Thanks owed to What's the Name of That Book??? for finding this book based on my poor memory of what it was about when I read it the first time years ago.

Dawn of Empire delivers on its promise of an action-filled battle for survival against barbarians from the steppes. The strategy that goes into designing defences for Orak, from its crucial wall to the ditch in front and the archers behind, is impressive. Also impressive is the inherent conflict in the ideologies of the steppes people and the villagers. Sam Barone gives us a wonderful sense of the stark contrast between these two societies, and why the way of life of one is anathema to the other. In that sense, Dawn of Empire fulfils its purpose of depicting the rise of walled cities and the subsequent empires.

Try as I might, I could not engage with the characters. All of the antagonists are flat, with one-dimensional motivations, particularly those within Orak. Drigo's son and Nicar's son, for instance, are both the definition of "hormonal irrational adolescent" and attack Eskkar without really considering the consequences (although Caldor goes about it in a more underhanded manner, I'll grant him that). And everyone is black and white: supporting Eskkar or against Eskkar.

While I quite enjoyed Trella's character and her relationship with Eskkar, how many times did Barone need to tell us they had sex? Apparently before the Internet came around, that was the only way two people could express affection for each other. Eskkar and Trella spend so much time in their bedroom that I'm surprised she doesn't get pregnant sooner. Indeed, the book itself comments snarkily on their bedroom habits. So the romance subplot here isn't so much "romantic" as it is "he sleeps with her, she falls in love with him, he kills anyone who threatens her." Which, I suppose, some people might find romantic.

It's the lack of realism in these pedestrian details that interrupts my enjoyment of the book more so than any potential historical inaccuracy. Firstly, Dawn of Empire gets a lot of leeway in this area, because it is set in the third millennium B.C. Our conception of events and civilization in that era is weak at best. Secondly, historical fiction by its definition will be inaccurate . . . perfectly accurate historical fiction would just be history, and who wants that?! Unrealistic antagonists, relationships, and personal conflicts, on the other hand, undermine the story itself. Such problems transcend genre.

If the setting and premise of this book interest you, then I would recommend it. Although long and not without flaws, you could definitely eke enjoyment from Dawn of Empire. If, however, you're looking for historical character drama and/or romance, then keep looking. Dawn of Empire is strong on strategy, weak on characterization, and satisfactory in its use of setting, if not style.

Sara Gruen deserves props for ruining her protagonist's life in a quick and efficient manner. In the same day, Annemarie is fired from her job ("laid off") and her husband leaves her for a juicy 21-year-old. A few weeks later, she learns her daughter has dropped out of school and her father has ALS.

In case that seems over the top to you, that's because it is.

After relocating to New Hampshire with her daughter to help her mother take care of her father, Annemarie finds that she isn't good at any of the following things: managing a stable, dealing with customers, cooking, disciplining her daughter, relating to her daughter, and letting go of the past.

I don't mean to sound snarky, because Riding Lessons doesn't deserve too much snark. It does deserve a slap on the wrist and some sort of tether to reality. There's just too much hardship going on, too many things going wrong. It's overwhelming, which isn't good for the reader. Fiction has to make more sense than reality does. It may be the case that someone very much like Annemarie exists and has to deal with all of these problems at once—real life need not conform to the rules of storytelling.

Neither does storytelling, of course, but they are convenient guidelines. Riding Lessons completely ignores them. Annemarie's divorce is only ever peripheral, brushed aside as often as it comes to the forefront like the annoying, hovering cousin at a family reunion. Nothing comes of the revelation that her mother assisted her father's suicide. And that's a big one. Regardless of one's position on it, euthanasia is a big issue, but Gruen ignores any of the possible ramifications of assisted suicide here.

And therein lies the flaw with having everything go wrong. With so much happening, so much to resolve before the inevitable end, important things get neglected. The divorce doesn't get as much time as it needs. Euthanasia becomes a sidebar, something routine. Likewise, Annemarie's antics, which are always irrational and border on illegal at times, never result in someone sitting her down and telling her, point-blank, to grow up and act like an adult. To her credit, Annemarie does change, and that's one reason I liked Riding Lessons despite its over-the-top plot. Annemarie shows she's capable of recognizing her mistakes and rectifying them, even if she's just as bad at doing that as she is at whatever caused the mistake in the first place.

But if we're honest with ourselves here, do we really expect that this will turn out poorly for Annemarie? No, we don't. I'm not going to delve into the land of spoilers—and that negative isn't a spoiler, because we never thought the ending would turn out otherwise. From the beginning of the book, there's a guarantee that there will be a semi-happy ending, some sort of reassurance that no matter how unrealistically screwed one is, life can get better.

