The Last Binding, Freya Marske
Why haven’t I read these earlier? Look, I just have a lot of books on my TBR pile. This first book didn’t immediately jump out at me when it was published – I don’t know why – and so, although I occasionally heard about them as they got published, they just didn’t get to the top of the pile. (Slight spoilers below, largely in terms of who gets romanced.)
But the final book was published last year, and the trilogy has been nominated for the Best Series Hugo, and thanks to the enormous generosity of the publisher the whole trilogy was in the Hugo packet. And so, finally, I have now read the whole trilogy. One book straight after the other. Because, turns out, this is a really great series. What a surprise.
Marske writes of an England where the magical live unknown but side by side with the unmagical – which is similar to what Celia Lake does, but Marske doesn’t have the magical largely keep to themselves; there are nobles with magic who sit in the House of Lords, for instance. But most unmagical don’t know that magic exists; when they do find out, it’s described as ‘unbushelling’,
which has a great explanation behind it as a term. As the first book opens, an unmagical man (Robin) has landed an unexpected civil service job, liaising between the magical and the Prime Minister… but he doesn’t know about magic. His predecessor is missing, and he assaulted for unknown reasons; so he ends up working with magic-user Edwin, and others, to figure out what’s going on. Which turns out to be a whole conspiracy, of course, and unravelling which becomes the trilogy. At the same time, Robin and Edwin are falling in love. Which is a whole delightful thing, but did I mention this is the first decade of the 20th century? So it’s also a rather dangerous thing, given the laws at the time. This is a fantastic introduction to the series, giving all the necessary information about magic etc without ever losing the fast pace.
The second book takes place entirely on a ship – so it’s not quite a locked-room mystery, although there are indeed a lot of locked rooms; but there are a limited number of people to do things and a limited number of places for them to happen, which puts all sorts of intriguing boundaries on the author. This time the key characters are Robin’s sister and the dashing Violet, who enjoys being entirely outrageous. A different pace from the first one – partly that’s the ship, partly it’s already knowing about magic and the conspiracy – but nonetheless the consequences are real.
Finally, A Power Unbound – I had realised who one of the likely romance partners would be, in this book, halfway through the second. And I wasn’t overly enthused, I have to say, because his particular style of cynicism isn’t one I love. And the relationship that’s portrayed in this book also isn’t one I enjoyed as much as the first two; I am not as comfortable with how they interact. It’s a dom/sub relationship, and Marske is very clear
about the pair having boundaries and consent; the play-acting at making use of unequal power isn’t something I enjoy. This is very much a me thing, though; and the relationship does develop, as the others have, in interesting ways. Aside from the romance, the plot ratchets up the consequences of the conspiracy and quickens the pace and basically makes this a tremendous finale to the trilogy. A lot of secrets are drastically revealed, issues dealt with, relationships both restored and complicated – Marske really knew what she was doing.
This trilogy will be high on my Hugo ballot, and I am excited to read Marske’s new book this year.
The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks
I saw this film a long time ago – maybe it was on TV? – and ever since then “I should read the book” has been vaguely in my head. I’ve finally done so because someone else, in my book club, nominated it as one of our books. Sometimes it really does take that external influence. And I’m so glad I did because this really is a great book, and an amazing story.
The basics of the Henrietta Lacks story are that she was an African-American woman who, in 1951, was diagnose with cervical cancer. Doctors took a sample of the cells of the cancer, as was standard; they were sent to a lab that was doing some early work on trying to get cells to live in petri dishes (basically). For whatever reason, her cells were the first to prove functionally immortal: they did not die as every other human cell did, but reproduced… and kept reproducing… and, after a fairly short while, HeLa cells were being used all over the world for a variety of biomedical research.
Lacks, meanwhile, died. She had not been told her cells were being cultured; her family were not told either. Eventually, the family found out – there’s a whole story about how it was revealed who these cells that revolutionised the world came from – and it wasn’t an easy thing for them, for a whole bunch of reasons.
This book would be interesting if it were just the straightforward (well, as straightforward as it could be) story of Henrietta and her cells. But that’s all this book does. Instead, there are really three stories.
