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Hello friends ヾ(•ω•`)o I feel like it's been a while! Today I finished Glorious Exploits by Irish author Ferdia Lennon. It turned out to be the perfect book to read after finishing my lectures on the Greek and Persian wars, because it takes place in Syracuse during the Peloponnesian War (I caught that reference to the Athenian silver mines!)

The book is written in a contemporary Irish dialect, which put a lot of reviewers off. However, I think it works well for making the language accessible and readable to a modern audience in the sense that reading it, we can immediately tell who is likely educated, who is not, who is being casual, who is being disingenuous, etc. As long as you're prepared for it, I don't think it causes much disruption.

The audiobook is narrated by the author himself, which was fun. It's always great to hear an author's own take on their work. For instance, the way Lampo says "good morning," both to the Spartan guards and the Athenian prisoners of war at the start of the book. This could have been a nothing exchange, but the obnoxious way Lennon says that "good morning" tells us almost right away that Lampo is a guy who delights in being a thorn in others' sides and a guy who thinks he's hilarious. 

The plot of the story is simple: Gelon, Lampo's childhood best friend, decides they're going to put on a Euripides play with the Athenian prisoners, because the Athenians are the only ones who know enough of the script to pull it off. 

That's all. The story moves at a leisurely pace, with Lampo and Gelon working through various technical snags in this plan and trying to garner support in Syracuse for the idea (there's not much). 

I think Lennon excels at showing characters who are sometimes disappointingly realistic. Gelon and Lampo are not heroes. They are not conscientious objectors to the war. They are not activists against the obvious abuse the Athenian prisoners of war are going through. They're just two poor dudes put out of work by the war, who sort of maybe kind of thing it's not the greatest thing in the world for the Athenians to be tortured or starved to death and possibly someone might want to do something about that, at some point. 

Similarly, the Athenians were undoubtedly the aggressors in the war. They invaded Sicily, they burned other villages on the island to the ground, they fully intended to conquer Syracuse. They allegedly killed Syracusans who had already surrendered. But the book asks, when is enough enough? When have they been punished enough? When have the Syracusans gone from victims seeking justice to perpetrators seeking vengeance? 

Lampo himself, the main protagonist, is a prime mixed bag. His humorous nature makes him come off a bit harmless, but he can be wildly insensitive, even mean, even to people he likes. He can swing rapidly from mood to mood. He's often focused on himself and his insecurities can make him lash out or give up too easily. And yet, it's Lampo, not Gelon, who has the first confrontation with Bitton, a man who roams the quarries beating Athenian prisoners of war to death at random to soothe his grief for his son who died in the war. It's Lampo who inserts himself between Bitton and some Athenian strangers to try to talk the man down. And it's Lampo who urges action at the secondary climax, Lampo who sets that entire plot point in motion when no one else in Syracuse seems to give a shit.

In a way that feels characteristic of Irish tales, Glorious Exploits does not shy away from the gross, unglamorous reality of its story and its characters. It doesn't try to dress anyone up in shining armor or sacrifice the dull reality for a romantic sheen. Yet in the muck and the mire, a shocking gleam of poetry emerges. The play starts off as a lark for Lampo, a silly, ridiculous thing he's doing to humor his melancholy friend, but gradually, it becomes important. And as it becomes important to him, it becomes important to the reader. The plot is slow, and a reader may find themselves wondering why they're bothering with all this--but for me, the later two climaxes of the book hit like gut punches.

I'm still chewing this one over, but I enjoyed it and I would read more from this author. It's not a story that will shock and wow you upfront, but the heart of it really hits if you stick with it.

The second book I finished this weekend was Earthlings by Sakyaka Murata, translated from Japanese by Ginny Takemori. This book is about Natsuki, a girl who's always felt she doesn't quite belong with humans. This has been book #16 from the "Women in Translation" rec list.

I've struggled a lot with what to say about this book, or whether to say anything at all. First, as many other reviews note, the book description does not in any way prepare you for the trigger warnings that may apply, so if you have no-gos for reading, do have a look around for a list before you crack this one open. 