As previously mentioned, I did like Annemarie's characterization. The characterization in general is the saving grace of Sara Gruen. For example, any conversation between Eva and Annemarie or between Annemarie and Mutti (as she refers to her mother) is priceless, because Gruen captures the daughter-mother dynamic perfectly. (Not that I've ever been on either end of such a dynamic myself.) Likewise, Jean-Claude's discussions with Annemarie about his daughter were interesting (the scenes where he feels her up, less so). Any scene in which Annemarie asserts herself, excepting her overreactions to her daughter, was usually entertaining. Gruen's good with the theatrics.

So Riding Lessons is not a lost cause. I'm not sure that I'll read the sequel. This book is closer to the romance end of the literary fiction spectrum for me to enjoy it overly much, and there's so much else I'd like to read. Though it could use improvements, and though I'm not as enthusiastic about it as [b:Water for Elephants|43641|Water for Elephants|Sara Gruen|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1170161179s/43641.jpg|3441236], Riding Lessons works—with an extra helping of suspension of disbelief.

The first time I had ever seen, let alone heard of, a Predator drone is from the episode "Chuck vs. the Predator" of the NBC television series Chuck (the drone actually appearing in that episode was a Reaper, the Predator's even deadlier successor). Before the Predator's appearance, I had no inkling of the extent to which the American military—indeed, any country's military—has integrated unmanned and robotic devices into its forces. Maybe I just don't read the right books (or blogs). Wired for War, then, is a good step in the right direction!

We're living in the future. Even if that is impossible by definition, it's happening. Unmanned technologies aren't new in war, as Singer points out when he talks about the Norden bombsight and other innovations introduced in World War II. Yet they're increasingly pervasive, and they raise a swathe of practical, social, and ethical issues. Who's liable when a robot screws up? How should the military balance its manned and unmanned forces? Will robots revolt?

This is a massive subject, and Singer takes a good swing at it. In the first part of the book, he gives a brief history of the use of unmanned devices in warfare. Then he explores what we're doing right now. For instance, iRobot, the same company that manufactures Roomba vacuum cleaners, has a bomb disposal device called the Packbot that the military uses in Iraq to defuse IEDs. I sort of understand now what my parents and grandparents experienced when cell phones and colour television came about. I feel like we're living in something of a science fiction novel. But it's real!

Singer eases us into the subject of robotic warfare with anecdotes and pop culture references. Still, beneath his easygoing style and the layers of humour, there lies a serious theme. As Singer reminds us in the final chapter of part one, "The Refuseniks: The Roboticists Who Just Say No," as cool as the robotic revolution is, we need to remember that it's ultimately going toward military ends. When DARPA invests money in something, it's because the agency believes the project will result in a defence-worthy technology.

The real meat of Wired for War happens in the second part, where Singer focuses on the implications of robotic warfare. The book starts to lose steam near the end of the first part. It's long, and it's repetitive at times, with Singer re-iterating facts that, while relevant, have already appeared three or four times. In the long downhill descent toward its denouement, Wired of War picks up the pace and begins to deliver.

First, Singer asks how we'll fight with robots. It sounds simple enough: buy robot, deploy robot, task robot to kill things, drink beer. But there's a host of logistical and bureaucratic issues entangled with robotic weaponry. For example, Singer talks about how the use of drones in Iraq has "flattened the chain of command" and lead to what he calls the "tactical general." Generals back home are able to watch hours of Predator footage and then make decisions. On one hand, this is great, because it means the command staff is more informed about what's happening overseas. On the other hand, it leads to micro-management. Moreover, as Singer points out, "who was doing the general's job?" Soldiers in the field receive phone calls and contradictory orders from commanders with access to the same footage. The robotic revolution gives the military access to unprecedented amounts of information—but that also creates problems when it comes to filtering and acting on that information.

Singer also examines the effect of robotic warfare on civilians and the organization of the military. More men and women in the air force are no longer fighter pilots but pilots of unmanned drones. Most of them can't even fly a real plane. For now, the prestige continues to go to the fighter pilots (even if the new ones haven't been in many serious engagements). It's the "sexy" job. This might change in the future, as the trend continues to shift toward the unmanned. Yet these drone pilots aren't in Iraq or Afghanistan. They're sitting at a base in Nevada, pointing and clicking, then they go home to their spouses and children. Just another day at the office . . . another day killing people across the ocean and watching friendly soldiers die.

