Let me tell you how I thought this review would go. As I began reading The House of Styx (which I received free via NetGalley and publisher Solaris), I thought that I would enjoy this book, for sure. Derek Künsken had, after all, reignited the faint embers of my love for posthumanism with The Quantum Magician and then fanned those flames with a dose of time travel in The Quantum Garden. However, I also thought that the thesis of this review would be, “This is a fun SF book that I liked but did not love as much as The Quantum Evolution books.” I prejudged it based on its being a planetary romance rather than a space opera.

I am so, so wrong. The House of Styx surpassed my expectations in every conceivable way. Not only does Künsken deliver another excellent, diverse science-fiction future, but he does so with humour and grace—and he just drops a trans character in my lap like oops no big deal. More on that at length, I promise, in a bit.

Trigger warnings in this book for portrayal of gender dysphoria/gender incongruence, as well as scarification.

In the future, humans have colonized the upper atmosphere of Venus. More specifically, Québécois have colonized Venus—yes, Künsken, Canadian, reaches into his Québécois heritage for some cultural inspiration here, exposing a wider audience to the glorious, sacrilegious profanity of Québécois French. La colonie, in debt to a powerful bank, barely scraps by, and the D’Aquillon family is even worse off. That is, they make a discovery, in a cave on the inhospitable and nearly unreachable surface of Venus, that could change everything. It could certainly alter the fortunes of the family, not to mention all of la colonie—if this monumental discovery doesn’t fall into “the wrong hands.”

So the book quickly turns into a race of against time: how does the family recruit enough trustworthy allies to capitalize on this discovery before the executive powers that be complete their political de-clawing of Marthe, the family’s representative in l’Assemblée? It’s going to take a combination of political and social negotiation as well as good ol’ engineering know-how! Along the way, Künsken gives us these amazing scenes of what he conjectures life in the Venusian clouds could be.

From herding, modifying, and even bio-engineering the “trawlers” (gigantic Venusian life forms that live in the lower clouds) to flying with wing packs while wearing survival suits designed to resist the corrosive and toxic atmosphere, The House of Styx is replete and resplendent with a fantastic imagining of what life on (or at least, above) Venus might entail. I haven’t read much fiction concerning Venus; Künsken lampshades this in the book by reminding us that the major exploratory nations kind of wrote Venus off as a dead end after their few probes. So I love that Künsken looked at this planet and said, “No, there is so much more to talk about here,” and then turned that into reality. While this imagination was present in The Quantum Evolution books, it was spread across the numerous settings within those novels. Here, Künsken deploys it in a more concentrated way. There are exciting, cinematic scenes that would be incredible to reify on film if anyone ever wanted to adapt this series. After the success of The Expanse I could easily see this working as a TV show.

Beyond the poetical vistas and musing on the stark, brutalist beauty of Venus’ surface and atmosphere, The House of Styx also features excellent characters and relationships. First we have the interplay among the D’Aquillon family themselves. Künsken invests each character with such an interesting, three-dimensional personality, from the steady, dependable Marthe to the black sheep of Étienne. There’s the relentlessly warm Jean-Eudes, who has Down’s syndrome, and then of course, there is my personal favourite character, Pascale.

I was not expecting a trans character in this book, and I think that says something important about our expectations for trans representation in literature. There is this misconception sometimes, I think, that for books to feature trans characters then their coming out/transition/journey must be the main focus of the story. That’s all that’s important about us, right? So the fact that here it’s not the main plot, and that feels unusual, is so important. Künsken’s portrayal of Pascale’s journey—the questioning, the agonizing over the questioning and her dysmorphia, the acceptance she receives from the people in whom she has confided so far—is excellent. Yet it all happens as a subplot within a book that is, really, more about exploration and the power struggles within a small colony.

Other cis authors, pay attention: this is how you do it. Normalize trans people existing against the backdrop of your larger story. Pascale is far from the only character who grows and undergoes challenges in this book. Each of the main characters struggles with the responsibilities that the D’Aquillon discovery foists upon them, as well as their own flaws and fears. And of course, there is a truly heartbreaking event at the climax of the story that no doubt will set up some intra-family conflict in the sequels.

Indeed, the character dynamics in The House of Styx are just great. There are very few one-dimensional characters here—even the nominal antagonist, Présidente Gaschel, gets some page-time from her third-person limited perspective so that we can understand why she’s acting the way she does and avert the idea that she is a bumbling, maniacal villain. Meanwhile, the people who ally themselves with the D’Aquillons do so cautiously. There is no automatic, trite pledges of loyalty here. There is careful discussion of the economic and political ramifications of what they plan to do. There are also other power dynamics at work: sex and attraction, resource management in a resource-scarce environment, etc. Künsken carefully layers all of the rich ingredients that together form our spheres of human motivations.

So, in the end, what do we have here? The House of Styx is a science-fiction novel set on/above Venus but with the potential to open up into so much more in the sequels. It focuses on a core group of characters who are diverse in personalities, sexualities, gender identities, etc., including an excellent portrayal of a young trans woman. I do want to be clear: I’m not giving this book 5 stars just because there’s a trans character here (though that helps); even without such a character this novel is an excellent story in every respect. But Künsken’s attention to so many aspects of characterization truly elevates it. After the clunky, sexist read that was Foundation and Earth, this was such a refreshing contrast from the tunnel-vision of so-called “classic” science fiction. The House of Styx is exactly what I want from modern-day science fiction: it is imaginative, inclusive, and incredible.

Originally posted on Kara.Reviews.

As a few other people on Goodreads have remarked, the subtitle of this book is more accurate than the title. How to Argue With a Racist: What Our Genes Do (and Don't) Say About Human Difference definitely discusses genetics as it relates to race. It is less useful if you’re looking for rhetorical tips on arguing with or debating racists or white supremacists. Adam Rutherford clearly and coherently lays out why such people are wrong to base their beliefs on a genetically-codified notion of race. Nevertheless, he dances around the ultimate problem with arguing with racists. I’ll come back to that later in my review. For now, let’s talk about what’s actually in this book, which I received for free via NetGalley and the publisher.