There are a lot of things you could take away from this book. The lifelong impact of childhood sexual abuse. The damage of a child having no safe adult to confide in. The pain of feeling alienated from society. The pain caused by strict social expectations that leave no room for individuals to pursue other modes of living. The danger that refusing to allow deviations from the "norm" will lead individuals incapable of conforming to that norm to reject society altogether. The idea that rejecting smaller social rules eventually leads to complete anarchy and amorality. The suffocating impact of the absence of privacy and the extremes to which it may drive people.

It is an exploration of the harm done, intentionally and unintentionally, to those who don't "fit" into the mold of society. How much of it is reality and how much of it is Natsuki's imagination is also up to the reader.

It's also a book about interrogating taboos, which leads to the trigger warning above. Natsuki's choice not to marry or have children is in and of itself, violating a taboo of her culture. Her feeling that violating this taboo does no harm to her or anyone else naturally leads to questioning other taboos, and you can't write a book about questioning taboos and then say "but not that taboo, that's too taboo!" so the book does go some dark places as Natsuki and her companions ask themselves if there's anything rational in refraining from theft, murder, and assault. 

The translation is well done, particularly in dealing with a number of sensitive subjects.

I'm not sure what I ultimately take away from Earthlings. Perhaps how much damage societal rejection has on a person's psyche and the harms that can spawn from that. We are, in the end, social creatures. Feeling from a young age that you don't belong is bound to have detrimental developmental impacts.

If Mexican Gothic left you craving more South American fantasy horror, Our Share of Night by Mariana Enriquez of Argentina (translated from Spanish by Megan McDowell) has you covered. This is a family epic intertwined with the dark machinations of a macabre cult and its impact. It's also a splendid allegory for the evils of colonialism and generational trauma. This book was #15 from the "Women in Translation" rec list.

The book begins with Juan, a powerful but ill man who acts as a "medium" for the cult to commune with its dark god. Juan, struggling with the health of his defective heart, the wear-and-tear of years as the medium, and the grief and rage of his wife's recent death (he suspects, at the orders of the cult he serves) is desperate to keep his son Gaspar from stepping into his shoes, as the cult wants. Juan's opening segment of the book is about his efforts to protect Gaspar.

From there, the book branches off into other perspectives which give background to both the cult and the family. This is a great way of giving us a holistic and generational view of the cult, but it does drag occasionally. Gaspar's sections--in his childhood and then later in his teens/young adulthood--together make up the majority of the book, and while enjoyable, do amble off into great detail about his and his friends' day-to-day lives, such that I did wonder sometimes when we were getting back to the plot. I don't like to cite pacing issues, because I think that gets thrown around a lot whenever someone didn't vibe with a book, but the drawn-out length of these quotidian sections doesn't fit well with how quickly the climax of the book passes and is wrapped up. I would have liked to have spent less time with Gaspar at soccer games and more on his plans for addressing the cult.

However, on the whole, the book is a fun, if very dark read. It also serves well as a critique of Argentina's moneyed class and of colonialism in general, and how money sticks with money even across borders. Here, Argentina's wealthy have more in common with English money than with the Argentine lower classes (and that's how they want it). The cult, populated at its upper echelons by the privileged, is an almost literal blight on the land, willing to sacrifice an endless amount of blood, local and otherwise, to beg power off a hungry and unknown supernatural entity.

It brutalizes its mediums, which it often plucks from poverty to wring for power and then discard. Juan was adopted away from his own poor family at six, under the insistence his parents would not be able to pay for the medical care he needed, and he is the least-abused of the cult's line of mediums. As soon as the cult sets their eye on his son, Juan must begin scheming how to keep Gaspar away from them.

