Category: book reviews

Review: Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell

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Making an effort to post a review every Friday!

I’ve referenced Susanna Clark’s Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell in the last two reviews I wrote and upon realizing that I thought maybe I should say something about this book I’ve unwittingly referenced back to multiple times. I had pegged Piranesi earlier this year as a contender for my favorite book of the year (since I’ve read it recently, of course; I certainly don’t do anything chronologically). Susanna Clark writes like a historian. Anyone who has read the introduction at the beginning of The Ladies of Grace Adieu, the collection of stories, could tell you that the references and style in her short story work is reminiscent of a researcher who has happened upon these stories and is sharing them with you purely from the perspective of historical interest. You clearly already know this history, having lived it yourself, but here is a scholarly assessment to embellish upon your public school education.

It is educational without being pretentious and it never breaks character. You are always within her world once you have consented to read it. Piranesi, I felt, accomplished this in a much shorter format—which I would argue is more difficult.

I read an absolutely dogshit review of Piranesi where the reviewer complained that Susanna Clark had phoned it in after producing the masterpiece that is Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, that the story became too character and too plot driven, and that there wasn’t nearly the same psychotic attention to minuscule detail that didn’t advance anything—you can see where I’ve put things into my own words. I cannot understand a criticism less than one that is upset that book has a tightly knit plot. That’s what we all want, for a plot to fold in on itself like a musical score; criticizing Piranesi for doing what Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell does in less words is…you don’t understand fiction. You’re welcome not to like a book, but by god, what a reason.

Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell is, of course, a difficult act to follow. Nearly a thousand pages, it stands around 782 depending on the print, and it is a complete history written in the sensibility of its characters—academic and practical scholars of English magic during the Napoleonic wars. I would argue that it is meant to be written in a way that not even Mr. Norrell could criticize it. It is a thoroughly and joyously British Book. It celebrates English character, ideals, and it’s nearly like reading Edith Hamilton’s Mythology in its textual reverence for its own story.

It is a very good feeling to read something and to feel that it couldn’t have been done any other way. That what the author intended—which as a reader you’re only guessing at—feels accomplished. The show’s effectively over. I read Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell as though it was truly a historical text, I paused to look up references, I enjoyed the archaic spellings of words that are period-accurate woven throughout; I really studied this book in several ways and it feels complete to me. I didn’t read it, rushing through, with the speed or mentality of a memoir or fantasy book as I usually would; instead I treated it like an academic study and I just—I have no notes. There’s nothing I could argue could be done differently or would have had a different character or appeal if done differently. The book is what it is and it is whole. Changing any aspect would both cheapen it and make it a completely different book.

That comment I made before on wanting a plot to fold in on itself like a musical score; it’s okay if you read a book and you can see the trajectory of the plot and where it is headed. I read another dogshit review recently of a different novel complaining that the reviewer skipped ahead a few chapters and figure out the ending. Well, of course you did. You read ahead of yourself. Books should have refrains and reprisals. The whole spine of a novel should be its effective foreshadowing without being terribly obvious—but yes, you’re supposed to be guessing at the ending. It’s called being engaged.

I think there is this bizarre push these days, and I’m going to blame things like cheap fx popcorn sellers, to have a twist ending. You want to be surprised by a book. But a lot of the joy, especially in a story that involves prophecy, is that you as the audience know what is happening and are watching it unfold. It is not an author’s job to psych you out. It is an author’s job to raise you to their level, it’s a communication not a deception—and what a more elbow nudging way to do that than to pretend that your fantasy is a reality that has already taken place and that everyone surely knows the punchline to.

The book is too short.

Review: The Once and Future Witches

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Making an effort to post a review every Friday!

The Once and Future Witches by Alix E Harrow

I had to look it up afterwards, this book came out in 2021 and was up for several awards, winning the British Fantasy Award. I feel it had an enormous amount going on in it. It was a complicated book that either could have been split into several shorter stories, or a book that could have been fleshed out into a thousand or so page tome. I get the impression that the author would be happy to do either as it seems these characters are very loved.