Finally, Singer speculates on what will happen as robots improve. If strong AI emerges, will we have a Singularity? Will robots demand rights equivalent to those of humans—and rebel if they don't receive them? The one certainty amid all this speculation is that robots won't just go away. The weapons will get fiercer, the tech will get scarier, and the implications will only worsen.

Not that I intend a forecast of doom with a side of gloom, but Wired for War exacerbated my tendency toward pessimism about the future of humanity. After learning about all the various ways in which robotic warfare can go wrong (and probably will go wrong), I wonder if we as a species are mature enough for this sort of power. We managed to avoid a nuclear holocaust, but in some ways, I think robots are worse. Because with robots, it's possible for us to dismantle society without just destroying everything, for humans to survive but for our basic rights (like freedom or privacy) to be diminished into nothingness.

So I have to recommend Wired for War to anyone interested in how technology is changing how we fight. It took me longer to read this book than I'd like, partly because it drags in the middle. But as this rambling review probably indicates, it also gave me a lot to think about. P.W. Singer cuts through the political rhetoric that pervades discussions of war and military in the contemporary media. What's left is a look at where we've been and where we're going. Because—at least until our robot overlords say otherwise—we live in democracies, and so we must hold our military accountable for the technologies it unleashes in its service to us.

What's an urban fantasy book without magic and wizards? What do you get when you take vampires and add to them dragons, djinns, selkies, and gargoyles? Heart of Stone, while not exactly original, is different. That works in its favour.

As I began my post legentem dissection, I discovered that there's a lot about Heart of Stone that, taken alone, doesn't work. For example, the dialogue is lacklustre and occasionally even groan-worthy. In most books, this isn't a plus, but it's particularly problematic here, because the protagonist is a lawyer (hence "Negotiator Trilogy"). Her weapons are words, not swords or magic. And I like that. So even as cool as Margrit is as she makes deals with dragons, sometimes I couldn't enjoy her wordplay as much as I should.

Likewise, the relationships in this book don't plumb the depths. I found Margrit's hesitant relationship with cop Tony the most interesting, perhaps because it's so flawed. They're on again, they're off again . . . they want to try to make it work, but suddenly she's involved in his murder case and hanging out with the number one suspect. The tension between Margrit and Tony as a result of their opposite views on the justice system is also both topical and germane to their characters. It's difficult to both make characters seem like they have a relationship yet work their relationship into the main conflict as well, so C.E. Murphy deserves praise for that.

Creepy stalker points abound for Alban Korund though. To Murphy's credit, Margrit doesn't swoon and suddenly declare herself unreservedly trusting of Alban's attitude. In fact, she's downright hostile toward him during their first few encounters. Nevertheless, there's a certain sense of . . . knowing, a reservation in the way she deals with Tony, that I don't quite follow. Margrit may be sceptical, but she's also very irrational (considering the mantra Murphy repeats throughout the book, however, this is probably intentional).

Mmm . . . dialogue, characters . . . oh yeah, plot. Also not very impressive by itself. Murder, serial killer, a case of mistaken identity, little bit of revenge and psychopathy going on. . . . Margrit doesn't "detect" so much as run around sticking her nose into the business of the Old Races until she's practically a walking target for anyone involved in the game. There's also a couple of side plots that, while they get members of the other Races involved, don't get developed as much as I would have liked.

Evidence that books are not merely the sum of their parts, Heart of Stone is still a good read despite its mediocre medley. Margrit is an interesting protagonist. She makes mistakes. Sometimes they aren't the most convincing mistakes (i.e., it seems like she's making a mistake as a result of plot-induced stupidity), but most of the time they're human mistakes. Margrit's normality (if you can call her normal), combined with her unusual occupation for an urban fantasy heroine, makes her memorable (good for sales!). Ironically, she protests against such treatment in the book when her boss puts her on a case because of her high-profile status and, he admits, the fact that she is black. Promotional tactics aside, however, Margrit's still the reason to read this book.

I'm trying to make this review more positive than negative, because I did like the book. Yet I can't help expressing some disappointment. The name of the series, and the tagline "five powerful races—one mortal go-between" gave me a different impression than the one I received while reading. I was expecting Margrit, you know, to negotiate among the various members of the Old Races. She negotiates with some of them, for her own life, but she isn't very submerged in their politics and internal affairs. Heart of Stone is clearly fantasy, but I wonder if it's fantastic enough.

