I'm not sure if I did myself a favor or a disservice by reading this one so soon after Circe by Madeline Miller. The two books are pretty similar in theme, and also, they draw from the same segment of Greek mythology, although they focus on different aspects of those myths and interpret some of the "parts of the puzzle" differently. That meant I was constantly comparing the two subconsciously as I read, as well as trying to reconcile them into a single narrative—a futile exercise, given that they're entirely different books, although I have to say it actually worked weirdly well a lot of the time.

Anyway, I quite liked this take on the Greek myths and the focus on womens' fates in the world of gods and heroes. The author's prose is beautiful, and every part of the setting came alive in front of my eyes. Unfortunately, Ariadne, the titular character, was the one I had most trouble connecting with. I drew far more enjoyment from Phaedra's chapters, and from following the fates of all the secondary and tertiary characters who often were really compelling, to the point that when some of them inevitably met their tragic ends, I found myself tearing up. I especially couldn't get enough of Daedalus. Seriously. Between this book and Circe, I somehow find myself a Daedalus fun. How have I overlooked this character in the original myths for so long? 

I remember really, really loving this book when I first read it, back when it just came out. Now that I've re-read it, I can't say I've disliked it, but there wasn't the same overwhelmingly good impression. I suppose it might be the kind of book that really calls for a certain mood. I wasn't in that mood during the re-read, so I felt less caught up in the character arcs and the whole emotional side of it all. That made me notice some flaws I overlooked the first time around, mostly related to pacing. There are sections here that simply move too fast, especially the earlier part of Linett's storyline with that big reveal dumped on her and the reader's head without sufficient build-up, and absolutely everything toward the ending. At the same time, there were considerable sections of the book that sort of dragged on.

Still, those complaints aside, I think it's a nice story. The author's prose is beautiful, the entire angle of the retelling is pretty unique, and the characters really shine. I felt like Mina's arc was better constructed from start to finish, while Linett's had a few hiccups at the start, but as the story unfolded, Linett's journey got just as engaging. I really love the entire concept of these two girls being sort of placed on the stage to play certain parts in this tale, dictated to them by the powerful men, and then they started making their own choices and made it end so differently and so strongly.

In other words, there are some flaws in how the story is told, but what this story is is beautiful. 

A lovely, haunting read. Miller's prose here is even more vivid, I felt, than it was in The Song of Achilles, and I absolutely love how she writes about the Greek gods. Every deity she paints on the page matches my perception of them so perfectly. The mortal characters whose lives touch Circe's make an impact that is no less lasting—Odysseus and his entire family in particular, but also characters like Daedalus. The pacing is pretty slow, but there's never a dull moment in Circe's life journey, and every little detail continues to be relevant throughout the story. 

I remember starting this book a few years ago and then DNFing it pretty quickly because I just couldn't connect with any of the characters. But lately, a friend whose tastes I usually trust mentioned it as one of the inspirations behind her newest Vampire the Requiem campaign. So I decided to give this novel another chance.

I must say I'm pretty glad I did. This isn't going to be my favorite read of the year or anything, and it was pretty enjoyable. I still struggled a bit through the beginning, but pretty soon, I started feeling that connection with most of the alternating narrators, Ana and Atl in particular.

The story had a definite VtM/VtR vibe, but there's also plenty of unique worldbuilding and I really liked how it was handled: there were zero infodumps, and yet at every point of the story, I felt like I had all the setting information I immediately needed. The plot isn't too complex, but it's quite engaging. There's vampire politicking, gang politicking, and all the staples of neo-noir set in a corrupt, bloodthirsty city you can wish for. Things do get pretty dark now and then, but that's too be expected from a book like this. 

I used to listen to audiobooks quite a lot, but then I fell into the exciting world of fiction podcasts. That sort of ruined audiobooks for me, in a way. I've come to expect a story for my ears to have a full cast, sound effects, all that jazz; not just one or two people reading a book to me. But a lot of all those numerous reading challenges I keep greedily signing up for want me to read an audiobook, so I decided to pick up one. Something I've already read and loved, to listen to a few chapters an evening as a bedtime story.