It is not to say I didn’t enjoy this book but I sometimes wondered what this book wanted to be. It’s dense, it’s a heavy book to contend with but at no point is there not a lot of forward motion. It propels the reader on, character driven, though there were things I admittedly would have liked to stop and examine or characters I would have liked to have spent more time with rather than switching as much as we did between the sisters. I think it’s a mark of how well written and crafted the book is that is really shouldn’t be read quickly. It’s something that ought to be sat with.

The plot follows three sisters in a maiden-mother-crone dynamic who have fallen out due to various revealed traumas but are drawn back together by a series of magical events tantamount to magical terrorism –events are blamed on witches in an effort to undermine the suffragist and women’s rights movements during which the story takes place. The setting is a fusion of rewritten history with magical context, very in the vein of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell but without Susanna Clark’s historian sensibility; instead lessons are infused throughout the story rather than explained or footnoted in. It’s presented as though you’re already meant to know it, which I do like this style of being thrown into the kiddie pool. I absolutely loved the prose, I loved the way which the author sticks fingers into nooks and crannies to pull out grubs of information, but I found myself at times distracted by the switching between characters. This, honestly, shows an effective writer. I wanted to stay with a character I was reading about, not move to whatever sister provided the next plot point right away, but it also made it feel like it was written with a television-season sensibility. You could see the commercial breaks. I am no less guilty of that in my own writing, but it is something that’s had me stop and consider if I want to continue doing that in my own manuscripts.

Review: All the Murmuring Bones

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All the Murmuring Bones by AG Slatter

Making an effort to post a review every Friday!

I cannot tell you the last time I enjoyed a main character for their brutality. The protagonist of All The Murmuring Bones has such a refreshing, pragmatic, bordering amoral sensibility. Perhaps that’s the best word: sensible. There is little sentimentality in this story, which, so often authors attempt to convey coldness in a character but fail to then make the character likeable. Miren is likeable.

Initially her characterization is a bit flat, she complains, I worried that I had started in on another book in the vein of Young Adult novels that I’m suggested where plucky-whoever does dramatic-what-have-you and earns their place in an adventure.

This isn’t an adventure—well. Maybe, technically, it is. In form. In spirit, it is reminiscent for me of Susanna Clarke rather than stock adventure formats.  There’s a great gothic sensibility to All the Murmuring Bones, lifting its fantasy from mariner tales and Irish folklore, and its dry delivery straight out of Shirley Jackson.

It is the first fantasy novel I’ve really connected to in months and I enjoyed the world building, the storytelling and mirroring of themes that lends just enough dramatic irony that you have to flinch guessing at what will happen next. I adored having a female protagonist who doesn’t wilt or linger on relationships or sentiment. The no nonsense, surrounded by nonsense and violence, nature of the narrative is addictive.

Re-review: Stephen Fry’s Mythos

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I’ve reread it.

I’ve come to two conclusions.

One, the trouble I had with Mythos the first time is precisely the same reason I loved Heroes as I did. It is no fault of Stephen Fry’s whatsoever. I did, indeed, fail him.

In Mythos, I knew many of the stories presented already. I am, horrifically, a nerd. I don’t say this as though it has just dawned on me. I say it with the sigh of looking down at myself and humming, ‘ah, yes.’

I read the Aeneid aloud, voluntarily, to my infant babies, in Latin, with the hopes that they would one day be better equipped for pronunciation as development of phonemes quickly scissors off as you age.

I am, horrifically, that guy. 

And that meant that Mythos had little to offer me, the asshole of Latin class, in terms of novelty. What it did offer, what I was most able to appreciate, was Stephen Fry’s voice. He has a unique voice, both out loud and in writing, and it is something highly envied. The tongue-in-cheek presentation of Greek and Roman myths in modern parlance is delightful. 

The many references to Edith Hamilton —hey, I know her. I read that book as a child, too. And so in slowing myself down and coming to Mythos with less tired eyes, I was able instead to see a sort of kindred spirit in it. This is how I tell Greek and Roman myths when I summarize them to other people, this same ‘ah, yes, Zeus’ wink wink say no more.

