tachyondecay's reviews
2026 reviews

Wow, has it really been eight years since I read The Measure of All Things, by Ken Adler? It doesn’t feel that long. Referenced in Beyond Measure, that book satisfied my curiosity regarding the origins of the metre. I love history of science. In this book, James Vincent takes the story wider and further, investigating the origins of measurement and metrology (the science of measurement). It’s nerdy as all get out, but if that is your jam, then you’re in for a good time.

As with most such books, this one follows a loosely chronological structure. Starting in Mesopotamia and ancient Egypt, Vincent traces some of the earliest evidence of consistent units of measurement. He links units to their uses. Some of these are obvious—like facilitating trade—but as the book progresses, he addresses less obvious, less comfortable historical facts, such as metrology’s connections to colonization and eugenics. The book concludes where it starts, with Vincent’s journey to Paris to attend the celebration of the official redefinition of the kilogram and retirement of Le Grand K. In this way, the book lives up to its subtle of The Hidden History of Measurement from Cubits to Quantum Constants.

We take our existing measurements for granted. By “we” I mean everyone currently alive; however, I should especially carve out millennials like myself who grew up long after metricization (here in Canada), decimalization in places like the UK, etc. (Though, to be real for a moment, Canada’s commitment culturally to the metric system has always been suspect: I still bake in Fahrenheit, talk about my height in feet and inches, and quantify my weight in pounds, at least informally.) I’ve never in my lifetime gone through a serious upheaval or change in standards of measurement. So it can be a little tough to imagine, and for some even to conceive, that such shifts must have occurred in history. There was a time before the metre. There was a time before real measurement. Yeah. Wow.

The earliest parts of this book are also helpful in belying the stereotype that ancient cultures were unsophisticated. Vincent testifies to the impressive work Egyptians put into measuring the depth of the Nile, constructing entire stone structures for this purpose. The feats of engineering these civilizations went to just to measure things properly, even if these measurements were often linked to religion, are marvelous. In contrast, as soon as Vincent transitions into talking about the absolute free-for-all that was medieval England, all I can do is shake my head. Britain, what were you even doing with your life? Things get better with the Enlightenment, of course, though the chaotic birth of the metric system amid the French Revolution and Napoleonic era remains a wild tale.

For me, the last chapters were the most fulfilling and interesting. Vincent discusses how land survey was vital to the American colonization of Indigenous lands, and of course a land survey needs reliable, standard measurements. This part of the book reminded me a bit of How to Hide an Empire: I greatly appreciate books about colonialism that focus on the immense bureaucracies set up to support it. Often we discuss colonialism as a philosophy or force in the world, but it’s important too that we remember it’s a system, created by humans and executed not just by armies but by everyday employees (like myself, as a teacher) just doing what their policies and procedures lay out for them.

Similarly, I don’t know if I was aware that Galton, father of eugenics, also invented regression! I knew of the connections around eugenics, race science, and the obsession with measurement as a way of understanding human fitness at the end of the nineteenth century. Nevertheless, Vincent admirably illustrates why the statistical techniques Galton developed were so seductive and seemed to support the terrible idea of eugenics. It’s a compelling parable about the dangers of following science where one thinks it leads without stopping to interrogate the human biases that lead an investigator down that path.

Finally, Vincent ponders how the elevation of metrology to a science so exacting as to rely on quantum mechanics for its definitions might have also made it less knowable as a result. For the majority of history, he points out, the quest has been to make it easier for anyone to independently verify a measurement standard. The original intention of defining the metre relative to dimensions of the Earth was so that someone else could, theoretically, verify the metre’s length through their own measuring and calculating. Now one needs atomic clocks and other instruments, not to mention a firm grasp of subatomic particle theory, in order to do that. To be clear, Vincent isn’t trying to criticize or condemn the modern metre. If anything, this level of precision is beyond commendable. But I think it’s an interesting and useful observation nonetheless.

All in all, Beyond Measure’s thesis is that humanity’s quest for more precise, more consistent measurement has often been a boon to our societies, but it has also always been exploited as a tool for political wrangling and control. Measurement is not an objective activity. This is ironic given our tendency to view quantitative variables are more reliable than qualitative ones. However, this book firmly establishes that metrology has always altered its flow in response to the politics of the day. Like any broad survey of history, it cannot do any of these topics justice—that’s what more narrowly scoped books are for—but it presents its broad ideas clearly. I learned a lot.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

New Kate Quinn just dropped? Um, yes please. The Briar Club is yet another historical installment in Quinn’s quest to tell the stories of women as they live through and participate in parts of history usually relegated to the heroics of men. In this novel—standalone from the others, though with some notable, subtle connections to reward her longstanding readers—Quinn weaves together the complicated narratives of six women living in a boardinghouse in Washington, D.C., at the height of the Korean War and the Red Scare. Accurately billed as a novel of female friendship, The Briar Club is so, so much more. It’s a testament to the narrative prowess of Quinn herself, as well as the diverse and sometimes erased lives of women of this era.

