Reading Well: Children of Blood and Bone by Tomi Adeyemi

Posted on February 10, 2023 by Daniel (@MKNN)

{I’m always in a bit of a quandary on what to do with books in a series. I’ve sort of settled on reviewing the first book, then waiting and completing the rest of the series as a group. But I’m not making a hard and fast rule here, so we’ll see how it plays out.}

Tomi Adeyemi‘s Children of Blood and Bone (2018) has received a ton of adulation and attention, much of which is very well deserved. It feels like (and I’m sure for those that pay more attention to publishing this is very, very old hat) there has been a clear separation from the YA market to a more-mature-but-not-fully-grown-up market. Children of Blood and Bone belongs to the latter, although perhaps not as much as, say, The Magicians series.

The world of the novel is very grounded in West African traditions, and that forms a large part of the appeal. These are mythologies and stories that are woefully underrepresented in the genre, and so that, alone, would make Adeyemi’s novel worth supporting.

Luckily, it’s also good, with young protagonists that are simultaneously coming into their own (including the requisite magical/extraordinary powers) and trying to save each other and, you know, the world. The locations are memorable, moving between different geographies and micro-cultures with ease, while never losing a sense of character-based continuity.

It is followed by 2019’s Children of Virtue and Vengeance, and a final entry in the trilogy is promised (and rumors of various adaptations are rife).

Highly recommended for fans of the genre.

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Reading Well: Burntcoat by Sarah Hall

Posted on February 3, 2023 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Y’all know I love me some Sarah Hall (see my writeups of Daughters of the North, The Electric Michelangelo, The Wolf Border, and her short story collection, Madame Zero). 2021’s Burntcoat is no exception for me.

This book is likely to be a bit divisive: it is sexually graphic, describes some forms of emotional abuse, includes a few somewhat grisly moments, refers quite often to an undefined you (an authorial choice that may drive some away) and, perhaps most of all, is clearly a meditation on the pandemic, to which some may cry, Too soon! Too soon!

We are going to be flooded with plagueArt over the next decade–it’s already happening over on HBO with The Last of Us (I discount their adaptation of Station Eleven, as it was well in the works pre-2020–anxiety about the plague far predates the pandemic).

Burntcoat is a story about love and art: the protagonist is a large-installation sculptor living (like many of Hall’s characters) in the English/Scottish borderlands. Her artistic sensibilities are her own, but are also deeply entwined in a complicated relationship with her mother. There is a love affair, the plague (far worse than the COVID pandemic) hits, and things go from there.

Often, geography works as an additional character in Hall’s writing. Here, there is less of that, although the title refers to the massive studio that is the setting of much of what happens. Hall’s prose remains taut throughout, with a directness that is often striking.

The book is incendiary, insightful, and powerful. As long as the subject matter doesn’t shut you down, very highly recommended.

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Reading Well: The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison

Posted on January 27, 2023 by Daniel (@MKNN)

There are so many sub-genres out there …

The Goblin Emperor (2014) by Katherine Addison is clear fantasy, set in a world of elves, goblins, and mixed offspring of the two. But it is what might be called something like “high court fantasy,” focused on the unexpected elevation of a 4th son (meaning, fourth in line for the throne), a half-breed to boot, to the role of Emperor of the Elven kingdom.

I thoroughly enjoyed it, but the recommendation comes with some caveats. First, most, if your taste runs to the swashbuckling, action/adventure side, this may not be a great match. This book is about rumors and intrigue, court politics, sabotage, and a murder mystery. A lot happens, but there isn’t a lot of physical action.

Perhaps more importantly, it’s not a particularly nuanced book. The society discussed is frightfully patriarchal, and other than that being explicitly recognized, there’s not a lot of attention paid to alternate strategies of agency or to female resistance (there’s some, don’t get me wrong, but it’s all very recognizable from contemporary portrayals of female agency in the 18th (ish) century). More problematically, the notion of race is both ubiquitous and under-developed: what it means to be mixed race is central to the story, but also treated somewhat superficially.

Still, the world is nicely built, and Addison does a great job creating empathy for the protagonist, doing so both by describing how lost and unprepared they are for their role and by never losing sight of some of their central competencies and their moral compass. You root for them to succeed, and you genuinely feel the risk of their failure.