It’s nearly impossible not to talk about Greek or Roman mythology where I don’t sound like an asshole. It’s one of those few areas in life where I spring up, ready to fight, because of all of those horrid Latin trophies I got once upon a time.

I think it’s why I like Norse mythology and Egyptian mythology and indigenous myths and legends. I don’t know them well, nor should I. They don’t belong to me.

And Heroes, Heroes achieved exactly what I had wanted for in Mythos– it told me a few things I didn’t know.

I read Mythos very quickly, partly because I’ve already read it once and partly because I knew the tales. 

I needed to give it a closer examination, because it deserves it, because it is very good.

It’s charming, dry, ribbing. It is a book that does exactly what I like in mythology collections–it tells the myths. It’s a wonderful introduction, an eloquent refresher.

I would be doing a disservice if I hadn’t given it the try it deserved.

But this gets at a point of mental health maintenance that I think needs to be addressed. It is possible to read too much, too quickly, and to dislike something seemingly made for you. It’s possible to come to a book (or anything, truly) at the wrong time, the wrong place, then spend your days blasting Madam Bovary only to find that in old age that you see it with kinder eyes.

Except let’s not go that far for Madam Bovary. I still have my hang ups.

Conversely, you may reread something you loved at one age and find yourself saying ‘dear god what pretentious, poorly crafted bullshit’.

Many times you will do this to yourself.

And it’s okay.

It’s perfectly decent of you to give something another try. It’s perfectly decent of you to change your mind, your opinion, yourself.

And please, slow down.

Review: Antigone Rising

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Antigone Rising by Helen Morales

Making an effort to post a review every Friday!

This book was suggested to me by my sister based on a reading she’d had from it in a Classics course in her undergrad. I had been trying to think of a book that I had read that could finish out my mythology month that didn’t feel….overdone. There are plenty of amazing adaptations and re-envisionings of what we call classical literature—which frankly births from an extremely exclusive swath of location and time period and speaks to our fixation.

Classic should apply to more than one coastline.

This is one of the central arguments of Antigone Rising: The Subversive Power of Ancient Myths. We’re in a bit of a bind with the Greeks and Romans. We both look back to them for credibility in the duration of our cultural touchstones and we—idealistically, we realize that they were remarkably flawed.

Most of our modern interpretations of classical myths are heavily romanticized—which, frankly, the root word of romance is Roman. Our understanding is heavily through a pro-Roman, pro-Greek lens.

Brought to you by the battle of Thermopylae! May we present: centuries of narrowly defined social expectations.

I would guarantee that a given white cismale that I went to college with and sat in a theater watching 300 with could tell you wonderful things about the men of Sparta which glorify their warrior lifestyle. I know many people who gleefully took courses in Roman warfare. If I asked a single one of those men the role of the Gynaeconomi —I’d bet even money that they don’t know. And because it doesn’t effect them, they likely aren’t going to go too deep into investigating it.

That’s the pro-Roman bias.

Even in briefly looking up some supporting material before I wrote this review, there’s very little about the murky underbelly of Greek and Roman culture—yeah, believe me, whatever you think; it can get worse—that isn’t heavily blockaded behind paywalls.

But if you would care to dive deeper, I found Antigone Rising to be a highly accessible, well thought introduction to feminist topics laden within mythology. And given our propensity to look back to the Greeks and Romans as cultural touchstones inexorable from our society, it is certainly a stone worth overturning.

Consider, just briefly, the controversy surrounding Ovid’s Metamorphoses. I’m going to pick on this one because it’s personal. I like Ovid. That alone is controversial. I remember from my Latin days how Ovid was something the boys snickered about because of the depictions of rape and bestiality and all manner of frenzy which the sixteenth century-to-present ‘westerners’ went on to cherry pick for their personal use. But as the argument is made in Antigone Rising, Metamorphoses was a deeply political book. Removing it from the political atmosphere of Augustus we fail to see how these allusions to Apollo raping virgins were criticisms of the empire—not religious text. Ovid purposefully chose gods and mythical figures which the empire had aligned themselves with in symbolism to debase and villainize as a critique of the end of republicanism.