Rutherford starts with a history lesson of racism-as-science. Some of this was familiar to me, but he keeps it interesting and doesn’t go too far into the weeds. Basically, he examines how the post-Enlightenment world’s obsession with categorizing and classifying everything included classifying people, and many scientists used this as an opportunity to try to codify their particular biases and prejudices. Yet the fact that no single, reliable system of linking race to actual biological attributes has emerged after over 3 centuries of trying really demonstrates that race is socially constructed. Rutherford emphasizes that this is true for genetics as well, pointing out the flaws inherent in breakdowns of one’s ethnicity provided by private genomics companies like 23andMe. I particularly like his point regarding the resolution of genetic data available to these companies. Rutherford points out that 23andMe can only compare your genes to the genes it already has on file—i.e., to anyone else who has paid to have their genome sequence, i.e., disproportionately people from wealthier countries that are often descended from a European population. This type of selection bias is, of course, notably absent from these companies’ marketing material.

The next part of the book questions the utility of linking gene-tracing with ancestry. This had a lot of interesting mathematical and scientific points that were new to me. For example, Rutherford points out that, mathematically, it’s impossible for you to go back more than a handful of generations before you encounter overlap in your family tree. As a result, for any given population, we can trace backwards to a most-recent common ancestor—in the case of the entire world, it’s 3400 years. That means that claims like “all of my ancestors come from this one place in Scotland” are spurious—if true, you would be very, very inbred, because there just aren’t enough unique individuals within that population to create an unbroken lineage as far back as you care to trace it. Indeed, Rutherford’s overall thesis throughout the book is that global migration of human populations, and the resulting admixture of genes, makes it impossible to establish any concrete definition of race on a genetic level.

The final part of the book is devoted to challenging claims that we can easily connect genes to certain types of superiority, be this intellectual or physical. Are West Africans genetically predisposed to being the best at sprinting 100 m? Rutherford points out that there’s precious little evidence for such a belief. Not only does he outline the problem of using elite Olympic athletes (small sample size) for such research, but he points to the numerous environmental factors at play, not to mention the overriding confirmation bias (the idea that certain types of people are better at a sport means we invest more in finding and training those types of people, so of course more of them go on to excel in that sport). Similarly, while Rutherford provides an interesting defence of IQ tests as general indicators of large populations, he challenges the idea that an individual’s IQ test is a meaningful metric for evaluating them; moreover, he points out that the link between genetics and intelligence is still not well-understood.

All of this is well and good, and I enjoyed spending about 2 hours hanging out with Rutherford and listening to him refresh me on what I learned in Grade 12 biology and then stretch my understanding further still.

And yet.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this review, this book doesn’t fundamentally deliver on the promise implicit in its title. I suppose the idea is that, armed with these scientific facts, you’re supposed to bravely go forth and use them next time someone in your company spouts a racist line of reasoning. I guess? Except that it’s fairly well established that facts don’t change people’s minds. I can easily anticipate a racist with whom I’m arguing falling back on one of the numerous conspiracy theories Rutherford himself acknowledges in this book: scientists know that race exists, but they just refuse to admit it because it’s politically incorrect; the Jews are controlling the scientific establishment; look at this one article by a discredited and very racist scientist that repeats all the garbage I just spent fifteen minutes debunking … and so on.

I don’t think we’ll win debates with racists with facts. Truth be told, I‘m not interested in debating racists at all. I’d rather deplatform them.

That being said, if you are interested in being anti-racist and having a better understanding of why scientific ideas of biological race are bunk, you couldn’t do much better than read this book. You’ll come away with an accurate, up-to-date-as-best-we-know-right-now understanding of how our genes actually influence our development. I’m going to follow this up with Superior by Angela Saini as soon as possible for a look at the socio-historical side of this as well.

So, I highly recommend this book, but maybe not for the reasons implied in its title. Educate yourself; try to educate the racists if you feel like it but don’t hold your breath that logic is going to win the day here.

Originally posted on Kara.Reviews

Delany remains one of the authors who most consistently fascinates, educates, and challenges me. His science fiction and fantasy novels are never exactly what they seem—or perhaps are exactly what they seem—and if Dhalgren is perhaps his most widely-known inscrutable work, his Return to Nevèryön series, and particularly Flight from Nevèryön, are the most obviously inscrutable.

I’m not sure how to summarize this book. I wanted to say that the first two tales are fairly straightforward, but that isn’t true. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say that the first two tales take place solely in Nevèryön, whereas the last two parts of the book—the two appendices—begin to break down the fourth wall and deconstruct the allegorical conceit of that fantastical place. All four parts examine motifs for which Delany is well known: sex/sexuality and queer politics/power. If you’re someone who is wondering where the queerness is in classic SF/F, you really do need to read Delany’s work, because it is right here.

Gorgik the Liberator, so prominent in the first two books, is present here but in a more subdued fashion. He is the object rather than the subject of “The Tale of Fog and Granite.” Here Delany revisits some of the ideas already trodden in Nevèryön, particularly around homosexual mores as well as sexual kinks and the master/slave dynamic. Once again, the seemingly foreign and strange land in this book serves as a good analogy for the cosmopolitan and conflicted 1980s in which Delany writes, particularly as it applies to sex. Yet in this regard it’s truly the last two parts of the book that steal the show.

As Delany breaks down the fourth wall, he begins to talk explicitly of AIDS. The AIDS epidemic as recorded here happened prior to my birth; for me it is history but on these pages it is raw fact. And without trying to create a false equivalence, reading this during the COVID-19 pandemic did hit hard. Delany discusses how surreal it felt, to live with the spectre of AIDS around every corner yet never actually be touched himself by the disease, and even though our respective times and circumstances are very different, I see what he means. 

Delany peels back yet another layer in the final appendix, where he explicitly discusses the semantic and semiological aspirations of these books. As a writer and a reader, not to mention a huge fan of Umberto Eco, I found this part extremely fascinating. I love that Delany embraces what is regarded as a quintessentially pulp genre in order to play with and manipulate the boundary conditions of language. He pokes at and prods what he calls “patriarchal language,” and this is apparent throughout these stories. Many of his gay characters discuss their relationships, sexual or otherwise, with women, as well as their identities as fathers. While some of this might be attributed to autobiographical insertion, there’s more happening here. Delany in 1984 is doing what we nearly forty years later are once again attempting to do: queering queerness itself. Delany is pushing the boundaries, blurring the precision of labels like gay, not because he sees them as unnecessary or useless but rather because he wants people to be able to embrace them on their own terms. We see this today, as people embrace a variety of new or newly-reclaimed labels that better help them describe themselves.

