The film Crazy Rich Asians is my comfort movie. I've probably seen it upwards of 20 times. So, I had been putting off reading the book, worried that it would somehow ruin the film. I know, I know, this is not the normal response of an avid reader to the adaptation, but because of my emotional response/attachment to the film, I was anxious I would be disappointed: the book and film would diverge so wildly that I wouldn't be able to appreciate the film anymore or the book and film would be so similar the book would be entirely predictable. 

I am pleased to report, then, that the book was excellent. The most memorable moment from the film (in fact, most of the moments from the film) are directly lifted from the book although they are often placed in a different order, or there are some alterations to make the film's plot tighter (for instance, the aunties have a much bigger role in the book vs. the film), but there were still unexpected moments in the book. The root of this difference is that the film is a romantic comedy, but the book is satire (and also the first in a trilogy, so the ending of the book is left fairly open-ended). Moments in the film that end in something sweet and charming (i.e., the fish incident) are much more dramatic. The fight between lovers is much longer and harsher. 

My biggest critique of the book is that in the film, Rachel and Nick are much more realized characters, while pretty much all of the characters in the book are more tropes/caricatures. This is to be somewhat expected because it is a satire, so deep investment in the characters isn't necessary, but in a romantic comedy, the audience really needs to be rooting for the main girl and/or guy.

Moving on to the actual satire of the book, Kwan does an incredible job because I'm not remotely familiar with this culture, but I was still able to understand most of the jokes and critiques he was making. This is in part because you don't need to be intimately familiar with Singaporean culture to understand the problems of this extreme level of wealth. If you're going to like this book, you do need to like reading about rich bitch problems (which I do); if you're just going to constantly be mad about the fact people this wealthy exist, you're not going to have a good time.  

I'm disappointed with this book. I really enjoyed the first one and thought the world that was introduced to the reader was interesting and compelling, but this book just did not live up to the promises of the characterization that the first one did. Mokoya's motivation (protecting Rider) did not seem believable. We are given less than 40 pages with Rider before we're supposed to believe

Mokoya is willing to die for them.

While I enjoyed the deeper exploration of the magic system, I found myself ranging from irritating to incredulous at the characters and and their motivations.

Marital cheating continues to be one of the beloved topics of literary fiction writers, to the point one must wonder what new there is to say on the subject. Hunter provides something new on the topic. Centering her narrative of an affair on the figure of the harpy, Hunter provides the reader with a route through the rage that comes with an affair and the secrets that we are asked to unsuccessfully keep in the aftermath. 

Early in her life, Lucy becomes obsessed with harpies to the point she studies them in pursuit of a Ph.D., which she abandons in favor of raising her children. Harpies are depicted as cruel and violent, so a lot of questions can be raised over what would make a child be drawn to such violent figures. But there is also empowerment in female rage, and this power is what she finds in herself after she learns of her husband's affair. She becomes a harpy, torturing him for what he has done (consensually). 

While Hunter does bring a new angle, I am tired of reading essentially the same plot and the same internal monologue about the hurt/battered/scorned woman and what she does afterward. I want fewer narratives about the wrongs men have done to women and more about how women are making things better for themselves. Sexism and patriarchy will never cease to control women's lives and to turn the world against us, but this is also one of the only narratives of women's lives presented in fiction, especially literary fiction. There is more to women than the things men have done to them.    

Satire is difficult to do because people will take it too seriously or will miss the humor; literary deadpan does not communicate well to everyone, especially if you aren't expecting this. Valente does an incredible job of emphasizing the ridiculousness of the premise, plot, and characters through her absolutely over-the-top language. Every word and descriptor has been carefully considered for the purpose of conveying the purpose of the book. Space Opera does what so many people laud science fiction for generally doing: exploring the ramifications of current trajectories or possible futures. Just because Valente does it comedically does not mean she is in any way separate from the other "serious" greats of science fiction.

Now, I will admit I'm biased here because the question of sentience and personhood is directly tied to my academic research. The inclusion of Capo (a cat) was an important element, as well as the monologue on how humans never gave any of the species they killed off to prove they were worthy of saving. At least the aliens are giving the humans that much. The philosophical position of the text is complicated. Of course, the standard argument for nonhuman rights relies, generally, on either the assumption that the possibility of intelligent life merits protection or that life itself merits protection; Valente's premise means that possible sentience isn't meritorious of consideration or protection (unless you can prove it through musical/artistic performance). Possibly the takeaway is that sentience is something limited to talking species rather than just any species. Since the characters admit that sentient life could evolve from another species, the possibility of sentience can arise from anywhere. It is a complicated and nuanced consideration of what makes a species sentient and what sentience even means. 