I'm not sure what possessed me to choose something so overwhelmingly heartbreaking as The Song of Achilles. I just... liked the narrator's voice from the sample and wanted to listen to him read more of Miller's gorgeous prose. For some reason, I completely overlooked what an emotional mess this book had recudes me to the first time around.

Naturally, it did it again.

This was a long listen, really. I kept pausing for days, because I didn't want to get to those last chapters, to the impossibly painful, inevitable conclusion. Not that the early chapters are considerably less painful. I think it's nearly impossible to read TSoA and not be aware that the story is spiralling toward complete and utter heartbreak, even for some reason you know/remember little of Iliad. Even in the early parts where everything is beautiful and nothing immediately hurts, where Patroclus and Achilles are just two boys on Mount Pelion, everything is full of all those hints and remarks full of dramatic irony, like a tragedy should be.

Patroclus, the way Miller writes him, is perhaps one of my favorite characters ever. It's incredible, how he always strives to be the best version of himself among the cruelty and the darkness of the war. How fiercely he loves Achilles, and how he still defies him, calls him out on his shortcomings, his pride, his hubris. How he continues to see the best in him even when that best gets buried under all of the above. How he doesn't hesitate to harm what Achilles has become in order to preserve the best Achilles can be. The ending he faces is inevitable. He still deserves better.

Achilles himself often infuriates me, particularly in the later chapters, but I can't help but hurt for him, too—and not just because my perception of him is filtered through the lens of Patroclus's wholehearted love for the man. It's because behind all the luster and glory, he lives through his own personaly tragedy: a lot of his choices taken from him from a fairly young age, his destiny written for him, culminating in an inescapable death. Patroclus is the only one among those who are constantly by his side who sees him for the man behind the prophecy. For others—his mother, the gods, the entire Greek army—he is a weapon, born for the battlefield alone. His only prize is the legend he makes out of himself; his only legacy is his glory.

Let the story of him to be something more, Patroclus's ghost tells Thetis. And that's what makes this book so important to me, what makes it line up so well with my personal vision of what love should be: seeing the person you love for who they are, and who they can be, and wanting them to be more than what they're allowed to be. Wanting them to be everything.

I love this book, and I kind of hate this book, and I want to promise myself that I'll never subject myself to this story again. I know I will, someday. 

Much as I sometimes enjoy reading about high society scandals and intrigue, my favorite type of historical romance books are the ones focusing on working class people. And given that Courtney Milan is one of my favorite romance authors, it's no wonder that I really enjoyed this novella.

So often, the conflict in second chance romance stories is focused on dramatic misunderstandings and outside factors. Here, Daisy and Crash share the responsibility for their relationship not working out the first time around. They both made serious mistakes, and then they both had to confront their biases, learn to listen to each other, and figure out what they did wrong. I loved following them on their journey. 

I also enjoyed how hard the author leaned into the description of the social injustice issues and the impact they have on individuals. Although perhaps 'enjoyed' isn't quite the right word; the first chapter was in fact painful to read, because of how vividly written it was—the himuliation Daisy felt because of the way everyone reacted to her entering that context with her business proposal, just because she's a woman. There were many moments in this novella that really hurt, in the way injustice always hurts. But there were many heartwarming moments, too—between the leads and the wonderful characters that surrounded them, Crash's aunt and Daisy's best friend probably being my favorites. And the ending was wonderful, not just because the couple got their HEA, but because it really drove home how by standing your ground and persevering when the world tells you to shut up you can make things better for more than just yourself.

The one thing, though, that messed with my enjoyment a little was the constant repetition of the velociped metaphor. I get it! You need to go faster to avoid falling! I know how to ride a bike! I understood what the metaphor stands for when Crash first introduced it, there was no need to hammer it home multiple times a chapter for the rest of the book! Seriously, I think I don't want to ever see or hear the word "velociped" again after this. :D

Still, minor complaints like that aside, this was a great read. 