In closing: should you read this book? Sure. Am I enthusiastic about it? Not so much. I can see this appealing to an audience, as my concerns are very much a matter of "your mileage may vary" (offer not valid in Quebec). While it did entertain me, Heart of Stone did not grip me. And so I bid it adieu, not with the long, heavy sigh of a profound experience, but with a smile and a shrug as I pick up the next book in the stack.

There's a reason certain science fiction authors are a Big Deal. Even if one doesn't like them, even if one hates their books or thinks they're mediocre writers, there's a reason society has accorded an author "classic" status over the decades. It has nothing to do with the ability to write or even the ability to create a coherent story. It's all about ideas.

I'm going to be honest here: Arthur C. Clarke the writer doesn't impress me much. Written while he was still impressionable about such things, Childhood's End draws a lot on paranormal and psychic phenomena of which I am sceptical. Although I can't separate my bias from this opinion, I feel that relying on such plot devices also weakens the story itself.

The short length of the book combined with the span of years it covers should tell you everything you need to know: this is more novella than novel (and in fact began that way), more sketch than story. I'll grant that there are one or two well-developed characters; however, overall, there's more exposition and extrapolation than there is action or adventure.

So if this were written by someone else, I'd be content to give Childhood's End a single star and lament its lacklustre writing. But it wasn't written by someone else. It was written by Arthur C. Clarke, and that means something.

This is where you accuse me of kowtowing to fanboyism. (If extreme Twilight fans are "Twihards", what do we call extreme Clarke fans? Clarkehards?) It's silly to give five stars to every book an author writes just because one likes that author; that just distorts the meaning of the rating scale in general. Indeed, you'll notice that Childhood's End has received an average three stars.

Clarke is often renowned for predicting (or inventing) certain technologies, such as satellites. It invariably comes up sometime when discussing the man's life. In the 64-word biography at the back of this edition, for instance, it mentions his invention of artificial satellites and also claims he is considered the "greatest science fiction writer of all time." These statements may be exaggerated, but they reveal the reason why Clarke is a Big Deal. There's another example in the text itself, where Clarke mentions a method of identifying the paternity of children using blood (DNA by any other name would smell as sweet).

He has ideas. Not just one or two ideas, but lots of ideas. In truth, all writers have ideas, and science fiction writers in general have lots of ideas that aren't fit for polite company (hence why we lock them in basements and feed them discarded boxes of pizza). Few manage to articulate ideas on a scale as profound as Arthur C. Clarke does.

Childhood's End is a story of transcendence, of the end of humanity and the beginning of something new. It's a tribute to Clarke's vision that he manages to convey something so startling in a book with such mediocre writing. I didn't much enjoy the cursory way in which Clarke tells us all about how human existence changes as the Overlords shape society. He glosses over any potential problems that would crop up in real life—because that's not the point of the book, as much as many of us, including me, probably wanted it to be. In Childhood's End, utopia is just a side effect.

I enjoyed the juxtaposition of the Overlords with evolving humanity. The final revelation about the Overlords' goals and their tragic inability to follow humanity where it eventually must go is breathtaking. Clarke makes us question, firstly, if this sort of transcendence is desirable, and secondly, if this sort of transcendence is even avoidable. (It certainly seems like the answer to the second is "no," not when an alien species essentially springs it on us unawares.) If we don't destroy ourselves in nuclear war, then we're always going to be asking the question, "What's next? What's out there for us? Where do we go from here?"

Since Childhood's End burst on to the scene, there's an argument to be made (because I would happily make it) that other people have asked this question better, that others have explored it in weirder, more wonderful ways. Maybe we won't reach a deadend or achieve transcendence, the two options the Clarke holds over our heads here. Maybe we're destined to survive, but only just. Maybe cyberpunk is right, and we'll form a symbiotic alliance with our technology.

So I don't think Clarke is the "greatest science fiction writer" of all time, and I'm not even that impressed by his writing. But he holds an important place in the science fiction canon, and Childhood's End holds an important place in his oeuvre. To me, a science fiction book is outstanding if it manages to explore a profound theme while providing an entertaining story. Lilith's Brood comes to mind. Childhood's End isn't quite as disturbing, but it has the same sort of genius. I can't drape it with the same accolades, because it's not outstanding. But it is notable, and it is worth reading.