This is a huge issue in interpretation of ancient text, particularly when you dip your toe into looking at who has been allowed to do the interpreting for the past few centuries. If we look at Ovid with absolutely no context, we can interpret a glorification of rape, of sexism, of many things which don’t align with political or historical evidence.

Back quickly to the gynaeconomi—that term refers specifically to the magistrates assigned to police women’s behavior, dress, and public lives in Athens. Morales discusses the gunaikonomoi still being a topic of Oppian Law which was disputed as unnecessary by Cicero—and I use this as example of how we today cherry pick our roman heroes.

My latin teacher was obsessed with Cicero. Keekarooo. Her beloved.

“And let us not set a prefect over women, in the fashion of the elected office among the Greeks,” her false feminist agenda might have read. But Cicero’s quote ends, “but let there be a censor, to teach husbands to control their wives.”

The same cherry picking is brought up and lingered on in an essay about weight loss and Hippocrates. Particularly in diet culture, Hippocrates quotes surface which are often contradictory, sometimes to the point of being meaningless, and neglect to say that Hippocrates’ wisdoms about not being fat are sandwiched in between advice about rubbing goat shit on your head.

It’s a good introductory book. I’d read more of it.

Review: Ariadne

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Making an effort to post a review every Friday!

Ariadne by Jennifer Saint is an excellent introduction to mythological retellings and fiction which focuses on Ariadne, obviously, but also on her sister Phaedra. The story switches perspective between the two sisters telling both of their stories and how they diverge, beginning the with their close relationship in childhood, to the eventual tragedies both are known for. It emphasizes how different interpretations of the same familial trauma shape their personalities and choices. Neither sister is hero nor antagonist, but rather a result of the roles placed upon them within a patriarchical society—beginning with an abusive and controlling father.

To the uninitiated, Ariadne and Phaedra are both sisters to the Minotaur, daughters of King Minos and Queen Pasiphaë. Ariadne is of course most famous for assisting Theseus in his quest to slay the Minotaur and being immediately abandoned by Theseus on Naxos. And appropriately, this book portrays Theseus as the benign villain that he is. Let me explain that word choice. Theseus isn’t maliciously evil. He doesn’t abandon Ariadne out of spite or ill will; he does it purely because she isn’t useful to him any longer. It’s indifference and self importance that drive Theseus, and it is the small amount of value given to these women which justifies it.

This is largely a story of how women suffer through the inconsiderate nature of the men around them; how if men were not in charge of those women’s lives, they could be self determined. Both Ariadne and Phaedra are intelligent, clever, problem solving. But it is the hubris, pride, the need for self advancement—again and again it is the women who suffer in mythology from the hero’s pursuit of glory.

Phaedra, in contrast to Ariadne, tries to be self determined. She tries to push forward, to behave as a man would, she tries to pursue what she wants—but when she pursues an affair and isn’t wanted in return, society doesn’t behave the same way toward a woman as it does a man. She can’t be successful, she can’t force herself or her will onto others, she is shamed. She has no way out.

I liked very much the portrayal of Dionysus and his relationship with Ariadne, the portrayal of their marriage, though ultimately the story ends in the same theme that it begins—that the hubris of a man is responsible for the downfall of women in his life.

It’s not a kind book to the men in it, and it shouldn’t be. It isn’t meant to be. Because very little is actually changed. The course of events is the same as it is in the mythology. It’s merely a step taken slightly to the left, to the women in it. They have the microphone, though they’re still only wanted as stage dressing.

Review: Heroes, Mythos

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Making an effort to post a review every Friday!

This one is going to be a little different. I seem to have decided that June is going to be mythology-fiction month as it is my birthday month and as I enjoy mythology. Tomorrow, in fact, is my birthday, so I’ve made more work for myself. I’m going to review two books. One I will give a good review—a spectacular review! I really liked it! And one I will give a bad review. Both books are by Stephen Fry.

Heroes, by Stephen Fry, and Mythos, by Stephen Fry.

I was given Heroes as a gift and I read it out loud to my children. Generally speaking I don’t enjoy reading out loud to children. They stop you. They ask a lot of questions. There’s a good deal of ‘wait, can we actually read something else’, ‘I need a drink’, ‘what were you saying, I saw a particularly interesting bug,’ and ‘HELP! A BUG!’