This is a good book for anyone who enjoys a science fictional romp and/or a philosophical consideration of one of the most important and complex issues of the twenty-first century that doesn't take itself too seriously.

Just really disappointed. Very traditional high fantasy. Feels dated. 

How to describe the conclusion to this series? This is one of the most creative and innovative fantasy series I've read in a very long time. Ken Liu tackles such a huge range of subjects with so much nuance and grace that the reader can quickly move between loving and hating the same character. Giving even an overview of the book is difficult because the plot is so sprawling. This is not to say that Liu does not have masterful control over the plot and the characters, but that his narrative style and approach are so expansive and finely wrought that he can include dozens of intersecting, large and small, narratives to create an intricate, comprehensive, and expansive world and narrative. 

Conclusions are hard, but Liu pulls this one off very well. I will say that I think The Veiled Throne is a more philosophically complex novel.

Although I know the cooking competition is controversial and divisive, I think it is brilliant to show had people can carry on even when there are great evils being perpetuated and also how cultures become blended. These themes are continued in this book in lovely ways.

I was ultimately satisfied with every way the book ended; I was crying over multiple characters and delighted in watching the villains meet their ends.

Cutanrovo's death was particularly satisfying.

I have not read what other fans of the series have thought about the end of the war and the fate of

Xana and the Ukyu

, but I imagine some people are not happy about it. I think for the same reasons that people don't like

the cooking competition from The Veiled Throne

. Both go against what people expect from an epic fantasy series, particularly one with so much warfare. That is Liu's point, though: that the stories we've been telling ourselves and believing are perhaps not ideal. I found myself resisting Jia's plotting and scheming even though her plan did work and most likely saved tens of thousands of lives—but it was cold and cruel, which she acknowledged herself. 

Ultimately, this is an immensely satisfying conclusion to a complex, messy, nuanced, and beautiful book series. The characters are so alive and believable, the narrative voice is always so apt for the scene, and the language is perfectly melded with the content. Not enough people read this (highly acclaimed and awarded) series. I would highly recommend it to anyone who loves epic fantasy, particularly if you want to explore, twist, and bend the genre to reach new heights.  

Well, this was sure something to read. Definitely don't read this if you'll be easily offended or upset by people questioning the existence of God and other blasphemy, but the theological (and existential) discomfort is essentially the point. More than questioning the existence of God, Pulling the Wings Off Angels questions if God (or the concept of God) is just. Does God just make arbitrary rules just because He can? Or is there a purpose? Can justice and mercy coexist? What do we, finite morals, actually deserve? Is sin ever justified? Is sin different from crime?

These are huge questions to pack into 138 pages, but the author does a better job of posing and then answering these questions than most philosophical treatises or monographs I've read. I won't spoil how the author answers these questions here, but suffice it to say the book does a great (if dark) job of exploring the workings of the human and divine mind.  

This little novella is also surprisingly funny. In a very dark and, well, blasphemous way, but funny nonetheless. Again, this is not the book to read if you are anything close to sensitive or have aspirations of righteousness. This book will not only offend you but make you feel dirty. Parker has no shame in not only co-opting theological history, but all history. The reader will quickly match up the events and characters with real-world counterparts as they are only lightly fictionalized. This is part of the humor, but also part of the overarching point of the book, because the questions the book asks have been asked (and continue to be asked) but thinkers (and individuals) today. The debate that lies at the center of the book was a central topic of conversation in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries and Parker imagines what "Europe" would've looked like if history had gone slightly differently. 

Overall, I would highly recommend this book, but only to people with a total disregard of Christianity (or at who are least willing to question their own faith) and with a somewhat twisted sense of humor.  

This is one of those books I checked out as a library book, but now I want to buy a physical copy because I want to highlight passages. So I'll start out my review with a passage so beautiful I had to read it out loud to my cat so I could educate him: 

The book is a retelling of The Little Mermaid, and like all retellings of that fairy tale, there is the dark route and the happy ending route. For any who doesn't know, in many of the original versions of mermaid-turns-human legends, the mermaid suffers greatly for being on land. And then there is the Disney version. Attendant to that is the other legends of mermaids, selkies, sirens, etc., who are said to lure men to their deaths, destroy ships, and otherwise wreak general havoc. Based on the inside flap, I was expecting something along the lines of The Deep by Rivers Solomon or even Into the Drowning Deep by Mira Grant. What I was not expecting was a book with the level of emotional intensity evidenced in the passage I quoted above. This book was raw, powerful, heartbreaking, and oddly hopeful (at least in its final pages).