I read a lot, and the people around me are used to seeing a new book in my hand every day or couple of days. Naturally, they ask me what I'm reading, usually in a way that implies I should divulge more than just the title and the author, which are plainly visible on the cover. How do I respond when I'm reading something so sublime and transcendental as Foucault's Pendulum? It defies ordinary description of plot, because Umberto Eco has again unified his narrative with his themes and characters to create a complex masterpiece. Even the hook on the back of my paperback edition doesn't do it justice.

At its core, Foucault's Pendulum is a fable about conspiracies. It is a cautionary tale that demonstrates what happens when people begin to believe in conspiracy theories; lending credence lends life, which can have unfortunate consequences for everyone involved. The main characters begin as sceptics, working for a publishing house that's allied with a vanity press, who begin constructing a fictitious Plan by connecting seemingly-disparate historical facts. When organizations and individuals begin showing up seeming to be acting in accordance with this Plan, however, our protagonists realize that if you make up a Plan, even a false one, someone might try to execute it.

This book is not about conspiracy theories though. It has been compared to [b:The Da Vinci Code|968|The Da Vinci Code (Robert Langdon, #2)|Dan Brown|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1233010738s/968.jpg|2982101], and of course there are similarities; both books deal with Templar mythology, for instance. Foucault's Pendulum is so much more though. It isn't a mystery about a conspiracy theory; it's a mystery that looks into the effects of conspiracy theories on otherwise rational, scholarly people. The narrative parallels the characters' journey in its own structure, beginning with a strong foundation in logical principles and eventually transforming into a very spiritual, emotional text.

We have so many books based on the premise that such and such conspiracy theory is actually valid. Here, the theories are all fictitious; it begins as a harmless game among three people determined to mock conspiracy theories and the obsession with finding hidden meaning through occultism. The theory only becomes real because people begin believing in it; they begin seeing meaning where before there was nothing, no relationship. Characters emerge, ones we're familiar with from prior in the book, who appear to have a part in this Plan and think it has been in operation for centuries. These characters are in some ways created by their fellow characters (our protagonists); Foucault's Pendulum is very meta-authorial in that respect, much like [b:Sophie's World|10959|Sophie's World (Paperback)|Jostein Gaarder|http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/21A6T5PH7YL._SL75_.jpg|4432325].

Eco gives us an unreliable narrator so that we're forced to think critically about the story we're given and wonder how much is true and how much may be the feverish imaginings of an unbalanced, misguided mind. The narrator is named Casaubon, and I'm very glad I read [b:Middlemarch|19089|Middlemarch (Signet Classics)|George Eliot|http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/411R1KBJBWL._SL75_.jpg|1461747] before reading this book. Casaubon is sort of like his namesake from Middlemarch, who devotes his life to the syncretic task of unifying human myths. In Foucault's Pendulum, Casaubon and his friends Belbo and Diotallevi sift through the slush of conspiracy lunatics ("Diabolicals") to compile a master theory, a Plan, spun around the framework of the dissolution of the Knights Templar. As they come to believe in the reality of their own Plan, the world around them changes, becomes darker and more sinister. All conflicts in this book, even the external ones, are ultimately internal, created from our characters' own imaginations. The fact that some of these internal conflicts manifest externally, through the antagonism of rivals like Colonel Ardenti or Agliè, gives the story plenty of variety.

In between, we get glimpses of Belbo's childhood in rural Italy, and Eco mentions both historical and contemporary Italian politics. As an outsider, I found this part of the book fascinating, since I'm totally unfamiliar with Italian history or even how its citizens were affected by the rise of fascism and their time under Mussolini. That's what I like so much about Eco: he reminds me that I'm steeped in my own ignorance, but he doesn't condescend me for it. Instead, he forces me to meet him on his intellectual level.

One thing that makes Foucault's Pendulum so transcendental is the fact that it's rife with allusions to medieval and Enlightenment history and philosophy, arcane rituals and religions, and other esoteric and occult phenomena. You'd practically need a degree in these areas (like Eco has) to understand it all without a reference book; I don't, and I admit I got lost at times. Almost every page is filled with this historical references, particularly when Casaubon, Belbo, and Diotallevi are thick in their discussions of the Plan. Consider that for a moment: I got lost in the historical detail of the book, yet I'm still giving it five stars. That's how good it is; even its flaws are strengths.

Still, the tendency of this text toward tones academic will turn some people off the book. It may not be for everyone. If you find yourself reading my review and thinking, "Hmm, this sounds like it is right for me," however, don't wait. Go out and get this book now. Read it, and then read it again--I will, some day, because Foucault's Pendulum is one of those books where you need to read it through several times to grasp its complexity. And every reading will be its own reward, as reading should be.