The Briar Club is told through a rather intriguing frame story. It’s Thanksgiving 1954, and Briarwood House itself comes alive and provides the third-person perspective as police arrive to take charge of a murder scene. After a quick scene in 1954, she whisks us back across the previous three years, starting with the arrival of Grace March at Briarwood House and the inception of the eponymous Thursday night dinner club. Grace’s subtle yet inexorable presence, kindness, and penchant for meddling upends the lives of the women (and young man, Pete) in Briarwood House. Each chapter, punctuated by the frame story, unspools the backstory of one of these intriguing women: Nora, courted by the scion of organized crime; Fliss, a young and exhausted mother separated from her husband by his Army service; Reka, a refugee who longs for the more sophisticated art world of her previous life; Bea, a baseball player reluctant to accept the end of her glory days; and Arlene, who has bought into the myth of the good housewife and the obedient, anti-Communist American.

The frame story is intriguing for two reasons. First, as mentioned, the house is ascribed a kind of sentience. I wasn’t expecting this from historical fiction; it’s a sentimental conceit that Quinn avoids taking too far. In the end, I was definitely on Briarwood House’s side.

The second reason the frame story matters is because of how Quinn conceals the identity of the murder victim (not to mention the murderer) for most of the book. Each brief chapter of the frame story reveals one or two salient details, while also revealing one or two other characters are still alive. You’re left wondering, “Is Bea the victim? Is Grace? Who’s dead?” It’s a really compelling mystery.

Each woman’s story is equally well told. As with any book with an ensemble cast, I always miss whoever was the previous centre of attention. Fortunately, Quinn manages to make each woman just so damn interesting. We often talk of there being no single experience of being a woman, and that is borne out here. These women are more or less feminist, more or less athletic, more or less queer. Some of the have lived long, embattled lives; others are younger, just embarking on the adventure of adulthood.

Quinn also captures the bite of fascism that crept into 1950s America through the advent of McCarthyism. From the respectability politics of Nora’s job to the ultimate secret of Grace’s past, fear of Communism permeated the working- and middle-class American experience.

But what confirms The Briar Club as one of my favourites of Quinn’s novels yet? Put simply, it’s the theme: kindness brings people together. Grace exemplifies this. Her well-meaning meddling, her kindness towards her fellow borders, Pete, Lina, and others, makes the world better. It’s an ideal I agreed with prior to reading (even though I’m not as extroverted as Grace and won’t be meddling in others’ lives any time soon). Reading this in 2024, as fascism rears its head again in the United States, I can’t help but feel … hope? Hope that as long as we find community in each other, we can get through the depredations of our day.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Often it takes a lifetime to figure out who we are. Although internet culture has helped spread a wider array of labels to help people articulate their gender, sexuality, spirituality, and other aspects of identity, that doesn’t mean it’s always easy to find the right labels or try them out. Life is trial and error—a lot of trial and error. The Space Ace of Mangleby Flat is a challenging read that bears this out. Larre Bildeston weaves a compassionate but not always easy story about a man who doesn’t understand why he can’t find his place. I received a copy in exchange for a review.

Sam Dennon has always been a bit … different. After a sheltered boyhood in the remote Mangleby Flat, he moves to the big city, and eventually in adulthood ends up in Wellington, Aotearoa, cofounder of an architecture firm with his ex-wife. Sam is brilliant, loves space and architecture, but he has developed an idea of himself as a loner. He was never quite able to get as enthusiastic about sexual intimacy with his wife, Lisa, as she wanted—hence their split. Now Sam is getting closer with Reina, a trans woman he meets through tennis. The two of them become good friends, yet Reina clearly wants their relationship to be more physically intimate—and Sam isn’t sure he can acquiesce. Deep down, as he flashes back to his childhood, he wonders how broken he is, and why.

So it’s not a spoiler, since it is in the title and also fairly obvious if you know the signs: Sam is asexual. He just doesn’t know this word fits his experience and instead sees himself as broken. This is a common occurrence, sadly, among ace people. It’s not one I’ve had myself (though I have my days where society makes me feel like I’m not enough…), but that doesn’t make it any less real for the ace people who experience it. Sam’s attitude, his despondency, and his anxiety (compounded by being autistic as well), mean he struggles to find definitions and labels for himself that are affirming and uplifting. Instead, he focuses on what he perceives to be his deficits.

This is a difficult book to read. It’s sad, watching Sam feel so broken and unfulfilled. The story gets dark at times. I kept wanting to yell at Sam, help him discover his identity sooner, help him reconcile with people he has distanced himself from. But that’s kind of the point. As much as I want ace characters who are joyous, who are aware of their sexuality from a young age, I have to recognize that a lot of older aces have gone through what Sam goes through. And if you’re allo and reading this, you will get a glimpse of how difficult it can be to exist in a society that assumes everyone will pair off, have and want to have sex, and understand how all of that works. I’m allistic, so I can’t speak to the portrayal of Sam’s autism, but it’s good to have this dual representation.