Although he acts out of love of his son, Juan is also a deeply flawed person. He is secretive, moody, lies constantly (there is actual gaslighting here) and doesn't hesitate to knock Gaspar around to make him obey. The more he deteriorates--a common problem with all cult mediums--the less human he becomes. Part of this is his work, but much of it is also attributable to years of being used by the cult for its ends and the accumulated emotional trauma. This, of course, is then inflicted on Gaspar through his father's tempers and secrets.

Similarly flawed are the other members of the immediate family. Juan's wife Rosario, despite a better nature than her parents, still supports this cult and is eager for Gaspar to follow in his father's footsteps as a cult medium, in part for the prestige it will bring her as his mother. Gaspar, although far more empathetic and gentle than either of his parents, eventually grows up with his father's temper. Watching him grow from a sweet-natured little boy into the troubled young adult he becomes after years of his father's abuse and neglect is painful, but realistic.

The book is also unexpectedly queer. It's not often a book surprises me with its queerness, because that's usually what landed it on my radar in the first place, but this one did. Juan and Rosario are both bisexual and later in the book we spend some active time in Argentina's queer scene, including during the AIDS crisis in the 1980s. 

The translation was great! It read very naturally, even the dialogue, and it never felt stilted or awkward in its phrasing.

An ambitious novel that for the most part, pulls off what it's trying to do. As mentioned, I wish the ending had gotten more room to breathe, and I would not have minded this coming at the cost of some of the middle bits of navel-gazing, but I still felt the story was satisfying. 

Earlier this week I finished another commute audiobook, Looking for Smoke by K.A. Cobell. This is a crime thriller/murder mystery that takes place on the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. When a teenage girl is found strangled at the Indian Days summer powwow, four of her classmates become the prime suspects in her murder. 

I would say this is a solid entry in the murder mystery genre. The book alternates perspectives between the four classmates, which allows the author to do some fun things keeping the reader on the hook. One character will make a big discovery only for the POV to pop over to another who doesn't have that information, so Cobell can keep information from the reader without it feeling too forced. The audiobook has a separate narrator for each POV, which was also fun (although I didn't care for Eli's reader) and if you're prone to picking up and putting down your audiobook in the middle of a chapter, this helps you keep track of whose POV you're in.

Cobell uses the format of the crime thriller, like Marcie Rendon in Where They Last Saw Her, to draw attention to the crisis of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women (MMIW), but the book still feels like a novel its own right; it never feels like just a tool for explaining the MMIW issue. And it's an important issue that deserves a lot more attention. The statistics on violence against Native American women are shocking--even if you think they're bad, they're probably worse than you're imagining--and specific stats get highlighted in the text and in the author's note at the end. In this way, I think the book has enormous social value. Cobell uses her characters to personalize the problem and show the comorbid impacts of poverty and drug use on the reservation. 

Outside of its interest in the MMIW crisis, I don't think the book does much that's particularly groundbreaking. The teens band together to try to solve the mystery and absolve themselves, as you'd expect. At various times they suspect each other, family members, law enforcement. Cobell keeps you on the hook while offering reasonable suspicion for a number of characters. She avoids my least favorite move in the murder mystery genre, which is pinning it on some rando at the last minute.

The ending is pretty explosive and I enjoy some of the things she does with perspective here as well. We the readers know what the killer thinks of their crimes because the text tells us. But the other characters never hear that explanation except third hand, and many of them simply don't believe it. And that feels real--they end the story with their own version of the truth and there's simply no space for that to be corrected (and why would they believe the word of a killer anyway?) The killer feels a little one-dimensional, but the motives make sense, if they're unsurprising. The motivations behind most violent crimes are pretty repetitive. 

The prose is fine. We're reading from the perspective of teenagers, so expect a lot of melodramatic metaphors and jumping to conclusions based on minimal evidence.

Overall, this book tells an important story. It was entertaining as a narrative and sheds light on a community that deserves a lot more attention.