Margrit Knight is a New York lawyer who likes late-night runs through Central Park, cutting deals with a dragon crimelord and a vampire businessman who are centuries-old sworn rivals, and flying naked through the city at night with a gargoyle with whom she is falling in love. And she has no superpowers. Rather, her ability to negotiate among the five Old Races is due to the fact that Humans Are Special, and the affable natures of Janx and Eliseo Daisani are evidence that Humanity is Infectious. Just ask Kaimana Kaaiai and the selkies.

It's a sensible direction for the trilogy. I don't mean to mock Margrit for being just another human being. Seeing as she is underpowered, however, she obviously needs another angle that puts her on equal footing with the other members of the Old Races in New York. On the other hand, the careful dance of dialogue and drama in House of Cards is an argument for reconsidering any evaluation of species based on what makes them different or powerful. So what if dragons breathe fire and djinn can dematerialize at will? There's one common denominator for all of the Old Races and even humans: brains.

No, not brains as in "grarrrgh, braaaains!" We have yet to encounter any zombies. Brains as in wits. Although zombies would also have been an acceptable answer, had Murphy chosen to go with that.

House of Cards is a story about power plays. The selkies, lead by Kaimana, are making a play for readmission into the Old Races after their centuries of self-imposed exile. Janx and Eliseo are used to their game—but part of the moral of this story is how complacency costs, as Janx discovers in the case of his bodyguard, Malik, and Eliseo discovers while trying to entrap Margrit. Even someone on top can be vulnerable. And even those on the bottom, like Alban Korund, who appears nothing more than selfless protector, have an agenda.

So all of the Old Races, and humans, want leverage and power. Eliseo and Janx, despite being vampire and dragon, respectively, are after the same basic goals. The former just does it through "legitimate" avenues while the other lives like a mob boss. To-MAY-to, to-MAH-to. And that's what makes humans special. Lacking any particular abilities other than the need to make babies ALL THE TIME and that peculiar habit of genocide, humans need their wits to survive. As Margrit is keen to observe several times, the Old Races are very set in their traditions. They just don't think of things the way humans do until a human points it out.

I admire Margrit's propensity for "pointing stuff out" (also known as "getting into trouble"). In fact, it's her best quality. That and her dogged perseverance toward some sort of justice. It's not that Margrit is incorruptible so much as she is so finely balanced between Janx and Eliseo that neither has yet managed to "own" her. She's beholden to both—and, a testament to her own wits, they are each beholden to her in some fashion. Again, it's not their superpowers that make Janx and Eliseo so formidable. They just happen to have hundreds of years of practice. Margrit isn't even thirty.

The interaction among humans and members of the Old Races makes for a delightful dynamic. Sometimes I wish there was more "alien" than "affability" in Janx's nature, and Eliseo never seems as threatening as he should be. But when lumped in with Cameron and Cole and Margrit's mother, it presents a broad spectrum of society. I like how Murphy draws from people lurking among the super-rich (Eliseo, Kaimani) to the impoverished (Carey Delaney, Grace O'Malley). Part of me wishes we saw more members of the Old Races. Margrit makes vague references to "many" selkies at the masquerade, some Old Races employed at the House of Cards, and we get to see another djinn in addition to Malik. I know that their numbers are greatly reduced, but as Margrit observes in the book, it seems a big leap that a quorum of one representative from each species can make decisions that affect all of the Old Races.

House of Cards doesn't have a human-oriented mystery like Heart of Stone did. Tony mistakes Margrit's machinations for an attempt to take down Janx, but other than that, everything is about the world of the Old Races. There is a mystery, but it's more political than personal in nature—a "whydidit" instead of a "whodunit." I liked this change, since the Old Races are the most interesting part of the world Murphy has created. (And were we surprised by this? No. It's urban fantasy. The fantastic elements are going to be the most interesting part. I don't read urban fantasy for the cityscape, unless it's one created by China Miéville.)

Heart of Stone was an adequate introduction to the Old Races, but the trilogy finds solid footing in House of Cards. This is a middle book that definitely lacks signs of "middle book syndrome." I'd still recommend starting with the first book in the series, since it gives some needful background, and part of the appeal of this book is that the story hits the ground . . . running.

I'm not a parent. And in the last couple of years, I haven't had much interaction with children (although that will change as my nephew grows up). As I began reading Inside Out Girl, my first challenge was to try and see everything through a parent's eyes. I had to work hard not to dismiss Rachel as an over-the-top mother figure and not to roll my eyes at the behaviour of Olivia, Janie, and Dustin. This is a world I have never really inhabited—even my childhood was atypical, as I tended to get along with my parents more so than makes for an interesting work of literary fiction.