All things considered, I really liked the supporting cast. Reina is a delight. Lisa is a wonderfully understanding and supportive ex-wife. Mick, Jan, and the other players in Sam’s past form a constellation of characters who helped make him who he is. Bildeston sets up a few mysteries, teases them out, before resolving them gradually in the final act.

I recommend this book for ace people or autistic people looking for main characters like them, with the caveat to beware content warnings (including suicide ideation and incest). I recommend this book for allo people or allistic people who are challenging themselves to learn more about ace and autistic experiences through fiction. Finally, I recommend this book for anyone who is interested in a layered story set in Australia and Aotearoa with an emphasis on found family, communication, boundaries, and lifelong learning.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

As is tradition, let us begin by admiring the incredible angled-title cover art on this book! Then, as is tradition, let me remark upon how I’ve somehow let an egregious span of time elapse (six years?? Really, Kara??) before finally finishing this trilogy. Guardian is a more-than-sufficient conclusion to the series A.J. Hartley started in Steeplejack. This is a beautiful young-adult fantasy series that offers a primer on resisting fascism and bigotry along with a fun and intense mystery.

Anglet Sutong, or Ang to her friends, is now in the employ of Josiah Willinghouse. But when Josiah is arrested for the murder of the Prime Minister of Bar-Selehm, Ang is on a race against time to clear his name. If not, Josiah will be executed. Even more devastating, the new prime minister will have no opposition to his sweeping reforms that enshrine apartheid, white supremacy, and other racist and sexist discrimination in law.

Reading this book literally as the United States reelects a fascist president is, uh, a trip. The themes of Guardian have never felt more necessary or urgent. This book has so much to offer the reader in terms of a holistic understanding of how fascism rises in a so-called democratic nation and what to do about it.

Let’s start with how Hartley uses Dahlia’s character to interrogate white privilege and class privilege. Now, it’s true that the Willinghouses are technically mixed race, and this comes up later in the book. Nevertheless, Dahlia is essentially white passing, especially next to Ang. Her insular upbringing and her family’s wealth mean that, for all her good intentions, she doesn’t quite understand the struggles Ang and fellow Lani or Black citizens have gone through. Heck, Ang has similar issues sometimes with her fellow Lani since her new situation developed, or understanding the tribespeople around Bar-Selehm or Black activists and journalists like Sureyna. Hartley does a great job portraying the diversity of voices present in resistance movements, reminding us that resistance is not monolithic, and disagreement and conflict will happen.

As the mystery around the prime minister’s murder deepens, Ang must confront her assumptions about people she thought she knew. She also has to reconcile herself with losing people along the way: not everyone in a resistance movement survives.

But perhaps the most prescient and difficult aspect of this novel is the way a newly empowered fascist leader solidifies their grasp so quickly. Suspension of free elections. Redistricting. Restricting employment and free movement. The willing compliance of people in positions of power, like in law enforcement. Bar-Selehm has always had echoes of South Africa in it, but Hartley is clearly channelling a lot of twentieth-century countries that slid from democracy to dictatorship or despotism. The foreign interference angle is just another part that makes this book feel oddly appropriate for our times.

I also really enjoyed the ending, and in particular where Hartley leaves things for Ang and Dahlia. My little heart just went “aww.” My only complaint is I wish this had been developed more in the second book, so that we could see more payoff here! Maybe we’ll get to come back to Bar-Selehm one day, check in on the next generation, and see an older Ang and Dahlia and the life they’ve built….

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Second Review: November 2024

I recently realized I was behind on the latest Laundry Files novels, and when Blackwell’s had a big sale, I picked up all the ones I didn’t already own. Before I dive into the new ones, however, I’ve decided to reread, starting right back at the beginning.

I actually really like my first review, below, from eleven years ago. I am pleased to see The Atrocity Archives, for the most part, holds up. Despite all the world has gone through in the past decade—to the point where Stross himself lamented being able to write more of these novels—the early 2000s world of this book still feels recognizable. It’s interesting reading it now that it is twenty years old, and sure, some of the technology feels dated. However, the pathos and characterization doesn’t feel that way.

 

First Review: September 2013
This might be one of my favourite Charles Stross books. I think it’s the effortless blend of bureaucratic humour and horror, and the slight homages to spy fiction, that makes 

The Atrocity Archives so appealing. It’s not just any one thing, and it isn’t too much of any of these things. There are plenty of ways to play the "secret government agency that fights the supernatural" angle, and plenty of them are valid. Stross has gone the tongue-in-cheek, cryptopunk route, and his particular brand of relentless, sardonic humour fits perfectly with this style.

