in the series. Overall, the worldbuilding and action here reminds me of both C.L. Polk and Naomi Novik!

The actual plot is … fine. It’s a good mystery, if a little obvious at times, and the action and pacing are uneven. While I enjoyed the climax and conclusion, they came upon suddenly, with a supporting character and a new minor character being introduced to quickly round out the cast of allies. Marske wraps up the “mystery” in a sense while leaving plenty of room for sequels. It’s not a totally satisfying ending, but it works.

No, A Marvellous Light shines on its main characters. The alternating perspectives between Robin and Edwin are great. The burgeoning romance is ever-so-subtle before blossoming into need, which I’m told is good. The sex scenes turn more explicit than I expected, and this book confirmed for me that, while I really don’t think there is any good word for genitalia, I would at least like variety in the words being used. That complaint aside, I enjoyed the cut-and-thrust of attraction, desire, disappointment, and dissatisfaction in this romance.

Come for the magic, stay for the characters, and allow yourself to get enveloped in this world. There is so much more I want from Marske (in a good way). I am definitely reading the second book.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Dinosaurs grabbed me, as usual, when I was a kid, but I wouldn’t say that my fascination has endured as it has with some. Nevertheless, at some point last year, I had a moment where I decided to seek out more information on these creatures and their extinction. This is not the first book I added to my to-read list, but it happens to be the first book I’ve read, mostly thanks to getting an eARC from NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press. The Last Days of the Dinosaurs wasn’t what I was expecting, yet it was a pleasant surprise.

Have you ever watched one of those “documentaries” on Discovery Channel that are more like recreations? It starts with an asteroid hurtling towards Earth, and then there are computer-generated sequences of dinosaurs running for cover while a narrator in a refined British accent explains how they are all about to die. That’s what’s going on here. Riley Black narrates the extinction of the non-avian dinosaurs (and many other species). She chooses a main character for each chapter, a Triceratops, Edmontosaurus, or sometimes even a plucky mammal perhaps distantly related to us. Then she uses that focal point to explore changes to the environment and the evolutionary adaptations and accidents that contributed to some species surviving and others … well, not.

That is the crux, of course: we think of the extinction event as “the end of the dinosaurs,” and it was … but it was also the beginning of the Age of Mammals. Without that asteroid, then in all likelihood there wouldn’t be us. Moreover, Black correctly situations this mass extinction on a continuum of other such extinctions throughout the history of life on Earth—each extinction altering the balance enough to allow different types of life to take hold in ways never before seen. So while it probably sucks from the perspective of a species going extinct, these extinctions are, in the end, part of the natural cycle. Also, the dinosaurs had a pretty good run—orders of magnitude longer than we humans have been around—so I don’t feel that sorry for them.

At first, Black’s decision to narrate events without any reference to how we might know, for example, that dinosaurs used trees as back-scratching posts, annoyed me. I like the story of how. I want to understand how the human ingenuity that is the scientific method led to the knowledge we have of events millions of years in the past. That is what I think is so cool.

Fortunately, Black did something clever. After the conclusion of the book (I was surprised to run into it only 70 percent of the way in), there is a lengthy appendix where she goes, chapter-by-chapter, over the “how” of each event. So if you are a stickler like me, don’t throw the book out after the first couple of chapters: stick with it, and you will be rewarded!

Indeed, one of my first thoughts as I was reading the book and ran across phrases like “lush verdue” was, “Oh, Riley Black can *write.*” I say this because there is a difference between a competent science communicator and a writer, and Black is both of these things. So that, in turn, makes the choice to split the narrative from the scientific explication even more palatable: as I said above, reading the first part of this book is very much like watching a recreation documentary. It’s compelling in a way that perhaps mixing the two wouldn’t have been. So while the choice irked me at first, I not only have come around, but I’m fully in favour of it simply because Black has the writing skills to back it up.

I learned a lot from this book too. Paleontology has come a long way since I was a kid. I had heard the news that even non-avian dinoasurs probably had feathers, or at least a fuzz approaching feathers. I’ve followed some cool announcements about estimates of T-rex populations, etc. But they never really come back to dinosaurs in school after that initial fascination as a kid, so there was a lot I didn’t know. For example, I was under the impression that the death of most non-avian dinosaurs was a gradual, drawn-out process following the impact event itself. Black marshals evidence that disagrees: according to some studies, it’s more likely that the infrared pulse from the impact fried pretty much all organic life on the surface of the planet within minutes. That is to say, the dinosaurs died very quickly, with only a few holdouts under the water or the ground to represent their species for the remainder of their lives. So that was new to me. Similarly, Black’s telescoping orders-of-magnitude approach to chapters—a minute after, a day after, a month after, a year after, a hundred years after, etc.—helped me wrap my head around the time frame of the recovery of life.

Beyond informing us about the extinction of non-avian dinosaurs, this book has a lot to teach us about the ways in which ecosystems interact. Black spends a great deal of time focusing on the complex interconnections among creatures, from the relationship between pollinators and flowers or seedcones and birds to the roles played by apex predators like T-rex, brought low more often through the smallest micro-organisms than through a challenge from another dinosaur. I think we humans often have this tendency to think very discretely, and Black’s writing really encourages us to see the dinosaurs in a holistic way, as part of this vast tapestry of life, rather than as an entirely different type of life form.