Will you get a little lost in this book? Almost certainly, and that’s the point. Everything from the title to the cover to the copy will lull you into a false sense of security, make you expect a simple pulp fantasy novel with some hot! queer! action!. But there’s so much more happening here, and it hurts my brain to even think about it. I know that, contrary to his pronouncements in this volume, Delany does revisit Nevèryön once more. Even if he hadn’t, however, this would have been a fitting conclusion. Eco was right when he says Delany “has invented a new style.” Metafictional, intertextual, steeped in semiotics—Flight from Nevèryön is challenging as a work of fantasy and philosophy.

Originally posted on Kara.Reviews

To an outsider (Canadian) like me, the United States college admissions system is bizarre. First there’s the byzantine distinctions between community colleges, state schools, private colleges … as opposed to Canada, where university and college have distinct meanings. It’s not just the vise-grip of the standardized testing agencies on students’ futures … it’s the whole ranking system, the prestige, and the intense competition among post-secondary schools for money and athletes. As an educator, I look at this with no small amount of fascination. So when the 2019 college admissions scandal broke, I immediately knew I would be reading the inevitable book(s) that followed. Every few months, I checked to see if I could get a hint of a book in the works. Imagine my surprise when, last weekend, my search revealed that Melissa Korn and Jennifer Levitz’s Unacceptable had just been published. Not only that, but it was available to read on NetGalley without requiring approval! (So yes, disclosure: I got this book for free in exchange for a review.)

Unacceptable starts with a cast of characters, the sprawling length of which is our first hint at the astounding scope of this scandal. As Korn and Levitz emphasize throughout the book, this scandal is notable not just for the amount of money that changed hands but for its breadth. This wasn’t a handful of parents and one or two institutions. This affected schools across the entire country, and the list of defendants is lengthy indeed.

The star of the show, if this show indeed has a star, would of course be Rick Singer. This is where Korn and Levitz begin, with your typical exposition of Singer’s early days: his small private counselling ventures, his other businesses, his marriage and his divorce, and then his return to private counselling in the form that would lead to this scandal. Singer has many of the classic traits of the con artist; in particular, he gets a gambler-like thrill from “winning” his game. Yet that’s one of the most intriguing things about this story: it’s not your typical confidence game. Singer wasn’t scamming parents by promising to get their kids into college, then absconding with his money. No, this was much worse: he was actually getting their kids into college in exchange for large sums of money.

This was unadulterated capitalism in its finest form.

Singer was running a business, plain and simple. He had all manner of packages for parents to choose from. Some were legitimate, straightforward private counsellors who advised kids about their applications. Other routes were less legitimate: cheating on standardized tests, faking athletic profiles, and greasing the wheels through hefty donations to coaches. It’s not that these parents were buying their kid’s spot—although, in a way, they were—but they were paying to obtain their kid a spot through, as Singer pitched it, “the side door.”

Reading this book, it’s really hard not to conclude that the college admissions system is broken. As Korn and Levitz carefully tease out, Singer is not really a mastermind so much as an opportunist: he didn’t create these flaws in the system; he merely exploited them. Don’t get me wrong: Singer is totally culpable. But when you read Unacceptable, you understand why the Attorney General’s office chose to flip Singer and target the parents (and coaches) rather than just shut down his operation, prosecute him, and call it a day. Singer was a symptom of a larger problem.

Getting to follow this whole story from beginning to the arrests, hearings, and sentencing is one of the best things about this book. Korn and Levitz provide context to the prison sentences for high-profile defendants like Felicity Huffman. They interpret and explain the judge’s rulings, helping us to understand why some defendants received prison time while others only received probation. Along the way, Korn and Levitz emphasize that prosecutors were wrangling with an optics problem: they didn’t want to be seen as “going easy” on wealthy defendants; yet the defense lawyers charged that this meant they did the exact opposite. We also get to find out what happened to many of the kids caught up in the scandal too!

As a result, Unacceptable provides more than just the juicy details of the scandal. It begins with the story of a single man’s attempt to make a slightly dishonest living and ends with the story of a frayed and flawed justice system grappling with its inability to quantify loss in this situation. Not only does this book expose flaws in the college admissions system, but it also shines a light on limitations the US justice system.

Above all else, Korn and Levitz do their best to render their subjects fairly and in a very human way. Singer is not an evil mastermind. Huffman and the other parents are not evil rich people. Neither is anyone an innocent victim here. They knew what they were doing was wrong, and perhaps even illegal, yet they persisted because they believed it was necessary for their child to gain entry into a prestigious institution.

At times, I found the prose a little too stylized for my liking. They overuse the phrase “well-heeled” to describe the wealthy defendants at the heart of the case. Similarly, they spend a fair amount of time describing what these defendants wore to each hearing (though, I should mention, they do this for men as well as women, which is a nice departure from the sexist obsession with describing what women of interest are wearing but ignoring men’s appearances). I understand that this helps to humanize them and also emphasizes their state going into each hearing … but it always rubbed me the wrong way as I read. So it goes.

Unacceptable highlights cracks in the system. More than that, though, it provides a concrete example of how the growing wealth disparities in the United States create a cocoon of privilege that distorts how the wealthy view opportunity and status. While some of the parents pleaded guilty and even fewer truly understood the severity of their crime, the fact remains that Singer had no shortage of clients. For a certain echelon of American parents, this was simply the way it is done—at least, that’s what Singer liked to emphasize. Korn and Levitz delve deep into the details of so many facets of this story. For me, however, that was the enduring takeaway, and it’s what we need to change if we want to avoid more people like Singer opening the side door.

Originally published on Kara.Reviews.

I didn’t realize until I started reading that The Relentless Moon, while technically a sequel to The Fated Sky, is more of a spin-off in the series. Mary Robinette Kowal writes from the perspective of Nicole Wargin, a white woman who was a side character in the first two books. She is one of the original astronauts (or astronette, ugh) alongside Elma York, the Lady Astronaut and narrator of the first two books, who is on her way to Mars during the events of this book. Nicole is also the wife of Governor of Kansas Kenneth Wargin. So Kowal gives us a healthy mixture of political intrigue, semi-religious fundamentalist terrorism, and true physical danger. The Relentless Moon is the mystery I wish Artemis had been.

Trigger warnings in this book (and review) for mentions of anorexia/eating disorders, anti-Black racism.