The Atrocity Archives speaks to me as a math geek. All the magic in this book is arguably sufficiently advanced science, in the sense that it’s done using math—incredibly complex math. Turing cracked the P=NP problem, and in so doing realized it gave access to other universes. Many of these infinite universes are inhabited by beings like or unlike us—demons and spirits and Lovecraftian Old Ones. And it’s not just what Stross creates; it’s how he describes it: “the many-angled ones who live at the bottom of the Mandelbrot set”. He seamlessly integrates math jargon into the conversation, never pausing to explain the lesser terms (he does give a bit of a crash course to things like the Turing problem in a little exposition). I can’t speak for how the mathematically uninitiated will feel about this—I can only hope that the patter will also be seamless, if slightly less explicable—a gentle background noise that eases on into the atmosphere Stross is trying to create.

That atmosphere is probably familiar to readers of spy fiction, particularly the over-the-top stories of Fleming and his ilk, for whom the perfect spy is the suave and sophisticated but unrealistically flashy James Bond or lookalike. The agents of the Laundry face global, perhaps even universal, annihilation on a regular basis. Standing toe-to-toe with such unimaginable horror, the only thing one can do is shrug and laugh. It’s the Dr. Strangelove, or Catch-22, appeal to absurdity. Stross reinforces this with many allusions to the Cold War and its lasting effects on the Laundry’s tangled org chart and resources.

The Laundry itself is as much a bastion of bureaucracy as it is badassery. Prior to being approved for fieldwork, Bob is little more than a glorified IT technician, running madly around the office trying to keep ancient servers running. His superiors harass him non-stop over missing paperwork; this continues even after he becomes a field agent and begins going on classified operations. Bob doesn’t like putting up with this, and he occasionally manages to wiggle out of it, but the bureaucrats always seem to get the last laugh. (Stross expounds further on that last idea in The Concrete Jungle, a sequel novella that is included in this edition of the book.)

So he’s sold me on the setting. The main character is slightly more generic than I might like for a protagonist. But Bob did grow on me—partly, I think, because he isn’t uber-competent, and his intuitive leaps of brilliance always make sense, thanks to sensible foreshadowing. For example, there is one point near the climax of the book where he needs to quickly construct a charm that will render him invisible to some bad guys. Earlier in the book, we established such a charm exists and how it’s made—and, conveniently, Bob had the principal ingredient on his person for an entirely unrelated reason. It all comes together nicely, in a way that signals tight writing and editing that I always appreciate seeing.

I’ll admit to getting a bit lost with the plot a few times. Stross draws on obscure points of history and nuances of politics that occasionally escape my grasp (especially when reading this on a transatlantic flight when I should be sleeping but can’t). This doesn’t mar my enjoyment of the story, though; the fun of the action and tone of Bob’s narration is quite enough to see my through to the end. I suspect I’m also just lazy and used to authors who feel the need to explain every detail to the reader, whereas Stross decides to leave the bigger picture disassembled and let the reader put it together—or not—at their own pace and leisure.

The Atrocity Archives is the first in a fun series. It’s James Bond meets Dilbert or Douglas Coupland, a story where black humour screens the oppressive knowledge of all the immensely powerful things that go bump in the night. It teeters on the yawning chasm of despair, its appeal to absurdity only just holding it back—and that powerful juxtaposition of light and dark tones creates a story worth reading and discussing.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Ever since I discovered Martha Wells also writes fantasy, I’ve been dying to read more of her back catalogue. Well, clearly Tor Books is reading my reviews and my reviews only because this year they are reissuing Wheel of the Infinite, first published in 2000. Thanks to Tor and NetGalley for the eARC.

Maskelle is (was?) the Voice of the Adversary, but when we meet her, she’s essentially a mendicant nun. Rian is a swordsman in exile from his country. The two meet on the road and arrive in the capital of the Celestial Empire. Maskelle hangs out with the spiritual leader of the empire, her boss, and tries to help him solve a mystery that could threaten literally all of existence. Rian tries to make sure Maskelle won’t get killed. There’s intrigue and backstabbing and an evil puppet.

I’m being glib but only because I’m tired tonight, and summarizing the plot faithfully would take more energy than I have. Wheel of the Infinite is definitely a nineties fantasy through and through. From narrative structure to dialogue style to the epic stakes, this is a fun blast from the past. It’s good nineties fantasy, mind you, fairly unproblematic overall, certainly holds up much better than, say, The Wayfarer Redemption….

Like her books before and since, Wells is great at not hitting us over the head with exposition. Rian basically exists to be the guy Maskelle explains things to, but we only ever get just enough explanation to get on to the action sequences. Whether it’s the nature of the Adversary, what it means to be a Voice, or why Maskelle is down bad, Wells plays all her cards close to her chest. Even the eponymous Wheel (not to be confused with that other eponymous Wheel [of Time]) takes some time to come into focus.

