I absolutely adore Jeff VanderMeer’s work. This is the eighth book of his that I’ve read, and the first I’ve ever disliked. Still love Jeff, he remains one of my favorite authors, but this was a slog. I wish I had more to say, but that is that.
This book is just fun. YA enemies-to-lovers romance in a neon technodystopia with plenty of twists and turns, banter, and action. Ticking clock style plot makes for fast-turning pages.
Ok. So, I have learned that every book Andy Weir writes seems to be narrated by more or less the same character with Andy Weir’s personality. This feature of his writing is tiresome to me, as is the constant need to meticulously explain why the science of x, y, or z would totally work in real life. For these reasons, I almost DNF’ed this book and launched it into proverbial space to find a more appreciative reader.
However, once Rocky appeared, I became so smitten that I overwhelmingly enjoyed the second half. It’s a great book. Fine, I admit it. Thank goodness Rocky came along–he’s my hero.
Reading any speculative pandemic novel after living during an actual global pandemic hits differently than I’m sure could even have been imagined by a writer publishing her book in 2014. But, strangely enough, that’s kind of what this book is about: the unexpected weight that art can carry due to the way time changes us, the serendipity of personal reactions and importance, the way old lines read anew in previously unthinkable contexts. This novel is incredible–beautifully crafted, poignant but unforgiving, and very aware about what aspects of our world are at turns precious, cheap, rare, or remarkable. Just gorgeous.
Few authors have the guts to write something that is wildly, fantastically strange and dead serious at the same time. Peng Shepherd has the guts, and her novel The Book of M is a stunner. Technically audacious, plotted with clear eyes, and emotionally searing, this sci-fi epic is a new classic. From an emotional standpoint, this one was personally difficult for me to get through. (If you’ve ever been close to someone who has suffered from debilitating memory loss, there are many tough moments to swallow.) But that doesn’t make the book any less brilliant.
I absolutely love the cinematic, pulp-meets-literary quality of Benjamin Percy’s writing. His pacing is fearless and fast, and this second installment in his Comet Cycle is a wild, dark, slippery ride filled with horrors and lots of very wonderfully gross mushroom action. But also banter. I liked this book even more than the first (would totally work as a standalone). I’m excited to see even more of Percy’s twisted imagination unleashed in the next installment. What on earth… or elsewhere… could be next?
We Have Always Been Here is a brave, inventive debut that is full of slow simmering suspicion and robot secrets. Structurally interesting, packed with contemplation and action alike, Lena Nguyen’s novel tackles the classic AI science fiction questions from a perspective I’ve never seen before–that of a protagonist who is very much physically human, but feels more like she herself is an android. Both a hard sci-fi mystery and an allegory for coping with emotional isolation, this story takes new angles on the standard discussions of the genre. Favorite part: Glenn backstory.
Donna Barba Higuera brings us a radiant YA/middle grade novel that blends folklore and visions of the American Southwest with a futuristic “arc ship” sci-fi tale in which one brave girl is the last human who remembers Earth. It’s a story that celebrates story, and a wonderful, empowering book for young people who see their imagination as their greatest gift. (Also, what a cover!)
Becky Chambers brings us a beautiful, gentle little book in A Psalm for the Wild-Built. The novel envisions a lovely future where human beings have figured it all out and sentient robots are living in their own natural utopia. The descriptions are gorgeous and the book provides a nurturing space for all of us who need to take a moment to remember who we are and why we’re here. It’s a fun solarpunk meditation walk, filled with humor, contemplation, and the earnest hijinks of a delightful robot named Mosscap. Also, this book will really, really make you want to have some good tea and to upgrade your bedroom linens and pillows.
Sidenote: As someone who has also read The Wild Robot, I strongly feel that Mosscap and Roz are related.
How High We Go in the Dark is structurally fascinating. It reminded me of the way family stories get passed down, and we end up remembering names from someone else’s memory because the names were important… even if we don’t really grasp why or to whom. We learn about important moments from lives that never touched ours, but yet treasure those seeds of information and carry them with us, believing they’re a part of our story, too. (Does that make sense?) What I’m driving at is Nagamatsu’s intentional, recursive setting down and picking up of themes in different time periods, and different lives, all ones that are struggling through the great challenges of living on planet earth. This novel imagines the fractal-patterned fallout of grief on a global scale as it manifests in individual experiences. It’s surprising, timely, and affecting.