Nicole Wargin is headed back to the moon, albeit not as a pilot like she has always craved. No, the IAC still doesn’t let women fly the rockets, eh? Nicole is entrusted with a secret mission: help the administrator of Artemis Base figure out who is working with the terrorist group Earth First to sabotage missions. Some of that very sabotage nearly finishes Nicole before she can begin, however, and after that point The Relentless Moon becomes a slow drumbeat march against the inexorable ticking clock. As blackouts become more frequent and the enemy seems to get bolder and bolder, outside events put Nicole under the most stress she has ever experienced. Yet it’s up to her and a small group of trusted colleagues to unravel this conspiracy before humanity’s presence is space is doomed forever!

So, no pressure.

For anyone worried that Nicole isn’t as formidable or enjoyable a narrator as Elma, let me just reassure you right away: Nicole’s great. She’s different, of course. She has the political experience that comes with her upbringing and her marriage, so she knows how to put on a face and schmooze in a way that Elma came to a lot later in her life. Nicole is very pragmatic in that way, even though we are privy to her true thoughts about the boorish or unproductive behaviour of some of the men around her. Perhaps what sets Nicole apart the most from Elma would be that Nicole likes being slightly out of control. She relishes the edge, and the moments that make her despair most are the ones where she shares with us her fear that she might not get to do that anymore—might not get to fly, might not get to go to space, etc.

The Relentless Moon has two very relatable elements for me. The first one, almost everyone will relate to: quarantine in the face of an infectious virus! I don’t want to go into too much detail for fear of spoilers, but let’s just say that “polio on the moon” sounds incredibly scary. Kowal in her author’s note had the opportunity to comment on the parallels between polio epidemics in the mid–twentieth century and the COVID19 pandemic. Just be aware going into this book that if you want to escape from pandemic protocols, you might not get that chance here!

The second relatable element is Nicole’s broken arm. Again, no spoilers. But I broke my arm in June 2019. Much like Nicole, I wondered how much mobility I would recover after physical therapy, whether or not I’d be able to do the tasks that I had up until then really taken for granted, such as typing, knitting, and riding my bicycle (which was how I broke it). Now, I didn’t have to worry on top of that about the brittleness of my bones from living in low gravity! Nevertheless, Nicole’s experience really rang true for me. (In case you’re wondering, I’m doing great! I have less mobility in my left wrist than in my right, but not to the point where it limits my daily activities. I now have a “weather elbow” as they say.)

I wasn’t sure exactly what to expect regarding the plot. The first act of The Relentless Moon takes place Earthside and is very concerned with politics and the optics of the space program. I was tempted, at first, to dismiss this as boring. But that’s very shallow of me. One of the best parts of Kowal’s Lady Astronaut universe, or LAU as she calls it, is how she is shaping the alternative history of the 1960s. We see this unfolding with the U.S. capitol now relocated to Kansas City, and a very different political landscape from the one we’re familiar with from our 1960s. I am very intrigued to see how the situation on Earth, with its drastically accelerated climate change timetable, affects the development of technologies that we take for granted, particularly when it comes to electronics and computing. While one might argue that a lot of those inventions will still occur because of necessity from the space program, there is room for Kowal to delay certainly, and perhaps bypass entirely, certain developments, should she choose.

After we get to the moon, the plot definitely kicks into a higher gear. I enjoyed every moment of Kowal throwing Nicole into a new and different problems to help solve—or, frustratingly, when Nicole realizes she can’t really help solve the problem and has to wait. I really like that Kowal isn’t afraid to sideline her protagonist—obviously when this is done at an inopportune time it’s annoying, but when done appropriately as Kowal does here, it helps keep the protagonist humble. That way, when they do pull off little miracles, the reader is more impressed than if they were a superhero the entire time.

I can’t remember if Kowal hinted at or outright mentioned Nicole’s eating disorder in the earlier books, but it features heavily here. Kowal says she put a lot of effort into avoiding triggering portrayals; I, not having experienced eating disorders, can’t evaluate that. All I can say is that I appreciate that Kowal depicts Nicole’s eating disorder so complexly. It’s not something she “beats” and then she’s fine. It’s a monster that is always lurking in the background, something that she battled when she was younger and now it rears its head over and over throughout her life, especially in times of stress, which The Relentless Moon certainly qualifies for. As much as I love books that are about people struggling with mental health issues, we also need books that show protagonists who just happen to have mental health issues. I want to say Kowal is normalizing eating disorders, except, you know, this is a book about an alternative 1960s where people are colonizing the moon.

Speaking of which: hats off to Kowal for tackling the thorny issues of colonialism and eugenics in space. Although the Earth Firsters are, broadly speaking, terrorists and their actions are reprehensible, Kowal carefully finds a way to make it clear that they have a point. In the rush of various countries to make space, the moon, and Mars a viable alternative for human habitation given Earth’s dire prognosis, there are serious questions about who will get to survive in this new future. Kowal doesn’t hesitate to address racism in space, particularly as it relates to the Black characters of Eugene and Myrtle Lindholm. Similarly, she mentions the problematic selection criteria for space travel—both the practical, physical requirements as well as the highly political ones.

All in all, The Relentless Moon is just as good as the original LAU novels. I’m holding back on five stars only because I don’t want to give the impression that this is better than the original novels; I’d need to re-read those first. But I ran, not walked (ok, I drove my privileged ass) to the bookstore to buy this book the week it came out, and I have no regrets.

If you want a book about women on the moon, solving mysteries with math and guile, The Relentless Moon is the book for you.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

My colleagues and friends keep coming to me for recommendations for anti-racist reading, and I, of course, want to keep educating myself. So I was chuffed when Little, Brown offered me a review copy of Sisters in Hate: American Women on the Front Lines of White Nationalism. Now, I’m trying to mostly read anti-racism books written by people of colour—white people writing such books is fairly problematic, but Seyward Darby has seized on the correct vantage point. Sisters in Hate isn’t about the racism that people of colour experience but rather it’s about the racism that white people (particularly white women) promulgate and perpetuate. It’s a white, female journalist’s look at how white women prop up, propel, and propagate the white nationalist movement in the United States. Through profiles of three white nationalists (1 former, 2 current), combined with historical context, Darby seeks to understand, and to help us understand in turn, why white nationalism is so attractive to white women, particularly white women in their late twenties and early thirties.