I finished my second Sarah Waters book this week after devouring most of it on my flight to Texas and she has surely done it again! This book was Affinity, a much less-talked about one of her novels, which concerns Victorian lady Margaret Prior, who in an effort to overcome her grief for her recently deceased father and a mysterious illness that gripped her around that time, decides to become a "Lady Visitor" to a women's prison: someone who comes to talk with them from time-to-time. She almost immediately becomes enraptured with a young medium, Selina Dawes, doing time for murder and assault. 

I don't usually like to do extensive summaries in these reviews, but I want to highlight what USA Today called "thinly veiled erotica" in this book. This book is best approached, I think, with a measure of dream logic (or porn logic, if you prefer), where things can be deeply erotic in concept that in real life would certainly not be. Nothing illustrates this better than the opening chapter of the book.

In the opening chapter, Margaret makes her first visit to Millbank prison. Waters does an excellent job of making the prison itself a terror; a winding maze of whitewashed, identical hallways inside a cocoon of pentagonal buildings set unsteadily into the marshy bank of the Thames within which Margaret immediately becomes turned around. She is passed from the gentleman family friend who first suggested she become a Lady Visitor to the matrons of the women's side of the prison, a realm populated entirely by women. As Margaret passes into this self-contained place which feels entirely removed from the rest of the world (the prisoners are allowed to send correspondence four times a year) she becomes keenly aware of the strange blurring and even erasure of the boundaries, rules, and customs of the outside world. Furthermore, Margaret is reassured over and over again that she is, effectively, in a position of power over all these vulnerable women, trapped in their cells and subject to the harsh rules of Millbank. The prison fully intends for Margaret to be someone for them to idolize and look up to, someone whose attention can make them strive to better themselves. Margaret, a repressed Victorian lesbian, is dropped into this strange realm of only women in which she operates above the rules that strictly govern the rest of them. 

It is in this state, after this long journey through Millbank, that Margaret first catches sight of Selina Dawes, and is taken from the start.

The book is not heavy on plot, and some reviewers have called it dull, but I was riveted. The plot is the development of Margaret and Selina's relationship, and the progress of Margaret's mindset on the question of whether Selina's powers or real, or if she's just a very talented con artist. These are by nature things which progress gradually. Practically, it's true that not much happens: Margaret visits the prison. Margaret goes to the library. Margaret has a disagreement with her mother. But her mental and emotional changes across the book are significant. 

There are also the vibes. Waters does such a good job of capturing a very gloomy, gothic atmosphere where Margaret (and the reader!) are constantly sort of questioning what's real and to what degree and there's a powerful sense of unease that permeates the entire story. It ties in so well with Selina's role as a spiritual medium and the Victorian obsession with such things; it creates a very holistic theme and feel to the book that I just sank into.

On the flip side of the erotic view of the prison we see early in the book, Waters also uses it to terrifying effect to simulate the paranoia of a closeted gay person at this time in England. As Margaret's feelings for Selina develop and become more explicit, she lives in terror that the matrons of the prison will realize that her interest in Selina is not the polite interest of a Lady Visitor in her charges. She is always analyzing what the matrons can see in her interactions with Selina and what might go under the radar; she is constantly wondering if rude comments or looks from this matron or that is simple rudeness, or a veiled accusation of impropriety. The panopticon pulses around Margaret more and more but she can't keep away from Selina even to protect herself from the danger of being caught.

On the whole, I thought this book was fantastic. I enjoyed it even more than Fingersmith. Waters was really cooking here and I've added several more of her books to my TBR, because she obviously knows what she's doing.

I realized as I was approaching the end of this book that it is the third unfinished series sapphic SFF centering the machinations of an empire that I've read lately (the others being The Locked Tomb and The Masquerade). A Memory Called Empire is the first book in the Teixcalaan series by Arkady Martine (narrated by Amy Landon in the audiobook) and tells the story of Mahit Dzmare, a diplomat from an as-yet-unconquered satellite state of the Teixcalaanli Empire entering her role as ambassador for the first time--after the previous ambassador went radio silent. 