As a final aside, I had the pleasure when reading the conclusion of learning that Black is, like me, a trans woman (and, like me, transitioned in adulthood). I’m not saying I like the book more for that, but it was really like a cherry on top of this reading experience, seeing more of us out there, thriving, writing about our passions. That’s the future I want.

So, if like me you are having one of those random urges to learn a particular topic, and that topic happens to be dino-related, I recommend this book!

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Once again I find myself wrecked by Louise O’Neill’s ability to tell stories about how our society messes up women and girls. I expected this. I’ve pre-ordered this book but was delighted to receive an eARC on NetGalley because I could not wait. Shout out to the Sam Miller I knew when I taught in England (aside from being a blonde white woman, she was nothing like this Sam Miller).

 Sam Miller is a wildly popular, successful influencer. Founder of a wellness brand, Shakti, Sam is riding high on the publication of her latest book. After she publishes a tell-all essay about her sexual experience with her female best friend in high school, however, that friend emails her manager, angry and accusing Sam of sexual assault. So Sam must venture back to her small New England hometown to reconnect with this friend. In so doing, she opens the floodgates of her memory for a deluge of disturbing propositions. Idol asks us to confront whether we really remember the past accurately—and what happens if we aren’t the person we remember being?

Pretty much from the first chapter, I did not like Sam. This is by design—O’Neill has a talent for creating unlikable protagonists, and I think they have their place. We so often label women “unlikable” (or even less polite terms) simply for being strident, forthright, assertive, etc. Sam is these things, yes, but that isn’t why she is unlikable—I don’t like her because she is self-absorbed and perhaps even narcissistic. However, she isn’t a shallow character. Based on the limited third-person narrator’s perspective, Sam seems to truly believe in much of her grift—she meditates, etc. (Note that I am not suggesting meditation itself is always a grift—rather, I’m pointing out that many wellness gurus do not practise what they preach.) Sam doesn’t have a public and a private persona: she generally believes in her reality, and that is fascinating.

One of the best moments in the book comes early on. Sam is having an emergency call with her therapist, who asks her, “What would it mean to you if this accusation were true?” The therapist does not let Sam dodge the question, despite much bluster from Sam that it isn’t and can’t be true, and I really liked the dynamic in this scene. It’s a great, albeit harrowing question: what if it were true that you did something awful to someone, even if you can’t believe it of yourself?

The whole theme of Idol revolves around this question: is Sam Miller a “good” person? Can any of us be good people? O’Neill leaves many of the details of the past up for interpretation. The book strongly hints that Sam’s version of events is unreliable. On the other hand, it seems clear that her former bestie, Lisa, has her own issues, has made her own mistakes, has her own traumas. There’s another character who is nominally the primary antagonist of the book—I won’t reveal their name, for spoiler reasons, though it’s pretty easy to figure out who they are given all the breadcrumbs. This character has it out for Sam. And I get why, even though I don’t condone their actions.

I think this is what makes Idol work so well for me: O’Neill spends time exploring the different angles of what it means to be a flawed social media influencer, encompassing the perspectives of Sam herself, her manager, this antagonist, Lisa, her mother, etc. There is a compelling scene later in the book where Sam is meeting with Shakti’s board of directors, mostly old, white guys. One of them is adorably “woke” because of his younger daughter’s influence. They are discussing how Sam can distance herself from Shakti, given the allegations against her, so Shakti can go public. Sam, of course, balks at the idea of stepping away from her baby when men who have similarly been accused of sexual assault haven’t fallen from grace.

It takes guts, I think, for O’Neill to examine these double standards in this way. It’s one thing to write books about women crusading against male abusers—and these books should be written. It’s another to write a book about a powerful woman who might be one of those abusers, to discuss how white women like Sam and myself are often complicit in propping up these abusive systems because we think we will be rewarded and think we will be safe as a result. At the same time, we can admit that when we as a society do hold women to account, we do so with a vociferousness and viciousness seldom seen for men.

But I keep coming back to the portrayal of Sam as an influencer and what the role of influencer culture plays in our society. We have a lot of conversations about cancel culture: whether it exists, whether it has gone too far, whether it only works on marginalized people. I think we need to reverse that. We need to talk more about promotion culture. We need to ask ourselves why it is that certain people keep being given a platform, only for them to be revealed as frauds, criminals, or abusers. O’Neill is asking us, gently but persistently: “are people like Sam Miller rotten from the start, and that is what draws them to influencing, or does the influencing rot them from within?” Has Sam’s entire life since living her hometown just been her running away from memories she doesn’t want to admit?

There are no easy answers to be found in this book. The climax and denouement are raw and jumbled and bitter; I had to go back and re-read to make sure I wasn’t missing something. The ending is a testament to O’Neill’s refusal to reassure us that everything will be OK. It won’t be. We’ve constructed this abusive society that loves to build up women only to tear them down and pits women against each other, generationally, sexually, and competitively. Whether or not we root out the Sam Millers of the game is immaterial so long as the game itself continues to exist. She may or may not be a product of the culture, but her power and privilege are a symptom of it. Idols fall from grace because we demand it—yet we are always willing to replace them with someone fresh, someone new, so the cycle can begin again.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.