Darby is upfront that the profile structure of Sisters in Hate is meant to humanize these figures. This is, in and of itself, a controversial practice when applied to white nationalism and the alt-right. A few years back, Laurie Penny caught flak for ostensibly doing the same with a piece about Milo Yiannopoulos and his ilk. I didn’t agree with the pushback then and I don’t agree with it now: neither Penny nor Darby romanticize or otherwise portray their subjects in a way that would be described as flattering. Nor do I think it renders these subjects as objects of laughter and derision rather than objects of concern. I agree with Darby when she says in her conclusion that we need to understand the white nationalist movements as they are, not as we think they are. We don’t do the cause of anti-racism any favours by assuming we know, without actually asking, what makes people succumb to the siren call of these movements.

Like Darby does herself in her intro, let me provide some positionality for those not familiar with my reviews heretofore: I’m a white woman in my thirties. I’m not American; I’m Canadian. While Sisters in Hate is inextricably tied to American history, and particularly the fallout from the Civil War, of course, this book is still relevant to those of us north of the 49th. Canada has its own problems with racism and with white nationalism—from Rebel Media to Gavin Innes/the Proud Boys to farmers like Gerald Stanley who not only think they can kill Indigenous kids without reprisal but have literally demonstrated such impunity in practice … yeah, Canada has problems. So while the precise historical antecedents of white nationalism in Canada are far more connected to our British forebears, the modern versions of white nationalist movements here, and the ways in which they recruit members and spread their messages on the web, are very closely related to the American versions of these movements.

I’ve read or listened to interviews with former members of white nationalist groups before. So some of what Darby covers here is not new to me: the people drawn to these movements often feel isolated or vulnerable, much like the potential recruits of any cult or target of any abuser. White women in particular feel disillusioned by what they perceive as feminism’s failure to provide “it all” (career, kids, partner)—never mind the dismal failure of white feminism to look out for the interests of women of colour. White nationalism’s twin selling points are an appeal to a mythological better time coupled with the presentation of non-white people as the source of all America’s troubles. To outsiders, this rhetoric might seem patently flimsy, incredible. Yet as Darby shows us, to people with the right combination of vulnerabilities, it is powerful and persuasive. A great many people believe in conspiracy theories of one sort or another, so it makes sense that at least some of them believe in white nationalism.

Each of the three women chronicled in this book reveals interesting glimpses into white nationalism. All three women begin as feminists, support fairly progressive and liberal ideas including LGBTQ+ issues, but eventually all three reject feminism and progressive politics because the backbone of white nationalism is that progressivism is degenerate. Corinna (when she was a white nationalist), Ayla, and Lana champion “traditional” life wherein women are subservient to men, and this is natural and good because it is the way nature/God/the universe intended it to be.

This is the essential paradox Darby seeks to untangle within white women in white nationalism: why reject a philosophy (feminism) that is about liberating your own group? Why embrace a philosophy (white nationalism) that ultimately works against your own interests when it comes to autonomy, that positions you primarily as a breeder to preserve racial purity and a helpmeet for a husband who does the real tough business of rebuilding society? Assertive women like Lana Lokteff acknowledge this paradox; she admits that she is an outlier. Darby questions whether Lokteff, like Serena Joy from The Handmaid’s Tale, would actually enjoy living in the world she wants to see established.

Whatever the resolution to this paradox, we must accept that some women do internalize the tenets of white nationalism. The vectors are various, although Darby points out that it really all goes back to social networking. Most chapters end with some historical context: Darby draws parallels between present-day movements and movements from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. I found these parts some of the most interesting, although I think if the whole book had such a focus I’d probably grow bored—the use of profiles is a great way to keep us interest and focused on the fact that these people who promulgate hate are, in fact, people. They Other people of colour, and we should not Other them in return—if we do, we miss the chance to dismantle and deplatform these movements.

Sisters of Hate would have benefited from digging deeper into the platforms on which these movements proliferate. Darby does mention, multiple times, the ways that YouTube’s recommendation algorithms aid the spread of hate. Somewhat tangentially she also mentions that YouTube has banned some white nationalists, including Ayla and Lana, while other platforms like Twitter might have not done. Yet I would have liked more analysis into how women participate in social media platforms in ways that spread conspiracy theories and other misinformation. From time to time, Darby touches on the fascinating cognitive pysch ideas behind the credulity we humans often have for these theories. Yet she never quite digs into what special circumstances might be created by our current climate of social media.

Where this book excels, however, is reminding us that humans and our beliefs are far more mutable than we like to think. Corinna has been a feminist, a sex worker (which is not mutually exclusive with feminism at all I want to stress), a white nationalist, and now a Muslim. Ayla was a radical Mormon feminist until she wasn’t; Lana was one half of a sibling musical duo and then she married a racist Swede and now she’s a virulent white supremacist. People change, and they change because they are exposed to certain ideas at certain times.

What do we do about white nationalism? Darby doesn’t have all the answers, and I guess it’s not fair to expect that she would. She makes a persuasive call to support groups that help people exit these movements. More education would help, of course. But I think her ultimate theme is that the only defense is a strong offense: we can only combat the intimidatingly tenacity of white nationalist movements by working together, all of us, white people and people of colour, men and women, cis and trans, straight and ace and gay—our diversity, the very thing white nationalists decry as the weakness of the nation, is our strength. Because the one thing they cannot match is the mosaic of experiences that we can call upon. That’s what will make our society, American or Canadian or whatever country you live in, better. (This is, of course, all empty unless we actually work to dismantle the white supremacist institutions that most of our countries are founded upon. Give back the land.)

Sisters in Hate fills a gap in the conversation around white nationalism and hate movements. It’s a good complement to more practical anti-racist reading. Moreover, I hope, as my last paragraph expresses, it inspires people to take action, because the last thing we need is a bunch of white people thinking they’re not racist anymore because they’ve read a lot of anti-racist books! Sisters in Hate reminds us that white nationalism and white supremacy does not comprise solely violent or overt racists and bigots. It might include some of your neighbours, some of the people you follow on social media, or some of your colleagues. The phone call is coming from inside the house, and once we pick it up, we need to know how to put it down.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

A podcast I listen to, Read It and Weep, has developed a metaphor for the films it’s watching during its current season. Movies that are mostly pleasant diversions are soda (or pop as I would call it); movies that require a lot more effort to understand and enjoy are coffee (some are in fact very strong coffee). Like all metaphors this one has its limits, yet my mind kept coming back to it as I tore through Peace Talks.

This book is mostly definitely soda pop of the sweetest variety.

Trouble is coming to Chicago. As the book’s title implies, some of the most powerful beings in the world are meeting to talk peace, which is almost as dangerous as going to war. Harry gets tapped to liaise and secure this conference, yet he finds himself in a quagmire of divided loyalties. How will he honour his various obligations while still doing what he believes to be right?