In the same way, the plot itself is a slow build. We start outside the city, see Maskelle and Rian meet as the former travels with a foreign acting troupe, and then the actual mystery gets introduced. Maskelle is an interesting protagonist, since she is clearly powerful and proximal to power, yet her disgraced status means she can’t wield all of her power in an effective way. She’s very flawed and human; she’s older than your typical female protagonist in fantasy, which is great; and she gets to have uncomplicated sex and isn’t punished for it!

Rian is a more straightforward character, to the point where he’s barely more than an archetype. That might be uncharitable. He’s just not that complex. He’s heroic but slightly flawed. Wronged by the people he once trusted. Wants to protect the people around him, like Maskelle. Generally a decent dude.

All in all, Wheel of the Infinite is a good time. Like Rian, it’s not all that complex. But a simple narrative is not a bad one. A story well told is worth reading. I can see the seeds in here of the writer Wells has become: from the intriguing magic/religion system, to Maskelle’s grey morality, to the existential threats that lurk in the deepest recesses of the plot. There are shades of Le Guin here, in a good way.

This is well worth picking up if, like me, you are eager to experience more of Wells’s oeuvre. So long as you keep in mind its age, you’ll while away an afternoon or evening or two with this fulfilling yarn.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Three years ago I read The Jasmine Throne, gave it three stars, and said I might read the sequel. Then that sequel, The Oleander Sword, got a four-star rating and an even better review. Now the conclusion, The Lotus Empire is out, and … y’all, this is top-shelf fantasy. Like, we’re talking one of the best fantasy novels I’ve read this year, and a stunning conclusion to The Burning Kingdoms trilogy. Tasha Suri has outdone herself. Thank you to Orbit and NetGalley for an eARC.

No spoilers for this book but spoilers for the first two!

Malini is now the empress of Parijatdvipa, but at what cost? The stability of her throne is tenuous. From within, the priesthood threatens to withdraw their support if she doesn’t cast herself on the pyre to burn for the nameless god. From without, the now-ascendant yaksa have isolated Ahiranya and, through Priya, are orchestrating the return of their mother Mani Ara to usher in a new Age of Flowers. Enemies to lovers to enemies again, Malini and Priya each fight for the survival of their people despite being unable to rely on the power they have accrued in the past year or so.

The world Suri has created here is so lush and fascinating. As I ruminated in my review of The Burning God, I think mainstream fantasy’s Eurocentrism has been to the genre’s detriment. What Suri has done here feels extremely fresh not just because she is drawing from a slightly different mythological inspiration but because she’s also challenging more colonial ideas about storytelling. You still have empires and war and conquest. But we don’t have the same obsession with heroes and villains. Suri complicates our understanding of what it means to be a protagonist in a very satisfying way. Wow.

Picking up where The Oleander Sword left off, The Lotus Empire pits Priya and Malini against one another. I was so hesitant to say good things about their romance in the first two books because it just isn’t my thing. For some reason, however, this book has sold me on their love story. Their tragic, doomed, star-crossed love story. I am obsessed. Suri managed to touch this aromantic gal’s heart, and I want these two to live happily ever after even though I knew, as the story unfolded, how unlikely such an ending would be. Every scene with the two of them—and all the scenes where they are apart—drips with alluring chemistry and burning desire in a way that does not disappoint. Wow.

Similarly, Suri spins a compelling story of competing deities and the price of power. Malini and Priya (and don’t forget Bhumika!) have sacrificed so much for the power they wield. They sacrifice even more in this book. I remarked in my review of The Jasmine Throne on the presence of the female characters in this series, how they are not only high-profile but how many there are in positions of power, and that is doubly true here. Suri exemplifies how you can have “strong” female characters whose strength manifests in diverse ways. Some are warriors, some are leaders, some are sages, some are … just existing. Just grandmothers and people trying to survive in this war-torn country. Wow.

The yaksa suck, the nameless god seems to suck—there is this underlying sinister aura that surrounds the deities who seem to populate the void behind this world. Inhuman yet powerful creatures are no one’s friend, but if you are willing to pay the price, you can harness their power to your ends. That’s the message here. Pay to play and beware what you reap. Having thrown her lot in with the yaksa out of fear of reprisal against Malini, Priya now comes to rue her hollowing out at the hands of Mani Ara. Her crisis of faith is such a great parallel to Malini’s complete lack of faith.

The trajectory of this trilogy has always been one of two women coming together, travelling in parallel, and then realizing they are indeed on opposite sides of an immense conflict. How could they possibly reconcile when they are fighting for the opposite outcome? I could see there was a third path coming from at least the middle of the book, but I really had no idea how Suri could achieve it in a way that didn’t feel cheap. I don’t want to spoil anything, so all I am going to say is that Tasha Suri pulls it off. Seriously, this is one of the most intense and satisfying endings to a trilogy I’ve seen in a while. I love it.