Thus, I first laud Tish Cohen for opening my eyes and making me empathize with parents, both those of "ordinary" teenagers and of children with special needs. It's a tough job. I knew that, but I haven't always comprehended it. Cohen manages to portray Rachel as obviously overprotective yet make it seem like this is the most natural reaction to the world. I can glimpse now the worry some parents experience when letting their children confront the world.

The motif of confrontation runs through all the various plots in Inside Out Girl. There's so much more to this book than the vicissitudes of life of Olivia Bean, a ten-year-old with non-verbal learning disorder. In addition to being a mother, Rachel is the owner of a parenting magazine that, owing to its refusal to change with the times, is about to go bankrupt. Olivia's father, Len, must deal with the fact that he has cancer. And Janey, Rachel's daughter, explores her sexuality and her crush on the girl next door. With these plots in place, Cohen creates dynamics that make Inside out Girl more than just a feel-good book about having a child with special needs. It's a story about a family, or two families that become one family, and how parenting—and life—can't be perfect.

Janie's subplot was one of my favourite parts. I loved the various episodes Janie experienced as the book progressed, from crossing out "guy" and replacing it with "goddess" in her Seventeen article to planning the perfect sleepover with Tabitha Carlisle (and we all knew how that was going to turn out). Sure, it was a little predictable. But Cohen gets us inside Janie's mind, lets us understand what she's going through—not just in regards to her sexuality, but her feelings about her mother, and about Len and Olivia. And as Janie grows, becomes more confident and a better person by discovering a desire to stand up for Olivia, we are more affected by this process than we would be had Cohen kept Janie closed off to us.

Were that the case for her brother, Dustin! If there is a neglected character in Inside Out Girl, he is it. Unlike his sister, we get very little access to Dustin's thoughts. He mostly serves as a stereotypical 12-year-old boy, into skating and irking his sister. His purpose is more to make Rachel worry about his obsession with attending a skate camp than any character development on his part. I view that as a missed opportunity; boys have problems too! It's not that Dustin remains disconnected from the dynamic. We understand how he feels about Len, at least initially; however, we're always more detached from Dustin than we are from Janie, Rachel, or Len.

I did get attached, too. Inside Out Girl played me like a well-tuned fiddle, and I found myself caring and my heart breaking even when some aspects of the plot were very contrived. The ending, overall, could have been better. It was both rushed in terms of pacing and unfulfilling. The attempt to abduct Tabitha, and Olivia's subsequent prevention of the act, was blatantly foreshadowed and not all that inspirational. Moreover, what happened to the Peytons? After emphasizing how much they wanted to adopt a child, Cohen just drops them as soon as Rachel offers to take Olivia. In her rush to arrive at what was obviously the ending of the book from the first page, Cohen skips over details that could have made the difference.

So it's not perfect, but it does come close. The characters grow and change. Rachel loosens up in her parenting and (of course) manages to save her magazine. Len and Rachel find happiness, and Olivia's future is assured, at least for now. Janie doesn't win Tabitha Carlisle, but that's probably for the best. And Olivia finally gets the birthday party she's been wanting all summer (it's not her birthday). Inside Out Girl is exactly what it needs to be: warm, quirky, and wonderful.

This is a birthday present for a coworker, who as far as I know reads only [b:that OTHER vampire series|41865|Twilight (Twilight, #1)|Stephenie Meyer|http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41BbjxCRtJL._SL75_.jpg|3212258]. I wanted something similar to give her, so I bought Night World No. 1 upon the recommendation of a friend. Now I've read it for myself, so I know what it is I'll be giving away.

The first rule of Night World: Do not talk about Night World.

The second rule of Night World: Do not fall in love with humans. This includes turning a human girl into a vampire so that she won't die from cancer. But if you do, make sure they are hawt. We have standards to uphold.

The third rule of Night World: If you find that a human is in fact your soulmate, don't panic. The universe will move Heaven and Earth to produce an all-too-convenient loophole to rules 1 and 2.

These are the laws of the universe that govern L.J. Smith's Night World. The punishment for breaking rules 1 and 2 is death. Rule 3, therefore, is very convenient, and although not codified in the book as such, I have deduced from observations regarding the ending of all three novels in this volume.