Harry Dresden is many things. He is a wizard and warden of the White Council, Winter Knight to Queen Mab, brother to a vampire of the White Court, warden of a semi-sentient island prison, father to a precocious young girl with a fierce dog bodyguard … the list goes on. It’s so extensive I’ve forgotten a lot of what Harry has got up to in the past 15 books. Did I forget, in 4 years, that Harry has a daughter? You bet I did. Yet I was so eager to read the newest Dresden Files book that I didn’t want to slow down and go back and re-read any or all of the previous books. Having finished Peace Talks, I honestly don’t think that was a bad decision, because I’m not sure being “up” on the lore would have done me much good.

What makes Peace Talks sugary pop? Simply put, as longtime readers of this series are aware, Butcher is very good at setting up scenes and then knocking them down in such a way that you want to keep reading. From cracking the cover to putting down the book one day later, I was hooked on this story. Yet if I were to step back and stop to think about the story for even the slightest moment, it quickly becomes apparent that the plot is very thin on the ground. Unlike Skin Game, which had a very focused heist-related plot (it’s the heist that got me!), Peace Talks very much feels like a set-up for Battle Grounds later this year.

On its own, that wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. Yet Bucher has us flitting from scene to scene, each one laden with a hefty dose of foreshadowing, sometimes in a way that leaves me very unsatisfied. Here’s an example: one chapter takes place at the Carpenter house, with Butters and Sanya practice-duelling. The point of the chapter is to explain some new lore around Fidelacchius and around the Swords of the Cross in general. Don’t get me wrong: this is interesting lore for sure. One of my most favourite things about the Dresdenverse is Butcher’s seemingly boundless imagination when it comes to the interactions among mythological elements and beings. However, this chapter does absolutely nothing to advance the overall plot of this particular book. It sticks out quite obviously as something that needs to be mentioned before it comes up in Battle Ground (at least, I hope it’s important!).

As a result of this structure, Peace Talks is missing something else I used to love about this series: a focused, unified plot. The earliest Dresden Files books always comprised a single mystery, with wider elements of the Dresdenverse arrayed and affected in the background. As the series has continued, the books have shifted to be less about events and more about Harry’s evolution as a powerful being in his own right. One reason I enjoyed Skin Game so much was that it felt, in some ways, like a return to the older Dresden days. In contrast, Peace Talks is a very big departure. And unlike many of the most significant Harry-centric books, Peace Talks shows very little in the way of forward-motion for our favourite wizard’s development. Perhaps the only significant growth we see is conflict between Harry and Ebenezar as they butt heads over how Harry should conduct himself re: Thomas, vampires, and the upcoming talks. What should be a very intense, very emotional and climactic confrontation is undermined by the sheer overwhelming amount of other information and ideas Butcher had recently thrown at us just prior to that scene.

And the promised eponymous talks? Butcher derails these in characteristic sleight-of-hand fashion by dropping a new Big Bad on us in the final act, and it is … unsatisfying. I get that this is necessary to set up Battle Ground, but this goes back to what I was saying above: Peace Talks has the attention span of a stereotypical millennial doom-scrolling on Twitter. Just as I think we’re settling into the main thread of the plot, Butcher pulls on the stitch below and diverts me into a new—interesting, yes, but entirely different—thread.

Perhaps the most real, most compelling part of Peace Talks occurs in a scene between Harry and Lara, when she remarks, “The more power one has, the less flexible it is, wizard.” This is the theme that keeps me coming back to the Dresden Files with each new book: problematic aspects aside, Butcher is plumbing one of my favourite themes to explore, especially in the context of being a magic user. We love nothing better than to see our characters get power-ups so that they have newer and better ways of beating the bad guys. Yet as Butcher’s characters, from Lara to Mab to Harry himself, observe in this book, those power-ups come at the cost of a slice of your free will. As Harry himself has acquired power, so too have his options been curtailed, and perhaps this is nowhere as evident as in Peace Talks.

Sometimes that power comes with weird, uncomfortable side effects, like the supposedly animalistic desires of the Winter mantle. Erm. Kay Tilden Frost has a very detailed review that discusses these problematic elements, particularly how they relate to the female characters of the series. (After waiting all these years for Harry and Murphy to get together, Peace Talks treats this romance with the fumbling hands of a pair of teenage prom dates.) Frost’s review also has a good comparison of Dresden to the Marvel Cinematic Universe. I find this comparison so apt: with this movie universe, and indeed with comic books in general, you reach a point of diminishing returns when it comes to continuity. This is why retconning and crisis reset events are so potent from a writing perspective. While I’m not sure that’s appropriate in this case, I hope that in future books Butcher can do the Dresdenverse justice without getting caught up in the minutiae of calling back to every single thing that has happened of late.

Six years ago, in my review of Skin Game, I quipped about waiting one year for the latest Dresden Files book. Oh, past Kara. Poor, naive past Kara. Little did she know. After a much longer wait, we get not one but two new Dresden Files books in the space of a few months. That is, of course, because Peace Talks is really only the precursor to the climactic Battle Grounds. Reading this book was a paradox: it was incredibly fun yet also incredibly frustrating, and the reason is simply that the Dresden Files has entered the comic-book continuity zone, with all the pitfalls and perils that entails.

Butcher is obviously building towards an intense confrontation, in a cinematic sense, in Battle Ground. Yet for my particular approach to Dresden fandom, this has me worried for what this means for Harry as an individual, as a character. I think sometimes Butcher wants to have his cake and eat it too, wants Harry to be a Big Action Hero and also Just Some Guy. Peace Talks is what happens when Butcher tries to balance these two characterizations with far too much fine-tuning. In his desire to fulfil the big-picture epic story arc that he has outlined for this series, Butcher risks losing sight of the smaller moments that made this series so appealingly human despite its plethora of supernatural beings. It’s not that I disliked Peace Talks, but I am disappointed that this is the book we get after six years, and I’m not sure it leaves me optimistic as we enter what I believe to be the final few books of the Dresden Files.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews

Like so many time-travel stories, This Is How You Lose the Time War is frustratingly, endearingly, eerily beautiful. It takes a special kind of talent to write time travel well—you need not only that non-linear perspective that many writers find necessary even for linear plots, but you also require a certain level of sheer, Lewis Carroll-like madness to conceive of a multiverse so vastly alternative to our tiny slice, or strand. Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone, fortunately, both possess this talent. This book is an achingly beautiful and poetical epistolary romance, yet it is frustrating and ultimately, I have to confess, uneven.