If it’s difficult to wade my way through Pete the Cat, which is ten pages long and rather easy reading; you can imagine that reading a chapter book would be tortuous. Heroes, however, I read cover

to cover– to my kids.

I love the framing, the presentation. There were stories which I was less familiar with, stories which I hadn’t known –which I then obnoxiously related those new factoids to people around me, eager to show off some detail or otherwise retell a story like a small child showing off their bedroom to house guests.

I enjoyed this book, I enjoyed the stories immensely. I like an anthology from time to time, and I liked how legends were connected and presented. A text book, nearly, without the stuffiness of academia. It was intelligent, easily read, easily understood, presented exquisitely.

Mythos was a different story. I bought Mythos on the heels of reading Heroes, with the blind confidence of ‘ah, this is more of that stuff that I like’.

I generally make a point of not reviewing things I don’t like, but I want to do a bit of a post mortem—because at this exact moment, I can’t tell you why I didn’t like it.

That’s not very flattering to me as a person who analyzes and writes about things daily.

I like Stephen Fry. I generally trust Stephen Fry. I don’t know that I would hand him a baby because I don’t know that he would be comfortable with that, but I haven’t ruled it out. If Stephen Fry is presenting a documentary or waxing poetic and I say, ah, yes, Stephen Fry. My good friend, Stephen Fry.

I like mythology. I liked other books by Stephen Fry about mythology. I was willing to read them out loud to small children, which is the equivalent of nailing jello to a herd of cats.

I just could not bring myself to like this book.

I am so sorry, my good personal friend Stephen Fry. I am truly baffled.

I learned a few things from it. I repeated factoids, as I am wont to do. I took in and absorbed information. I made a casual reference to Ouranos in regular conversation, which is not easy for most people. What am I doing wrong? Why don’t I like this book? Why have I failed you, Stephen?

Is it something I ate?

Do I need to adopt a new technique, ritual? I will admit, and I think this is worth talking about—I try to read a book a week. I have a goal of reading a book a week. But most often, I read three books in a week and other weeks I lie on the floor and have staring at the ceiling time.

It’s entirely possible I was just burnt out.

I want to revisit it. I want to challenge myself to revisit it—because Stephen Fry is an amazing story teller. But perhaps right now it is just time to stare at the ceiling.

Review: Circe

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Making an effort to post a review every Friday!

Circe by Madeline Miller is an imagining of several mythological tales from the perceptive of one of the more notable witches in classics, focusing on Circe’s motivations, isolation on Aeaeae and interactions with various other figures from myth. Obviously, notably, with Odysseus himself.

I am a nerd.

I am a …I am a classics nerd.

I loved this portrayal and interpretation of Odysseus and his personality. I was surprised, given how much I liked this interpretation of Odysseus as a character that I then liked Telemachus more. The way each character is humanized and contended with–there is such a tender and careful amount of thought given to each character’s portrayal–a person in these circumstances, with these accomplishments, with these constraints and flaws–the portrayals feel very genuine and realistic and in a way definitive.

The stories and myths touched on and how they’re woven together is masterful and carefully unites many strands of myth which are usually presented as broken threads.

I found the story telling unpretentious, accessible, and masterful in creating the atmosphere that lends itself to its character’s logic and behavior. I think that’s something which people don’t appreciate enough in well written works; the audience not only following a character’s line of reasoning but being so embroiled in the created atmosphere that they agree with it.