There’s the story of Henrietta herself. This is necessarily brief: she only lived to 30, there’s not a whole of sources, and she lived a difficult, but fairly straightforward, life: not a lot of education, married and having children young, not working outside of the home – then sick, and dying. Skloot writes about her life with compassion and, honestly, love; she doesn’t moralise or condemn, she doesn’t go all ‘woe what a tragedy’ in that fake ‘oh how hard things were’ way that some people might.
There’s the story of Henrietta’s cells, and the larger scientific story around it. This, too, is fascinating; the attempts at culturing cells, the fear felt by society about what might happen with such cells… and then there’s all of the ethical issues, too, about whether tissues outside of the body are still the property of the person who grew them. And this is tied into larger questions of American medical history around the white scientific establishment and Black bodies, which is of course a whole thing itself.
And thirdly, there’s the story of the Lacks family. Skloot doesn’t try to keep herself out of the story; in fact, she is very present, as she tries to get in touch with the Lacks children, to learn their part of the story. The children – in particular, the only surviving daughter, Deborah – are reticent, for a lot of good reasons. But they gradually come to trust Skloot, and Deborah takes part in a lot of Skloot’s research; the story of their time together, learning about Henrietta (and the eldest daughter, who died as an adolescent) is a vital part of the story: about Henrietta as a human woman, about the consequences of medical decisions, and about the lives of African-Americans in the last half of the twentieth century.
This is one of the best science history books I’ve ever read.
The Knife and the Serpent, Tim Pratt
I read this courtesy of NetGalley and the publisher. It’s out in a week! (Mid-June 2024.)
My first Tim Pratt novel! And yes, I can see why he’s so popular. This novel is a wild ride.
There are two points of view in the novel, which start off separate and then – inevitably – become intertwined. The first is Glenn, whose story begins with the sentence “This is how I found out my girlfriend is a champion of Nigh-Space.” Glenn is having a perfectly normal life when he hooks up with Vivian – Vivy – and finds himself falling in love, getting matching tattoos, and having the best kinky sex of his life; the dom/sub relationship is, he points out, important for understanding how they interact over the rest of the epic tale he’s telling. Which involves learning that there are multiple planes of existence, there are groups who would like to extend their control over as many as possible, and that Vivy works for one of the groups attempting to just let planets get on with being themselves, rather than ruthlessly colonised.
The second is Tamsin, who gets home one day to a weird business card stuck in her door, and then finds out that her grandmother has been murdered. With no other family around, Tamsin is responsible for dealing with the estate; when she gets to her grandmother’s house, things go very peculiar, to the point where she learns – from her embarrassing ex-boyfriend no less – that she is not actually from Earth but from a planet on an adjoining plane, and there are people who would like to use the door that allows such travel thankyouverymuch. She herself goes through the door, back to her original home, where her family – originally one of the ruling families on their planet – had been eliminated when she was a baby. You might be able to guess where it goes from here.
Eventually the two stories coincide, there are some battles and a fair bit of sneaking, a snarky spaceship compelled to wear a human suit for a while, trust issues are revealed and discussed, people’s true natures are revealed, and so on.
This book is a lot of fun. I had been very worried that this would turn out to be the start of a series – it so easily could be! There are so many planets and potential enemies! – but no, it’s a standalone, and while I think it did wrap up a bit quickly, it was also quite a satisfying conclusion. All in all, definitely worth reading.
The Fortunate Fall, by Cameron Reed
Read courtesy of NetGalley and the publisher, Tor Books. It’s out in August 2024 (and also was published in 1996, if you can somehow get your hands on an original copy).
This book is amazing and the fact that Tor is reprinting it and I therefore found out about is a very, very good thing.
“The whale, the traitor; the note she left me and the run-in with the Post Police; and how I felt about her and what she turned out to be – all this you know.”
As first sentences go, that’s breathtaking.