Red and Blue are agents on opposite sides of a war across time. “Up” and “down” the race along the threads of time, braiding these together into stronger and stronger strands that match their side’s vision for the future. Along the way, they cross paths enough times to take notice of each other, to develop a mutual respect. After Blue opens the lines of communication by writing Red a letter, the two agents’ correspondence soon becomes a game in and of itself, one that threatens to supersede their allegiances across time and space. Each chapter follows either Red or Blue, with a letter addressed to them at the end to drive forward the actual relationship. In this way, El-Mohtar and Gladstone take the old star-crossed lovers trope and amplify it in exciting dimensions.

The language here is a exquisite revelry in diction, structure, and tone. One of my Goodreads friends calls this a prose poem, and that is such an apt description of what’s happening here. Epistolary novels have always shared a liminal space with poetry, given that some novels emerged from exchanges of letters of poetry, and for El-Mohtar and Gladstone to reach backwards in time (heh) and reconnect with this lineage is a powerful move. The letters that Red and Blue exchange are not simple, terse monologues. They are precious curations of thought and feeling filtered through the perspective of a time traveler, which is really where the differences emerge. Red and Blue are both posthumans, for some variation thereof, and their forms change with their particular missions. Their letters aren’t always plain words on paper—indeed, this is where we run into the limitations of the novella’s form as words on paper, forever unable to truly represent the impressive steganography of these posthuman pen-pals.

The romantic elements of this book are difficult for me to critique. It’s not just my usual hesitation as an aromantic person who feels like her grasp of romance is shaky on a good day; the romance here is quite alien because Red and Blue are, in some sense, alien. They are observers of a multiverse of humanities that did not or will not exist, tourists and dilettantes and contributors to historical events. I agree largely with my friend Julie’s evaluation that the depth of the romance develops too quickly, probably because of the short length of the book itself. There is, I suspect, an in-universe justification for that, in the usual circular paradoxical way that time travel offers. Moreover, one could also read the romance in this book as not quite romance. The relationship begins, after all, as one of wary mutual respect. In a way, Red and Blue’s love is more of an affinity for one another, a recognition of kindred spirits that is far stronger than their sense of belonging in their respective camps.

This time war burning brightly in the background? Intriguing, yes. The vocabulary that El-Mohtar and Gladstone use is fun and inventive. As usual, I find myself comparing this to Palimpsest, perhaps my favourite of all time travel stories, definitely my favourite time travel novella. Both stories create a distinct flavour to their time travel, and I appreciate that. The Time War in This Is How You Lose the Time War is slightly immaterial beyond being a plot device, of course. Yet I would also say that it obviously informs the depth and magic of this story. Star-crossed spies have been done in historical fiction, done in space opera, etc. Time travel definitely brings more dimensions (pun intended) to the equation. At the same time, most of the tropes feel very familiar: the superiors who wouldn’t ever understand this fraternization, the dehumanizing treatment by one’s own side, the curiosity about an enemy you never really confront directly because this is ultimately a cold Time War … it’s intriguing, yet it is also very familiar.

In the end, did I like it? Yes, absolutely. It was a great way to pass an afternoon on my deck. El-Mohtar and Gladstone weave a brilliant, passionate story. Yet as a plot, as a love story, as a story about exceeding the limitations of one’s programming, conditioning, education—however you want to put it—This Is How You Lose the Time War is lacking. This is a firework that burns brightly, but once it has fizzled out, you are still left in the dark and the cold.

Originally posted on Kara.Reviews

One of the reasons Brandon Sanderson took off, I suspect, is that he manages to bring an urban fantasy feel to more high fantasy or epic fantasy settings. In Ashes of the Sun, Django Wexler accomplishes a similar feat. This is a book set in a world incredibly different from our own, a land reminiscent of the epic fantasy books that for a time dominated this genre, yet the pacing and style are much closer to urban fantasy. I find that very appealing, and even though it took me a few more days to read than normal, I was captivated by this book from beginning to end.

I received this book for free from NetGalley and Orbit in exchange for a review.

Maya and Gyre are brother and sister, torn asunder by the Twilight Order, a powerful group of magic-wielders who uphold the Dawn Republic. Taken from her family at age 5, Maya has is now 17 and on track to graduating from a magical apprenticeship to become a centarch, a magical guardian of the Order who can shape the force of creation to her own martial ends. Gyre, figuratively and literally scarred by the abduction of sister when he as only 8, now makes a living as a bit of a rebel in the city of Deepfire. His ardent passion: the destruction of the Order and the Republic, but to do that, he’s going to need some seriously powerful tools. Fate, of course, conspires to throw these siblings together at the most inopportune time while they are on opposite sides—and to be honest, if you think you know what’s going to happen, you’re probably wrong! But no spoilers.

I mentioned Sanderson at the top for a reason: fans of Sanderson will recognize a lot of his worldbuilding style here, although to be honest, I prefer Wexler’s looser formulation of magic, etc.—Sanderson’s quite strict approach always left me a little cold. Nevertheless, the whole worldbuilding of this book is impressively deep and creative in scope. Some of the names—Twilight Order, Dawn Republic—in Ashes of the Sun feel a little clichéd, but this book’s world and story are anything but. We’re in fallen civilization mode; the Republic and surrounding kingdoms cling to the technological and magical remnants of two, much older and much more powerful non-human civilizations that fought a massive war sometime in the past and basically wiped each other out. Maya believes the Order is a force for good, albeit sometimes maybe too forceful—Wexler sketches out internecine politics within the Order that make for an excellent subplot with just the right amount of intrigue. Gyre, on the other hand, his mind poisoned against the Order ever since that fateful day on his parents’ farm, sees it as a restraint on the rest of humanity, holding them back from achieving something … well, he’s not sure what, but something great! In this way, the two siblings embody a kind of order/chaos duality, which is reinforced by the alternating chapter structure of the narrative. This doesn’t always work great in a book, yet Wexler stays committed to this structure for pretty much the entire book, and it really works here. I found myself so obsessed with one character’s story, only to be yanked away from them to the other character at the worst time, so of course I had to keep reading!