Don't mistake the lyricism for a book that is a light or happy read. Although this book is barely over 100 pages, I still marked it as having a slow pace because, first, some people will probably find the language difficult—Khaw does not shy away from using every ten-dollar word they know (excitingly, I had to look up to words: sapidity and bathyal)—and, second, the book is gory and delights in being so. As I said above, Khaw has chosen to write about mermaids who destroy and who are hungry, so our narrator (the mermaid) gives us detailed descriptions of her meals. This could definitely be off-putting for some readers, but keep in mind this is a horror novella. I found the beautiful and eloquent language (something another character comments on) paired with the grotesquerie to capture something about the world of the book and the character quite perfectly. I am always entranced when the language of a book perfectly fits the rest of the book that the reader cannot help but be pulled (or dragged) in.

But the above quote and my emotional response point to something more than just a dark mermaid fable. The mermaid has a companion, the plague doctor, and it is their relationship that is the source of my intense emotional response. I only give books five stars that have evoked an extremely strong emotional reaction in me, and I had tears on my face at the end of this book. Their relationship (and don't read too much romance into my use of the term "relationship" here) is so exquisite and beautiful. This is a story, at the core, about people trying to protect, love, help, and support each other through the worst the world can throw at them and through their private struggles and traumas. I won't say more; the book is so short, giving really any plot details would spoil the whole thing pretty quickly.

The Salt Grows Heavy does what I always want my horror to do: Give me a scary monster that only ever hides a true horror from our daily lives. But this little novella also forces you to question what makes a monster and what actions can be excused and why. If you like emotionally and psychologically complex horror, I definitely recommend this book. Stay away if you're disturbed by body horror or horror involving children. 

Environmental fiction tends to be dark, and for good reason: We are careening toward environmental collapse, carbon-based capitalism is destroying people's physical and mental health and is a source of endless traumas, and there are no real solutions available to use. The CEO of one of the biggest and richest oil companies in the world has been instated as the leader of the UN's major climate summit this year. But what all the books from Stelliform Press do (and this one is no exception) is find the alternatives, the places where they might be hope and love. 

Another Life by Sarena Ulibarri focuses on Galacia (ga-lace-e-a) Aguirre and the community of Otra Vida in Death Valley of the new, independent country of California (which comprises California and Nevada). The United States has collapsed and separated into smaller, often warring, countries. The environmental issues California currently faces have increased significantly, especially with the new Rocky Mountain Republic limiting the water supply. To combat this, Galacia and her friends developed a new technology that led to establishing a community based on radical communist (although there is debate over calling themselves that) principles. 

The political, economic, and environmental collapse everyone is living in was sped up by Thomas Ramsey, one of the last of the ultra-wealthy who promises people a techno-fix for the impending environmental disaster that...does not go well. So when Galacia finds out she was Ramsey in her past life, this throws her authority within the community into question. 

This book is, at its core, about how to build sustainable communities—and I mean that in the environmental and social contexts because the two are inextricably intertwined. Communities that don't have renewable energies and healthy ecological practices will not be able to have social cohesion and community spirit. This is what this book exemplifies more than anything else. The conflict between Galacia and some of the younger members of the community encapsulates both the resistance of an older generation to trust and include younger people as they come of age, but they need to be included—this is their world too. They are the ones who will primarily suffer because of previous generations' environmental, political, and economic policies, after all. 

The book is very short (just over 150 pages), so there wasn't as much time to develop all of the different elements that Ulibarri addressed. I think the book could've been 50-100 pages longer and benefitted quite a bit. Ulibarri works well in the novella format nonetheless, and the reader won't walk away feeling cheated but maybe a bit sad that there wasn't more. The characters are well-drawn, but there are quite a few, and I wish they had more space to develop and breathe. Particularly when the climax happens at the end, which is suddenly much more action-y than anything else had been in the book up to that point. This felt a little sudden and could've been set up more. 

Overall, if you're someone who enjoys slower-paced books that are also quick reads which focus on community and the environment, you'll enjoy this book. The characters are diverse in gender, sexuality, and racial inclusion, and the community seems to have excised itself of homophobia, transphobia, and racism, so reading a book without hate speech/crimes was refreshing as well.