Wow. This was quite an emotional rollercoaster!

To tell the truth, up until almost two thirds into the story, I was certain I would give it far fewer stars than I'm now enthusiastically handing out. There were points even before the midpoint when I thought my review might lean a bit into "angry rant" territory. See, when it comes to romance with D/s elements, I have some pretty strong opinions (although I'm fully aware that some of them are purely personal preferences). There are things in such stories that I absolutely love and can't get enough of, and then there are things that steer way too close to triggers, and there's preciously little middle ground.

This book, for a big part of the story, kind of zigzagged between my "ooh, give me more" territory and my "get away from me" territory. So I was feeling pretty conflicted. I was also low-key frustrated that there was only one POV throughout. I kept wanting a chance to get in Jerry's head, too. 

But I really like K.J. Charles's writing style, and I loved how this book was written, with all the theater and literature references and small Shakespeare quotes injected here and there. Besides, I was getting invested in the whole heist part of the plot—I happen to love heists. So I kept reading despite my reservations, and my, I'm so glad I did!

As the book got closer to the finish line, plot twists began to pile up. There was that one twist—you must know which one if you've read it—that literally made me gasp out loud. Those reveals in the late part of the story completely recontextualized so many details from the earlier parts and made me completely fall in love with this complicated romance. I'm also now convinced that keeping solely to Alec's POV is the best decision the author could have made for this story. I didn't need, after all, to get a glimpse into Jerry's mind to see his arc play out and to be half-a-step ahead of Alec when it came to the changes Jerry was facing—and I loved that arc, and those challenges. I loved so many characters here, really, and there are so many scenes that are stuck vividly in my mind, like the one where Alec draws the duchess's portrait and gets her, and the two big honest conversations Alec and Jerry have.

Also, big extra points for the crossover with Sins of the Cities. I now want to reread those books! 

A beautiful, quiet story about two people—a trans man and a bisexual woman—gradually coming together. I really loved how the leads, upon encountering the initial spark of mutual attraction, kind of take a step back and take the time to build a solid connection first. The book is really short, being a novella, and yet the plot unfolds very gradually, showing Remembrance and Benjamin open up to each other and forge a friendship step by step before they delve into something different. (I hesitate to say, "something more"; it's my firm belief that romance isn't inherently more important, more valuable, or otherwise more than friendship, it's just different).

I really liked how while the story intimately focused on the two main characters, it also remained firmly grounded in the setting at all times. The 19th century New York wasn't just a backdrop or a decoration; both characters were fully integrated into the world around them, as well as keenly aware of its problems and challenges. The latter is especially true for Remembrance. Her passion about basically improving the society really made me invested in her journey. It was also wonderful to see how Benjamin's gender was handled; I found the portrayal really relatable and sensitive. Another thing I very much enjoyed were the leads' interactions with their families.

All in all, an excellent quick read for a rainy night. 

Normally, I take my time with anthologies and short story collections, but this one was a surprisingly quick read. Isabel Yap's writing style really resonated with me, and I kept reaching for the book to read just one more story in-between other daily things. It helped that a lot of the stories here (though not all by far) were really short.

The one I enjoyed the most was the longest one, though—A Spell for Foolish Hearts, a pretty cute mlm workplace romance with a lot of witchiness, my single favorite flavor of dramatic misunderstanding, and a smile-enducing happy ending. Others that stuck with me include Hurricane Heels (We Go Dancing) which offers a great take on the magical girls trope;  the fairy-tale-ish How to Swallow the Moon that won my heart with its rich worldbuilding, beautiful wlw romance, and the maiden teaming up with her queer LI to beat the monster instead of nobly sacrificing herself to save her people; and A Canticle of Lost Girls with its interwoven themes of growing up, motherhood, and female friendship.

Some of the stories here are unsettling and disturbing at times; others are full of hope; some are both. All in all, I greatly enjoyed this collection and I feel kind of sad that my journey through its pages is over. 

I will 1000% come back to this book later—it looks really promising! But right now, it's a bit too daunting for me.