The character development here is top shelf. Maya isn’t exactly a Chosen One, which I love, but she does have something special about her—something Wexler teases us with yet stubbornly leaves for a future book to explore further. Well done! In addition to the growth that Maya and Gyre experience, several of the supporting cast also grow. In particular, Tanax begins the story as a very stereotypical antagonist, and I was concerned that’s all he would remain. Yet his growth is some of the most impressive, most realistic of the entire book. The only character who truly remains static and somewhat melodramatic is Naumoriel, in my opinion, with his grating “boy” and “girl” every time he tries to sound condescending. Ok, boomer.

And then we have the romance. As you may know, I’m aromantic, and romance in books tends to do little for me. At best I just ignore it. Yet Maya and Beq??? SO ADORABLE. That’s all I‘m going to say about that, really, except for two addenda: this is an f/f relationship (to be clear); also, this book very explicitly mentions masturbation and we need more of that kind of honesty. Ashes of the Sun has a kind of relentlessly queer undercurrent to it, and unlike some books where that’s the case, none of the bad guys ever stoop to homophobia as a way of insulting or belittling the protagonists. At one point, we learn that Maya’s mentor taught her that people might be attracted to men, women, both, or neither—hello shoutout to asexuality (even if the phrasing does perpetuate a gender binary)! All in all, I love the way Wexler handles the romance and sexuality in this book.

If I haven’t given you enough reasons yet to read Ashes of the Sun, I don’t know what else to say. This is one of the most original fantasy books I’ve read in ages. I love how it ends; I want to read a sequel, which apparently isn’t far off; I even fell for the romance. How’s that for a trifecta?

 Originally published at Kara.Reviews.

Power Shift: The Longest Revolution exemplifies why the CBC Massey Lectures is such a compelling format. Sally Armstrong delivers, in 5 chapters of roughly equal length, a concise overview of the inequities faced by women around the world. She provides historical perspective, discusses the overt and covert biases present throughout our society, and includes examples of how we can change things for the better. She does her best to be inclusive and intersectional, not to make this all about white women feminism—although I do wish she had gone further, more on that later.

Trigger warnings in this book for violence against women, particularly with regards to reporting on war crimes, and rape; discussions of sexist behaviours, laws, and regulations; religious discussion.

The book has an epigraph from Ursula K. Le Guin, which is always a great start! Although Chapter 1, “In the Beginning(s)”, includes lots of historical examples of how we have (mis)treated women, and even though it mentions various waves of feminism, don’t expect Power Shift to be a primer in women’s studies or feminism. Rather, as any good journalist seeks to do, Armstrong grounds her writing in context before moving into the second chapter, which examines how attitudes towards sex have often resulted in additional misogyny. That being said, the surveyesque tone of the book reminded me, favourably, of Misogyny: The World’s Oldest Prejudice. I suspect for people less familiar with feminist discourse than me, this book is going to include some great, eye-opening remarks.

Indeed, it’s worth remembering the audience for the Massey Lectures: ostensibly the general public, via CBC radio, albeit the type of public likely to listen to CBC radio. So, probably people who have some education and slightly liberal leanings in their politics, although they may or may not be very political in their lives. So it makes a lot of sense, some of Armstrong’s choices in this book, particularly one I don’t like.

Armstrong carefully includes examples that feature women from cultures all around the world. In so doing, she avoids falling into the trap of other journalists of focusing almost exclusively on women’s issues and progress within developed or Western countries. At the same time, Armstrong doesn’t exoticize other countries and make them seem so much worse or better than the U.S. and Canada. All of this is to the good.

Nevertheless, Armstrong’s intersectionality has a glaring gap when it comes to her treatment of capitalism. A great deal of her arguments regarding the need for everyone to fight for women’s equality are predicated on an economic basis: a rising tide lifts all boats, more educated and empowered women will contribute more to the economy, more women in power will be better for everyone, etc. We’ve seen this kind of argument before—most infamously, I suppose, from Sheryl Sandberg in Lean In. At its most naïve, this argument assumes that “just add women” is usually a sufficient measure for social change. I should point out that this is not precisely Armstrong’s approach—she does recognize that just adding women isn’t the only change that’s necessary, and she attempts to justify the emphasis on increasing women’s representation by talking about how women approach problems differently. That’s all great. At the end of the day, however, Power Shift isn’t quite radical enough for me, in that it is not anti-capitalist enough. If we are to achieve equality for all genders, we can’t just settle for better parental leave (although I agree we need it). We need to question the very pressures in our society that require parents to sacrifice so much of their time and energy on their jobs rather than their family.

Alas, as I mentioned above, Armstrong’s approach makes sense for the CBC Massey Lecture audience. Doubtless the committee who select these lecturers are careful to pick someone who is challenging without being, you know, too radical. That wouldn’t do at all! And it’s a good reminder to everyone that change will not come from behemoth institutions like the CBC, no matter how much good it does as a public broadcaster. It is just too cautious, too small-c-conservative, in its approach to media.

Cranky radical leftist thoughts aside, I really did like Power Shift in terms of its organization and information. Throughout the book, Armstrong hammers home the point that our view of history has been biased by the assumptions of researchers. Up until recently, for example, almost every archaeologist and anthropologist has been male—so it isn’t surprising that they made assumptions about what they found based on a very masculine perspective of the world. As more female researchers become involved in projects, we begin to see a shift in the theories developed and tested—it is no coincidence we’re discovering more female remains now.

On the subject of science, however, I am disappointed to report that later in the book Armstrong cites Louann Brizendine and The Female Brain as she makes the case that there are vast biological differences between male and female brains. I honestly wasn’t expecting a huge amount devoted to trans, non-binary, and genderqueer or gender–non-conforming people in this book, and I didn’t get any (except for a single mention of the word trans, in a very neutral context). Nevertheless, the reliance on conclusions as questionable and gender-essentialist as Brizendine’s leaves a bad taste in my mouth. (If you are curious about this, or want to learn more about why Brizendine and similar researchers are inappropriately cited in this way, I recommend you read Delusions of Gender by Coredlia Fine for an awesome debunking of neurosexism.)

As you might be able to tell from my review, my reaction to Power Shift is mixed. Armstrong’s writing style is excellent, and most of her commentary is moving and thoughtful. For these reasons, I recommend it, particularly to people who want to learn about sexism and gender issues but maybe are a little scared off from the more radical stuff I might throw your way. Armstrong is going to take your arm and guide you gently through this. Finally, I am very sympathetic to the theme that runs through these 5 lectures: women have always been here, always been raising their voices, and if we can all of us raise our voices together to help women, we will be better for it.

Originally reviewed at Kara.Reviews.