It seems from Jo Walton’s introduction to this edition that the people who read The Fortunate Fall when it first came out all loved it… but that ‘all’ was super limited, for whatever reason. And that’s just an absolute tragedy, because this book should absolutely be seen as a classic and it should get read by everyone and it should be discussed in all the conversations that are had about gender, sexuality, AI interactions, the use and purpose of the media, human/animal interactions, medical ethics… and probably a whole bunch of other issues that I missed.
It was originally published in 1996, and certainly some of the technology feels a little dated; the idea of a dryROM is amusing, and moistdisks are fascinating and gross. But honestly (as Walton points out) it also feels incredibly NOW. The main character, Maya, is a ‘camera’; when she’s broadcasting, people can tune in and see what she sees, hear what she hears – and experience her memories and reactions as well. This is mediated by a screener, who basically works to help amplify or minimise parts of the experience, as well as doing the tech work behind the scenes. For all that it’s from the very early period of the internet, this aspect feels prescient in terms of using social media, the difficult lines between personal and big-business media, and a whole host of other things that, again, are being thought about and talked about now. Not to mention the question of how much we actually know someone from their public-facing presentation.
And really? this isn’t even the most meaty part of the story. There’s the relationship between Maya and Keishi; that could have been the whole book. There’s Pavel Voskresenye and his experiences with genocide, being experimented on, surveillance – which could also have been a whole book by itself. And the whale. It’s honestly hard to talk about everything that is packed into this book: and it’s not very long! The paperback is 300 pages! How does Reed manage to fit so much in, and still make me understand everything that’s going on, and bring it all together such that I know it doesn’t need a sequel, and I know Maya in particular more than she would be happy with – and it’s only 300 pages in length??
I want to shove this into the hands of basically everyone I know. And then, like Walton says in her introduction, we can all talk about the ending.
Four Points of the Compass
Read via NetGalley and the publisher; it’s out in November 2024.
This is a really neat idea for a book. So much of the “western” world (an idea that Brotton interrogates fairly well) simply assumes that north should be the default direction at the ‘top’ of the map, and that’s how it always has been. AS someone who has deliberately put maps “upside down” and challenged students to think about why – and as someone living in Australia – book that shows exactly how and north doesn’t HAVE to be the default top, and that historically it hasn’t been, is a wonderful thing.
Brotton mingles a lot of different ways of thinking about the world in this book. There’s linguistics – the ways in which different languages’ words for the cardinal directions reflect ideas about the sun, rising and leaving, and other culturally important ideas. Like ‘Orient’: it comes from the Latin for ‘rising’, as in the sun, and came to mean ‘east’… and of course ‘oriental’ has had a long and difficult career. But in English we still orient ourselves in space. Then there’s the connections with various types of weather, in various parts of the world, something I had not considered; and of course there’s an enormous amount of association with mythology from all over the world, often privileging the east and rarely making the west somewhere to be revered. (Three out of four cardinal directions have been regarded as most important over time and space; not the west, though.) Then of course there’s history, as humans learned what was actually out there in various directions, and associated people and places with specific directions (hello, Orient). And the act of cartography itself has had an impact on how people think about direction and the appearance of the world – Mercator, obviously, and the consequences of his projection particularly on Greenland, but even how vellum (real vellum, ie made from calfskin) was shaped and therefore impacted on how things were drawn on it.
Is the book perfect? No, of course not; it’s under 200 pages, it can’t account for every culture and language. But I do think it’s done a pretty good job of NOT privileging European languages; there’s an Indigenous Australian language referenced, which is rare. (I should note that anyone who thinks they can do any sort of navigation by the ‘south polar star’ like you can with the northern one is in for a very, very rude shock.) There is some reference to South American cultures, and I think passing reference to North American ones; some African cultures are also referenced. China and some other Asian societies get more space.
This is a really good introduction to the idea of the four directions having an actual history that is worth exploring for its consequences in our language and our history. The one thing that disappointed me is that there’s no reference to Treebeard’s comment about travelling south feeling like you’re walking downhill, which seems like a missed opportunity.
Cruel Nights, Jason Nahrung
There’s a lot going on in this novella, and all of it is good.