There are some other books written in this world, but The Goblin Emperor stands alone as a novel (as such, I’ve written it up here, instead of waiting until I’ve completed a trilogy or whatever). I do plan to read at least one of the others, although it may be a while (the pile is deep at the moment).

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Reading Well: The House in the Cerulean Sea by T.J. Klune

Posted on January 13, 2023 by Daniel (@MKNN)

T.J. Klune‘s The House in the Cerulean Sea is, through and through, a very sweet novel.

That’s not an adjective often used in fantasy writing, and even less so as you move out of the explicitly YA entries. So it’s a nice diversion at the very least.

The central plot of the novel focuses on a social worker (yes, really) in an overly bureaucratic alternate universe. His job is making sure that magical youth are treated appropriately in their state-run orphanages / care centers / youth homes. He is sent to one that is seen as highly unusual, to the point that it is in danger of being shut down due to the unorthodox methods of its caretaker. The children are also, to say the least, quite unusual, ranging from a button-hoarding wyvern to an amorphous blob that dreams of being a bellhop to, literally, a 6-year old Lucifer.

The novel dances carefully on the edge of being overly pedantic, but even when it slips, the message is worthwhile, focusing on self-acceptance and the importance of being true to yourself, even in moments of adversity. There are various LGBTQ+ relationships, both explicit and not, something quite refreshing in the overall genre.

If you’re still reading after that summary, you’ll probably enjoy the novel.

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Reading Well: Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro

Posted on December 16, 2022 by Daniel (@MKNN)

After Never Let Me Go, Klara and the Sun (2021) is the second novel by Kazuo Ishiguro exploring the relationship between humanity and technology. The titular Klara in the novel is a highly sophisticated robot, and the novel traces their “life,” from initial placement in a commercial setting through their integration into a human family.

Two things stand out to me about this novel.

First, Ishiguro is firmly committed to an in media res philosophy: key questions about the setting, about what the global context within which the events take place, even about Klara’s appearance are all left unanswered. That this works, leaving the reader curious, but not frustrated, is a testament to his skill.

Second, and not unrelated, Klara’s presence as the main character is a remarkable achievement, as Ishiguro presents a point of view that is decidedly not human, but also full of emotion, warmth, perception, and a fantastically detailed level of observation of the (mostly) humans around her.

It’s a smart, engaging, meditation on the relationship between humans and technology, and if it remains a little light on conclusions, the powerful nature of Ishiguro’s writing–especially his imagery and his insights into Klara’s perceptions of the world–makes the journey very worthwhile.

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Reading Well: The Mirror and the Light by Hilary Mantel

Posted on December 12, 2022 by Daniel (@MKNN)

There’s something incredibly impressive and incredibly satisfying about a well-done trilogy. Even the most skilled of authors run the risk of either fading at the end, or proving unable to contain themselves, and seeing the work either feel incomplete or spill over even more volumes.

Hilary Mantel nails the landing with The Mirror and the Light (2020), completing the fictionalized story of Thomas Cromwell, begun with Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies. Wolf Hall predated Reading Well, and I decided not to write about Bring Up the Bodies for some reason. Probably because it’s a challenge to imagine what I have to add to the fairly exhaustive commentary on these books. If you are likely to enjoy them, you probably already know about them and have read them.

I thoroughly enjoyed the trilogy, for two primary reasons. First, Cromwell has been so villainized over time, the challenge of making him a sympathetic character seemed almost insurmountable, and it was a pleasure riding along with Mantel as she successfully did so. Second, Mantel can freaking write, and when she applies her talent to the evocation of a historical moment both directly accessible to contemporary readers (folks were folks, technology was comprehensible, things tasted and smelled much as they do now, albeit in different proportions) and totally foreign to them (the specific conception of the deific nature of royalty), the results sparkle.

If historical fiction centered on providing a deep understanding of a single, fascinating figure is at all intriguing, this is as good as the genre gets.

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Reading Well: The Ember in the Ashes Quadrology by Sabaa Tahir

Posted on December 8, 2022 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Yep, I’ve been quiet on here long enough to read all four of these …

Sabaa Tahir‘s debut novel, An Ember in the Ashes (2015), starts the series, and is followed by A Torch in the Night (2016), A Reaper at the Gates (2018), and A Sky Beyond the Storm (2020).