I loved this book. I just want to make this clear, want to sing its praises, for a few reasons. First, authors of colour don’t get enough support. Second, my opinion of this trilogy has steadily improved from the first book. Indeed, I recently read Suri’s debut novel, Empire of Sand, and it’s stunning to see the arc of her skills as a storyteller grow from that book to this one. Third, I struggled at first to get back into this series (it had been two years since I read the last book). If you had asked me for my prediction when I first started The Lotus Empire, I probably would have said the book would get three or four stars, that I was reading it to complete the trilogy. Not so now.

This book is the perfect blending of romance and tragedy and epic fantasy. Although it could stand on its own, it’s worth your time to go read the first two books so you get the maximum emotional payoff (and devastation) when you read this one. The Lotus Empire does not come to play, and it has cemented Suri in my personal canon of fantasy authors to watch.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

I’ve been thinking a lot about aging and mortality lately. I’m only thirty-five, but as I head into this next phase of my life and ponder what I want from it, I find myself focusing a lot on what life will be like when I am much older. Lifers is a thought experiment asking us to imagine what would happen if we suddenly had even more time. In a world where the richest are obsessed with not aging, this book is an interesting what-if story. Keith G. McWalter has put a lot of time into exploring one possible vision of what our world might be like if life extension becomes widespread. I received a copy in exchange for a review.

In the mid-twenty-first century, old people stop dying. Governments eventually figure out this “Methuselah plague” is contagious, a gene therapy packaged in a retrovirus that improves our cellular repair mechanisms. The ultra-aged—people near or over the centenarian mark—are pejoratively called Lifers by some. If you live in a country with an aging population, like here in Canada, you can probably see where this is going: as countries start to have millions of people who have outlived their retirement funds, the population pyramid practically collapses from how top-heavy it is. The story follows a small, interwoven cast of characters, most of them Lifers, as they adjust to and try to build the new world.

At first I could not get into Lifers. The chapters bounced around from character to character, subplot to subplot. McWalter’s writing style at first was very dull and obvious, and there were some typical “men writing women” discrepancies in how he described male versus female characters…. His perspective, too, is a very American one—the book is mostly set in the US and focuses on the American politics around the Lifer issue, with a heavy focus on a libertarian, pioneer-style answer to the problem. And most of these issues don’t really disappear as the book goes on.

But it did, to my surprise, start to win me over.

As the narrative coalesces around a couple of characters, particularly the married Lifer couple Dan and Marion, I began to get drawn into the emotional stakes of the political conflict at the heart of the plot. Because McWalter is absolutely right about one thing: in our current society, which already treats elderly people and poor people very poorly, a Lifer situation would be horrific and intractable. But what do you do? For all my complaints about style, McWalter really does outline the problem and show some scarily realistic possible responses to it.

The ending of the book is really poignant. I won’t spoil anything, but I really loved seeing the dynamic between Dan and Marion. I was a little dissatisfied with what happens with Claire, simply because McWalter spends so much time earlier in the novel establishing her deep-seated philosophical perspective on the Lifer issue. Her apparent change of heart is just never addressed; I guess we are supposed to infer it’s a consequence of what happens to her near the climax of the book, but it still feels odd the book never acknowledges her complete one-eighty?

Alas, in the grand scheme, Lifers still very much has that too-clean feel of someone dipping their toes into speculative fiction without fully embracing what science fiction as a genre has to offer. McWalter’s narration is dry and matter-of-fact, and despite Dan and Marion growing on me by the end, overall the characters are all kind of cardboardy and allegorical. They exist to be author avatars, to have debates and help McWalter spool out the thought experiment. In this respect it reminds me a lot of Neal Stephenson’s work, especially his more recent stuff. It’s not bad per se, but it isn’t the kind of science fiction into which I like to sink my teeth.

Lifers is a story with an interesting premise and some endearing moments. While I won’t get excited about it, I’m also happy to have read it, to have been pushed to think about this a little more. Deeply saturated science-fiction fans like me probably won’t see much going on here, but people who prefer lighter spec-fic fare will probably find a lot more here to enjoy.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Last year I reviewed the internet’s favourite ace dad’s book I Am Ace: Advice on Living Your Best Asexual Life. Now, Cody Daigle-Orians is back with The Ace and Aro Relationship Guide: Making It Work in Friendship, Love, and Sex. While both books are aimed at aspec readers, this latter is a more focused and broader exploration of the nature of relationships—of all kinds—as an acespec or arospec person. Jessica Kingsley Publishers has been killing it putting out so many awesome books about being asexual and aromantic—check out my asexuality bookshelf for more. I received an eARC in exchange for a review, and I read this book during Ace Week!