In the first place, there’s been a lot said about the problematic nature of ancient male vampires having a thing for the young ladies. Twilight took the idea of vampires not ageing and made them students (I have no idea how old Edward was when he turned; I watched the first film from a cultural studies perspective… anyway), so the lovers didn’t LOOK that different in age which I guess was meant to make it less squicky? Nahrung approaches the whole question of age and appearance from a different angle. I won’t say his focus is unique – vampires do not tend to be my thing, so maybe it’s been done a lot (see how I avoided ‘done to death’?). But it’s something that’s obvious, once it’s pointed out: what happens for someone who doesn’t seem to age if they’re in a relationship with someone who does age? How will the partner be perceived? The way the key relationship here is approached is the reason I read this in under a day.
Second, I like to think I would have picked up the Heart inspiration based on some of the chapter titles (Magic Man, in particular), if I didn’t already know, but certainly once I got to… well. A particular scene. If you know any of the more iconic Heart songs, you can probably guess what I’m referring to. (No, I am not talking about a big-toothed fish, or any metaphor along those lines.) I’ve read a lot of books that use music in various ways, and Nahrung’s done it very nicely.
Finally, in under 150 pages Nahrung manages to evoke the experience of growing up in Seattle in the 1990s, needing to move for work and love and all the hardship that entails, family love and drama, AS WELL AS the whole vampire aspect. It’s a compact story, tightly written – I can imagine this being turned into a massive novel or duology by another author, but it doesn’t need to be: the novella perfectly conveys Charlie and Corey’s experiences.
Highly enjoyable. Get it from Brain Jar Press.
Anna Karenina Isn’t Dead (anthology)
Take examples of literary women who were, generally for stupid reasons, or otherwise treated very poorly.
Give each a new story. Either still largely within the framework of their original existence, or in a completely new story.
Bring those stories together, and create an anthology. That’s what you have here.
I actually haven’t read Anna Karenina, although I knew that she died (spoilers!). There were several other examples in the anthology where I also didn’t know the source material. Fortunately, the editor and authors have considered this, and give a short introduction to each story so that they’re all as accessible as possible. Doesn’t matter if you don’t know Madame Bovary, or the story of Lady Trieu; you can still appreciate what the authors are doing for those women who have been treated so very badly.
Wendy gets to have adventures. Pandora defies the story set for her. Miss Havisham runs a bridal boutique. Mostly, though, the women live. And thrive. They may not all end up happy, but they do at least get a real story. It’s the least they deserve. Buy it from Clan Destine Press.
A Sorceress Comes to Call
Read via NetGalley. It’s out in August (sorry).
My experience of reading this went like this:
– Got the email that I was approved to read this.
– Thought, “oh, I’ll just download that so it’s ready to read.”
– Thought, “oh, I’ll just start it to see what it’s like.”
– A few hours later, thought, “oh. Now I’ve finished it and I no longer have a Kingfisher novel to look forward to.”
So that’s my tragedy. Of course, I DID get to read it in the first place, so it’s not MUCH of a tragedy.
This book is, unsurprisingly, fantastic. I adore Kingfisher’s work and this is another exemplar. Cordelia’s mother is able to literally control her body – she calls it ‘obedience’ – and as a result, even when she is in control of herself, Cordelia is always on her best behaviour. She has no other family, and no friends except for Falada, the horse, and the passing acquaintance of a neighbouring girl. She has no control over anything – doors are never to be closed in their house – and all she expects of the future is that she will marry a rich husband: so her mother has told her.
Things begin to change when her mother’s current ‘benefactor’ decides to stop seeing her, and providing for her. In order to remain in the style to which she is accustomed, Cordelia’s mother decides to find herself a rich husband, both so that she herself will be looked after and to aid in the effort to marry off Cordelia. This brings the pair into the orbit of Hester and her brother, a rich squire. Through the mother’s machinations, they come to stay at the squire’s house, and Cordelia’s mother sets about wooing the squire. Meanwhile, Hester gets to know Cordelia, and… well. As you might expect, there are ups and downs and revelations and terrible things happen and, eventually, most things turn out okay.