There is something oddly, irresistibly, compelling in Tahir’s writing and world. It’s a combination of a very creative–if slightly chilling–re-creation of an ancient empire loosely parallel to Rome, a collection of well-drawn characters, and enough page-turning suspense to keep you hooked through the rougher bits.

There is a lot to unpack here, and it evolves nicely across the books. We start with a militaristic, brutally unforgiving Emperor with a training school from hell designed to feed his needs and a popular resistance that is out-manned at every turn. By the end, we have added a supernatural creature responsible for the transition of souls from life to death, a series of revelations about our main characters’ lineage(s), and a battle fought by humans as proxies for both evil and good spirits, all with a loosely Middle-Eastern flair.

It’s a lot.

And, somehow, Tahir keeps the energy up. There are some highly predictable and near cliché plot points, and the usual genre difficulties with sexual attraction (it feels like the border between bodice-ripper and speculative fiction may need some tightening, and this from someone profoundly opposed to boundaries between genres), but in the end what stays with you are the moments of peril and (some) triumph, and, for me at least, the fascinating authorial choices of how to handle the series’ initial protagonists.

This last is part of the joy of reading as well: the Tahir that completes the fourth book is far more self-assured, far more willing to take risks, and far more in control of her own authorial voice than the opening chapters.

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Reading Well: Storm of Locusts by Rebecca Roanhorse

Posted on November 17, 2022 by Daniel (@MKNN)

{ Am in catchup mode here for a while, and am trying to change some of what these contain. We’ll see how it goes. }

Storm of Locusts (2019) completes the story Rebecca Roanhorse began in Trail of Lightning, and it’s a worthy successor. Much of my praise for the opening book applies here: a compelling plot, an attractively complicated protagonist, and a thoroughly indigenous setting.

Storm of Locusts is marginally more adult than Trail of Lightning, both in slight sexual content, but also in some darker themes: the stakes are higher for everyone, and that requires some moments spent in dark places.

Both books remain highly recommended for those looking for YA fantasy with a decidedly different setting and spin.

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Reading Well: Boy, Snow, Bird by Helen Oyeyemi

Posted on September 6, 2022 by Daniel (@MKNN)

Y’all know I love me some Helen Oyeyemi (surprisingly, Ginger Bread is the only of her novels I’ve written up here).

Her 2014 novel, Boy, Snow, Bird is, I think, among her best, mixing her evocative language, her leanings toward what might full under the umbrella of “magical realism,” and her exquisite probings of the intertwined impact of race, gender, and class on her characters into a lovely and compelling stew.

The novel focuses on Boy, and her two children, Snow (who is actually her husband’s child from a prior marriage) and Bird (so there’s the explanation of the title), tracing Boy’s escape from a painful youth and arrival into a New England life that is drastically changed by the mercurial, almost ephemeral, Snow. There are both social and inter-generational relationships to explore, and the upheaval caused by Bird’s arrival, and what Bird declares about the history of his family.

Oyeyemi’s debut novel, The Icarus Girl, may remain my favorite, but I suspect that is more because I was really in the mood for a Nigerian ghost story at the time. Boy, Snow, Bird may be her best.

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Reading Well: On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong

Posted on August 26, 2022 by Daniel (@MKNN)

There are two competing reactions to Ocean Vuong‘s 2019 memoir, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.

The first is that Vuong is a stunning writer, as in one whose sentences and paragraphs can literally stun you, making you look up from the book and stare into space at the beauty and power of what you just read. This is true of their poetry, and, as we find here, true of their prose as well. It’s a brilliant and beautiful book, an achievement made more special by the trauma and emotional pain that forms most of its subject matter.

The other reaction is that, at the end of the day, there isn’t a ton here. The book essentially outlines his first homosexual experiences and the deep chasm of pain that separates (and unites) him and his mother and grandmother. There is little of his emergence as a poet, and little insight into how his art emerged.

Which is, of course, fine: at the end of the day, it only means I will eagerly await his second memoir. In the meantime, the language of this and of his poetry will remain with me.

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