As many of you already know, I am both asexual and aromantic. I’ve known this about myself for a long time and found both labels at different points in my twenties. Personally, my experience with discovering and navigating my sexuality has not been traumatic. Aside from a few awkward attempts at asking people out in high school, romance and sex just never happened for me, and I have always been happy with that. In fact, when I was initially offered a copy of this book, I debated whether to read it. My first impression was that this book is aimed at ace people who want to find a romantic partner, or vice versa, aro people looking for a committed relationship without the romance angle. Neither of those things describe me—I learned from this book that I am nonamorous, i.e., I don’t desire a single, central relationship in my life and instead find fulfillment through a decentralized network of various relationships.

So I couldn’t have been more wrong: this is a book for all aspec people. Whether you are aroace like me, alloromantic asexual, allosexual aromantic, or some form of demi or grey or whatever other labels work for you, The Ace and Aro Relationship Guide has got you covered.

And let’s talk about labels for a moment. This always seems to come up when we start discussing any type of queer identity beyond the basic Neapolitan ice cream flavours of gay or straight. Yeah, there a lot of labels and microlabels out there, and look, I get it—it can feel overwhelming. And yeah, I was a little bored during parts of this book because Daigle-Orians covers labels and ideas that are familiar to me, as an extremely online queer person. I know all about sex-favourable vs sex-averse (me) versus sex-repulsed. But hey, maybe someone—especially younger someones in their teens and twenties, who are the primary target here—needs to learn those terms. Like I said earlier, I learned about nonamory from this book and that it applies to me, and that is pretty damn cool.

Indeed, if I have a criticism of this book, it’s that it reads more like a serial of wiki entries than an actual “guide” of sorts. I don’t know what the print version looks like, but the ebook would benefit from a lot of hyperlinking, and I’d love to see a print version with callout bubbles saying, “For more on this, go to page….” The content here is perhaps more suited to a nonlinear form, like a wiki, rather than a book. Yet here we are.

On the bright side, the book’s organization is logical and extremely helpful. It’s divided into two broad parts: “The Relationship Toolkit” and “The Relationship Workshop.” Daigle-Orians constructs a framework around the idea of an “ANKOP relationship” (“a new kind of perfect”) where we redefine our expectations of the conditions required for a relationship to be valid, healthy, and loving. That is, their thesis here is that relationships need neither sex nor romance to be valid. In the first part, they explore the tools we need to be successful in any relationship: an understanding of boundaries and consent, communication, trust, etc. In the second part, each chapter applies these ideas to a different kind of relationship: platonic, sexual, romantic, etc. Daigle-Orians also does their best to acknowledge how the lines between these kinds of relationships blur, how some relationships don’t fit neatly into boxes, etc.

Like many a more reference-oriented work, this organization lets you dip in and out—it’s not meant to be read linearly like I stubbornly do with all books of this type. So you could pick up this guide just for a couple of chapters. But if you read it all the way through, of course, you also get to see the themes Daigle-Orians develops and the connections made throughout the chapters.

To be frank and vulnerable, this was kind of a healing book for me. Although I haven’t experienced much direct trauma as a result of being aroace, I experience the erasure, the amatonormative pressure, the compulsory sexuality that our society constantly directs at all of us. I nearly broke down playing The Outer Worlds this week because its ace NPC, Parvati, was coming out to me, and the game includes dialogue options that not just allow me to sympathize but actually say, “I am ace too, and I am also aro,” and that was so powerful. Just to be seen and recognized like that, both in terms of Parvati sharing her lived experience but then also getting to assert my own through my player character. Wow.

In the same way, The Ace and Aro Relationship Guide carefully and compassionately acknowledges the hurt and pain that often comes from being aspec in an allonormative, amatonormative world. Perhaps more significantly, it does this in a constructive way. The ANKOP framework is here to say, “Look, it doesn’t have to be this way.” And while this book really gets more into the weeds than an allo reader might need, this is the kind of learning allosexual and alloromantic people need to do as well.

So, to sum up: this is a book that made me feel seen and valid as an aroace woman. It introduced me to some new terminology. Even though I feel like I am largely successfully applying the ANKOP ideas in my life already (humblebrag), I got stuff from this book. For a younger reader, for someone just figuring out their sexuality, for people trying to put into words their feelings or desires around connection … yeah, The Ace and Aro Relationship Guide is invaluable. Highly, highly recommend.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Finishing a whole trilogy in less than five months? Must be a new record for me. The Burning God is a hell of an epic conclusion to R.F. Kuang’s Poppy War saga. All I have to say is: George R.R. Martin, eat your fucking heart out. The Red Wedding? Bah. None of the gruesome acts in A Song of Ice and Fire come close to the mayhem and misery inflicted here. This book is dark, we’re talking Frank Miller Batman dark and then some…. It’s only after I finished reading this book that I realized it has been a long time since I had truly read tragic fantasy.

Spoilers for the first two books but not for this one.