I generally tend not to review books that I wouldn’t recommend, but this book is really special to me in its portrayal of femininity. Motherhood especially is shown as being unglamorous, difficult, and largely managed alone. Sexuality is often violent and not treated as something aspired to or an end goal but as another feature of life and of relationships–her relationships with various characters, though sexual, are built on respect and intellect. Her first relationship which ends poorly does so because it is built on attraction; moving forward she is more shrewd, more clever, and the relationships become more meaningful. Her competition with other females, particularly among her family or with Scylla, demonstrate the toxicity of strictly held feminine ideals. Each explore the different ways in which womanhood is weaponized and women are forced to compete with each other. Once she develops more confidence in herself and throws off a large portion of the role that she had as a demigoddess after banished to Aeaeae, she cultivates positive relationships with the nymphs and other scorned daughters sent to her. Aeaeae becomes a sanctuary for women who do not fit into a strict patriarchical ideal. And finally Aeaeae is both home and prison as the most important relationship which Circe develops is with herself. Being able to be contented in quietness, competent in self defense against the violence of men, in the labors of survival is one of the things which makes this character so compelling. She repeatedly does not back down from challenges, and she does not do so with feigned grace or the dignity of Victorian manufactured femininity but with the shit stained bluntness of: I will survive this because I must.

Review: Piranesi

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Making an effort to post a review every Friday!

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke

I have always had an intimate soft spot for mazes and labyrinths and I feel that they are so difficult to capture in story. Not just in terms the physical difficulty of describing a labyrinth, but the disorientation. That disorientation is key to Piranesi, the book and its character of the same name–named after Giovanni Battista Piranesi, a famous 1700s architect, artist, and Italian Classical archeologist famous for his etchings of ancient Rome as well as a series of 16 prints of fantastic, fictional prisons, Carceri d’invenzione.

Clarke does a superb job of creating a character who is finely tuned to living in and traversing her maze, and presenting his internal disorientation. To him, he makes perfectly sound sense, but the most difficult part of reading this book is the first few chapters, learning to parse his style of speech and logic, before the mystery begins that he must solve. This book was remarkably well written, fast paced, and one of the best representations of disassociation and trauma I’ve read—really cutting to the core of that disorientation that is represented by the labyrinth that the main character finds himself in.

I won’t speak much to the plot of the book because it is the sort of story that once unraveled becomes difficult to talk about without revealing the ending. I cannot speak highly enough of this book for the atmosphere is creates. The plot is a tightly wound spiral that is enchanting as it comes undone.

It is easily one of my favorite books I’ve read this year, it hits every checkmark.

Clarke is, as always, thorough, thoughtful, and intense in presentation of characters who feel not only sympathetic but like whole human beings.

Review: Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil

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Making an effort to post a review every Friday!

Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt

I remember seeing the film in 1997 and it stuck with me, it was a book I always intended to go back and read at some point but kept falling through the cracks. It seems to me now that the film is a faithful adaptation of the novel, though it is limited in what could be presented in a visual medium. There are details of the book that I think might even have eluded Berendt himself—reported comments made by individuals about queer characters which seemed inoffensive to the author but which a different eye might know were barbs. I had some flinching moments, reading this book 28 years on, discussing a crime that occurred in the 1980s, particularly with how queer and POC characters were addressed. However, in equal measure, I learned a few things about representation of queer and POC characters that would never have been discussed in my scope of knowledge. There was a specific point at which the narrator is researching and unable to find an account of someone, and is caught up on segregation practices in newspapers—a detail which has stuck with me as one of many, many factoids which people nowadays deny or have never heard of. And I think that was the purpose of including. The whole book is about perspective and hypocrisy.

The book is classified as non-fiction, but not. It is a narrative of real events which the narrator/author was investigating, the actual slaying of Danny Hansford and the individuals involved in the case. Berendt provides a skewed first hand account of events as he ingratiated himself as an outsider into the culture and personalities of Savannah, Georgia.

While the book is classified as non fiction, there are elements altered from the true story for the purpose of storytelling, causing the book to be referred to as a non-fiction novel. Berendt included stories and characters that were interesting or which did take place, regardless of if they impacted the central focus of the murder trial, for the sake of story telling. Added elements didn’t impact the outcome or course of the trial and so are considered just an illustration of the culture contributing to the crime. Ultimately it’s a series of true-ish events told out of sync with reality. And it’s entertaining. It’s an interesting snapshot that centers Savannah itself as a character by way of showing off it’s varied personalities. Calling the characters quirky or eccentric feels overdone; this isn’t quirky, it’s nearer to an alien observing earthlings.

There is a reason that this story and the way it was told stuck with people.