The writing is fast-paced and glorious. The characters are utterly believable. Apparently this is a spin on “The Goose Girl” but it’s not a tale I know very well, so I can’t tell you where Kingfisher is being particularly clever in that respect. But it makes no difference; this is a fabulous novel and Kingfisher just keeps bringing the awesome.
Lady Eve’s Last Con, Rebecca Fraimow
Read via NetGalley. It’s out in June 2024.
I was convinced that this must have been a second in a series – even when I was a third of the way through – but it turns out that the author has just set up a truly impressive amount of backstory for this one to happen. I mean, I know most good stories have their backstory, but this one REALLY felt like I was being given the “in case you don’t remember what happened in the last book” spiel.
Ruth is a con artist. Her latest con is playing Evelyn Ojukwu, shy and slightly naive debutant, with the aim of catching the eye – and hopefully a promise of marriage – from the incredibly wealthy Esteban. But she has no intention of marrying him: instead, it’s all about the money… and here’s where the backstory comes in: because Esteban done Ruth’s sister wrong, and this is a revenge game. The fact that Esteban has an awfully attractive, Don Juan-esque, half-sister is a complicating factor that Ruth hadn’t expected.
The book is set an unspecified long time in the future; humanity has spread to many different planets and systems (it took me until maybe halfway through to realise that this book was actually set on a satellite of Pluto). The details of how all of that side works are fuzzy and irrelevant. The distances involved, though, are a significant factor – there’s no super-fast communication between planets, for instance, and the lag is a critical one for both personal and business reasons, which Fraimow uses well.
I am amused by the idea that partner-catching would still be as much of a big deal in this sort of society as it’s portrayed to be in Regency England, and that the class issues are just as real. Because that’s basically what this is – it’s a Regency-like romance, with space travel and artificial gravity. It’s fluffy (that’s a positive term!) and light-hearted, with the nods to substance that show the author is quite well aware of what they’re doing, thank you very much. If you need something enjoyable, with a bit of tension and drama but the comforting knowledge that things will turn out ok, even if it’s not clear how, this book is what you need.
Shakespeare’s Sisters, Ramie Targoff
Read via NetGalley. It’s out now.
I’m here for pretty much any book that helps to prove Joanna Russ’ point that women have always written, and that society (men) have always tried to squash the memory of those women so that women don’t have a tradition to hold to. (See How to Suppress Women’s Writing.)
Mary Sidney, Aemilia Lanyer, Elizabeth Cary and Anne Clifford all overlapped for several decades in the late Elizabethan/ early Jacobean period in England – which, yes, means they also overlapped with Shakespeare. Hence the title, referencing Virginia Woolf’s warning that an imaginary sister of William’s, with equal talent, would have gone mad because she would not have been allowed to write. Targoff doesn’t claim it was always easy for these women to write – especially for Lanyer, the only non-aristocrat. What she does show, though, is the sheer determination of these women TO write. And they were often writing what would be classified as feminist work, too: biblical stories from a woman’s perspective, for instance. And they were also often getting themselves published – also a feminist, revolutionary move. A woman in public?? Horror!
Essentially this book is a short biography of each of the women, gneerally focusing on their education and then their writing – what they wrote, speculating on why they wrote, and how they managed to do so (finding the time, basically). There’s also an exploration of what happened to their work: some of it was published during their respective lifetimes; some of it was misattributed (another note connecting this to Russ: Mary Sidney’s work, in particular, was often attributed to her brother instead. Which is exactly one of the moves that Russ identifies in the suppression game). Some of it was lost and only came to light in the 20th century, or was only acknowledged as worthy then. Almost incidentally this is also a potted history of England in the time, because of who these women were – three of the four being aristocrats, one ending up the greatest heiress in England, and all having important family connections. You don’t need to know much about England in the period to understand what’s going on.
Targoff has written an excellent history here. There’s not TOO many names to keep track of; she has kept her sights firmly on the women as the centre of the narrative; she explains some otherwise confusing issues very neatly. Her style is a delight to read – very engaging and warm, she picks the interesting details to focus on, and basically I would not hesitate to pick up another book by her. This is an excellent introduction to four women whose work should play an important part in the history of English literature.
Randomly Yours, Alex 