Disillusioned by the shattered promises of the Dragon Republic, Rin finds herself fighting once again for a different master: the Southern Coalition. Anchored spiritually by Kitay, Rin now has all the powers of the Phoenix at her command. Yet she still chafes at serving beneath men (and they are always men) who seek to use her while also despising her. Rin soon finds the tables turning, again and again, as power changes hands: she’s up, she’s down, she’s allying herself with former enemies and fighting back against gods and monsters alike. Meanwhile, Nikan burns, and where it isn’t burning, it’s starving.

You know, fantasy fiction is often bloodless.

Seriously. Look at Lord of the Rings. Yes, it features epic battle sequences—against armies of orcs. And while many heroes fall, in the end those who remain get to go back to their quiet families, back to the Shire, or west over the ocean … and they live happily ever after. Or at least for a time. Good triumphs over evil. Right wins the day.

Kuang woke up and chose violence. Literally. This trilogy is the literal rejection of bloodless, clean, fairytale epic fantasy. As I quipped at the top of this review, however, it is also subverts the so-called grimdark tropes of fantasy as written by authors like GRRM. Whereas GRRM would say he writes suffering because it’s “realistic,” the suffering of most of his characters is more sensational and pornographic than it is a consequence of their situations and the world. In contrast, the characters in The Burning God suffer because … well … their lives suck. They’re living under an invasion and a rebellion at the same time, as well as a resurgence of shamanic powers. Every semblance of order and an ordinary life, such as it was even for the peasants, is gone.

I’m reading this book as, in the background of my privileged Canadian life, I bear witness to the genocide in Gaza. So much senseless violence and killing and dispossession of Indigenous land. So many excuses thrown about in our so-called civil discourse to obfuscate these simple facts. The parallels are stark and obvious. The Burning God is the climax of a story about genocide (multiple genocides, in fact) and colonialism. The Hesperians are inspired by Europe and the US, an imperalist and moralistic, missionary-obsessed nation convinced it knows it all. What makes Rin’s war so fantastically hard to prosecute is that she isn’t just fighting a physical army: she’s fighting on multiple fronts, some of them spiritual and geopolitical. And despite her minimal Sinegard training and having Kitay’s super-strategy brain on her side, she just … can’t. She can’t win.

The sheer pressure of the enormity of events, the cruelty at scale and the individual ignominy, is tolerable only because Rin is such a pathetic protagonist. She is so unlikeable, so bitter and prone to lashing out at everything and everyone. (Though, to be fair, almost everyone around her treats her terribly.) It’s not that she’s a bad person; she isn’t evil or villainous. She’s just heinously, almost cartoonishly inept and certainly shouldn’t be the heroine. You know that saying, “Not the hero we deserved, but the hero we needed”? Yeah. Rin is neither of those.

Maybe everyone else realizes this from the first line of the first book, but it took me until now to realize Kuang is writing tragedy. Sorry for being so slow on the uptake. Like I said, I think I’ve been conditioned to see all my fantasy series as epic battles between good and evil where it will look bad for the good guys for a long while but good eventually prevails. I had forgotten—or maybe deliberately avoided—the whole tragic form. But in a way, despite her propensity for genre hopping, Kuang can’t seem to avoid writing tragedy, whether it’s postcolonial AUs or contemporary takedowns of literary fiction and publishing or fantastical reimaginings of twentieth-century China. Kuang seems quite fixated on losing conditions.

And I’m here for it. I’m here for it in a way I didn’t expect to be, because honestly I don’t really enjoy tragedies. I am a comedies gal. Here I am, though, finding pathos in the tragic figure of Fang Runin at the very end of this book because of course it ends exactly the way it should, Kuang giving us the perfect, most heartbreaking, only logical ending we could possibly get. It’s annoying, is what it is, her being this good at writing and choosing to tell us sad stories instead of happy ones. Goddamn her.

I’m getting emotional because an emotional response is the only correct response to The Burning God. This is an emotional, irrational book. It’s about the worst that humans can bring to bear on each other, the absolute failure mode of humanity. That the final moments of the book represent hope—a forlorn, distant, unimaginably bleak form of hope—is less ironic than it is a desperate plea to make all of this chaos and suffering mean something. But that is, in essence, the human condition, is it not? While I won’t go full Hobbes, I can’t help but look around me at the present state of affairs and conclude that a great amount of human experience is suffering at the hands of other humans, yet we keep building, keep talking, keep … going.

This is not a nice book. It has no happy ending. There is no triumph to be had here, only the bitter taste of ashes and defeat. This is a book about annihilation, about how conquest will happen either at the point of a sword (or butt of a gun) or through the arrival of famine-ending grain. But it will happen. The good guys don’t always win. Sometimes there aren’t any good guys; sometimes everyone sucks, but the people who suck slightly more still win. Sometimes your rebel with a cause and her pyromaniac Phoenix aren’t enough.

If you have read the first two books, you deserve to read this one. You owe it to yourself, and you have also brought it upon yourself. I’m not sorry. If you haven’t read the first two books, read them first. Just be prepared for it to get worse, in the best possible sense.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.