Although not per se formulaic, all three novels in this book follow the same general arc. Human boy or girl and Night Person of the opposite sex fall in love because they are "soulmates." A straw conflict ensues, but then everything works out all right (because they're soulmates, so the universe wants them to be together). There's some suspense, some humour, and once and a while the protagonist learns something. An [a:Umberto Eco|1730|Umberto Eco|http://photo.goodreads.com/authors/1217498277p2/1730.jpg] book this is not.

Nor, probably, should it be. Nevertheless, I'm in the camp that prefers to provide staunch fare for young adult readers. Harry Potter and that OTHER vampire series may not be sublime works of literature, but they're still complex. I'll give Night World credit for being relevant, but it has such a charming, unvariegated simplicity to it.

Secret Vampire, the first novel in this book, is the worst offender by far. Poppy's dying from pancreatic cancer, so her friend James, whom she's had a crush on since forever, reveals that he's a vampire and can make her a vampire as well. Of course, telling her about the Night World condemns them both to death. Thanks to a convenient discovery at the end of the book, it turns out Poppy is allowed to know about Night World after all, so they can all live vampily-ever-after.

I quite enjoyed how Smith had Poppy react to having a terminal illness and then learning her best friend is a vampire. Her reactions are real and visceral. Likewise, James also has an interesting dilemma: he's stuck in a world where humans are considered food (at best) or vermin (at worst). Divulging his feelings for Penny or to Penny means death. I suppose, as an allegory for high school, it works well enough.

For all its verisimilitude in character, Secret Vampire and the subsequent stories all lack suitable accompanying conflict. The protagonist of each story loses something, in the end: Poppy can't go back to her family (although she gets to go live with Dad, yay); Mary-Lynette isn't going to be a vampire after all, so she'll only get to see Ash once in a while; Thea has to pretend to forget her past as a witch so she can live with human Eric. Although sometimes these losses are significant, the book always emphasizes the positive aspects of the end. As a result, there's no real tension, no real catharsis involved. Bad things happen, but only to a certain degree.

Daughters of Darkness and Spellbinder did manage to improve my overall opinion of Night World. It helps that both involve more characters and, in my evaluation, better characters. The Redfern sisters, for example, each have complementary qualities that juxtapose nicely with Mary-Lynette's human sensibilities. Similarly, the sister-bond between Thea and Blaise Harman in Spellbinder, with all of its attendant difficulties and obligations, worked very well. It also probably helps that both of these stories had more to their plot than, "Oh no, I told a human about the Night World and saved her life!" There are underlying conflicts, whether it's a renegade werewolf-cum-vampire hunter or an escaped spirit of a bellicose witch.

In particular, Spellbinder was my favourite. I loved the dynamic between Thea and Blaise. Smith captures the difficult positions one will often occupy thanks to friends or family, the choices one has to make between loyalty and, say, love. She also captures the attitude of certain teenage girls, witches or not, with creepy accuracy. Spellbinder appeals to that part of us that never manages to escape high school.

So somewhat to my surprise, I enjoyed Night World. I can certainly find things about it ripe for mockery. On their own, the individual stories are somewhat weak. Together, however, they manage to resonate just enough to be meaningful.

To be honest, I bought this book more because it was in a bargain bin for $5 than because it looked interesting. Although I don't go out much, I've never considered myself agoraphobic so much as misanthropic. Nevertheless, there was something intriguing about the idea of a memoir/professional discussion of phobias.

By telling aspects of his life through the lens of phobia, Allen Shawn engages in what is probably the most interesting part of the story: the cause of the phobia. Rather than attempting to simplify the situation, Shawn examines every level of his life, including his father's phobia, his parents' relationship, his relationship to his twin sister, who is autistic, etc. He talks about how his phobia did not manifest fully until he went to college, not because he feels those years caused or amplified the phobia, but just because he had more control over his life, more ability to create a routine that reinforced phobic behaviour. By giving us that personal perspective, Shawn makes this more than a dry book that looks at phobias as clinical or psychological beasts.

And that's good, because the psychological parts of this book are the weaker parts. Shawn spends most of his time talking about Freud, so opponents of Freud be warned! I haven't read enough to make an informed decision on Freud, but I would have liked to see a more thorough coverage of the various opinions on phobia. I don't question Freud's impact on psychology, considering he pretty much founded psychoanalysis. But as Shawn's own bibliography points out, there's so many other sources to consider.

Wish I Could Be There was an OK book but doesn't give you anything to go, "wow" about—hence the brief review. It didn't bore me out of mind, but unlike almost every book I read, there's nothing in particular about it that I want to celebrate.