For fans of fantasy politics, I highly recommend this one. Mahit enters a political scene on the cusp of boiling over and is thrown not only into navigating a culture and society she's only ever read about, but having to piece together what her predecessor was doing, why he was doing it, and what happened to him. It's a whirlwind of not knowing who to trust, what to lean on, or where to go.

Martine creates such an interesting world here in Teixcalaan and the mindset of a people who pride themselves on being artists above all and yet exist as ruthless conquerors within their corner of space. Furthermore, Mahit herself is in a fascinating position as someone who's been half in love with this empire since childhood, and yet is all too keenly aware of the threat it poses to her and her home. Mahit does well in Teixcalaan--she loves the poetry and literature they so highly prize, she's able to navigate Teixcalaanli society and see the double meanings everywhere, and she's excited to try her hand at these things. And yet--if she plays her cards wrong, it will end with her home being gobbled up by Empire, and as Mahit herself says: Nothing touched by Empire remains unchanged.

I really enjoyed her characters too--3-Seagrass stole the show for me--and they all have believably varied and grounded views and opinions, with the sorts of blind spots and biases you would expect from people in their respective positions. There's character growth and change too, which is always fun to see, and I'm excited to see how that progresses in the next book.

If I had a complaint, and it's a minor one, it's that the prose is sometimes overly repetitive and explanatory, as if Martine doesn't quite trust her audience to remember things from earlier in the book, or understand what's being implied, which occasionally has the effect of making Mahit look less intelligent than her role would demand. However, it didn't happen often enough that I was truly annoyed, and I think the book gets better about it as it goes on.

On the whole, a fun, exciting read (although it takes its time to set up--expect a slow start!) that left me actually looking forward to my commute for a chance to listen to more. Already checking to see if my library has the next book available.

I collect false treasures in empty wardrobes.

This quote by Paul Eluard opens book #14 from the "Women in Translation" rec list, which continues to fatten up my TBR list. This is Empty Wardrobes by Maria Judite de Carvalho, translated from Portuguese by Margaret Jull Costa. This novella, originally published in the 1960s, is about the ways in which women are subsumed by the men in their lives, or otherwise are buffeted about with less control over their lives than they ought to have.

The forward by Kate Zambreno is a wonderfully complementary piece. She talks about the anger she feels going to a woman's funeral and hearing the dead woman sanctified by men in her life who did nothing but take from her, who can speak of her only to praise what she did for others, and can say nothing about what the woman herself was. 

Sometimes you can read a book and just know the author was angry when she wrote it. This is one of those. The book uses the phrase "discreet rage" about one of its characters, and I think that sentiment succinctly describes the whole book. The protagonist, Dora Rosario, is ten years into widowhood, and she has devoted her entire life to mourning her unremarkable husband as much as she had previous devoted her life to supporting his every opinion regardless of whether or not she agreed with it. Now, a decade on, her mother-in-law reveals something about Dora's late husband that changes her entire perspective.

I would like to believe we are moving away from the world portrayed in Empty Wardrobes (though not with as much success as I'd like), but this is a stark reminder of how even a few generations ago, in the Sixties, a woman's identity was so controlled by her husband's. There are only two men in this book--Duarte, Dora's dead husband, and Ernesto, the longtime partner of a side character--and they both, through social structures, exercise incredible control over the lives of the women around them without any respect or even knowledge of their impact.

The three main women in this book--Dora, her daughter Lisa, and the narrator--each take a different approach to the male romantic partners in their lives, and none of them comes out the better for it (well, perhaps for Lisa, but I personally doubt it will last), because the ultimate problem is societal attitudes about the way men and women are meant to relate to each other. 

It's not a long book, and I can't say much more without spoiling things, but I also think it does some fabulous things with its narration and perspective, and the way it doles out information. Really an excellent framing that allows for a lot of fluidity and filling in gaps with your own visions while remaining clear in the nature of the story it's telling. 

This book was only translated into English in 2021, which is a shame, because I think it would have struck a nerve much earlier, but we have it now! Costa does an excellent job with the work too; the writing is full of punchy phrases like the above, and she captures some realistic dialogue--characters repeating themselves, responding in ways that don't quite match up with what was asked, etc.--while keeping it natural-sounding. 

Time and circumstance conspired to keep me from reviewing the second book in the Cemeteries of Amalo book, The Grief of Stones, but today I finished the third book, Tomb of the Dragons and I do have time to review this third and final book in the trilogy.

This is NOT a spoiler-free review.

Tomb of the Dragons retains much of what I loved about the first two books, including Thara’s character and his investigations into the underbelly of Amalo, with a healthy helping of Ethuveraz politics.

Thara is having to adjust to the events at the end of the last book, and here, I feel, is where we truly see how important his calling is to him—how he handles losing it. It gives some good perspective to why he is so dogged in pursuing his work goals—his calling really is his sense of purpose, his life. Watching Thara grapple with this change and its indefinite consequences was fascinating.

However, it also retains in greater measure some of the things that I didn’t love about the earlier books, including Addison’s obsession with minutiae. I can only read about the characters traveling on this or that tram line so many times before my eyes start skipping lines to the things that really matter. This would bother me less if it didn’t feel like it came at the expense of more important things.

For one, at the close of the trilogy, we still know virtually nothing about Evru, arguably the most important person in Thara’s past. We know nothing about their relationship except how it ended, about why Thara was drawn to Evru or what he got out of the relationship. We know very little about Thara’s own past, and only here do we finally get even crumbs of detail about his training as a prelate, one of the other most important events of his life. Yet we get the full name of every paper boy Thara encounters.

Furthermore, Addison makes plot decisions which are frankly baffling in their logic. To any reader with eyes, Iana was set up as Thara’s love interest, the most likely future candidate for his “moving on from Evru’s tragedy” romance. Three and a half books lead us to believe this.Then we get a bait-and-switch where Iana abruptly declares himself heterosexual and aromantic, and some rando we only get introduced to properly in the final third of the book is shoehorned in as Thara’s new crush.

To be clear, I’m not mad that Iana and Thara didn’t end as a couple—I was never deeply invested in their romance and would have been just as happy for there to be no romance at all in this story—I’m just a loss to understand this switch. It makes Thara and Olgarezh feel painfully lacking in chemistry, as we’ve had a fraction of the time to get to know them together as we have with Iana. We know almost nothing about Olgarezh as we have only a third of a book to get to know him, and the nature of his role and his character keeps him buttoned up for most of it, so I found it hard to care about him.

It would have been far less annoying and unsatisfying to just have Thara end the book single, but looking forward to a future romance. Instead, what we get feels rushed and narratively nonsensical. It also makes the ending of the book feel inorganic and unnecessary, a tool to force bonding between Thara and Olgarezh, rather than a rewarding conclusion to Thara’s adventures in Amalo.

The second thing that surprised me in an unsatisfying way was Thara ending the series essentially exiled from Amalo. A huge thread of this series has been Thara learning to accept love from others and find a way to set down roots again, and he was doing that in Amalo! He had friends, he had peers, he had connections, he had a home! And yet at the end of the book, that’s all taken away, and he’s kicked onto a life on the road with Olgarezh, who he barely knows, and all of his Amalo connections are relegated to pen pals. It was shocking and very disappointing. Again—if Addison had never planned for Thara to stay in Amalo, why wasn’t there more groundwork laid for his being unsatisfied having to stay in one place, why so much time spent showing him settling in to Amalo? It felt like giving him a home only to once again take it away.

There was a Maia cameo, which I loved, and it was really fun to revisit the Untheliniese court from the perspective of someone other than Maia, and to see Maia from an outside perspective. It was fun to see Csevet from another angle too! Really loved getting to see Maia in action as Edrahasivar too.

On the whole, this was a disappointing end to the trilogy. I still love the first two books, and there is still much I like about this one, but Addison makes too many jarring narrative shifts that make no sense and don’t add up in the face of the earlier parts of the story for it to be satisfying.