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lkedzie's reviews
311 reviews
When Among Crows by Veronica Roth
adventurous
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
2.75
The book opens with our protagonist...er...we do not really know that they are our protagonist, but our protagonist is getting a powerful flower through an archery contest with a nature spirit in a Chicago Park District facility.
That pretty well lays out the entire plot, really. Were I inclined to be derisive, I would call it a sort of Mad Libs project where this is indistinguishable from any other urban fantasy, save its inclusions of both "Slavic folklore" and "Chicago," the former that you usually have to pull from The Witcher series (one of the inspirations cited by the author), the latter that have several contenders in the fantasy space, but - to this book's credit - none with as much veracity of the City So Real. (Maybe not the Uber to the steel mill.)
Except that it is also not Polish mythology, in that sort of way of Urban Fantasy that cannot resist hitting frappe and mixing in any other good mythological bits from other cultures, or otherwise treating them as a uniform whole of mythic existence. All of course operating under the noses of mere mortals, with the less mere of them doing something about it.
There are high notes. The action scenes are good. The Twist is the best kind, one that you foresee but hope is not going to happen (and of course it does). The magic was great, embracing the way that I always want to see magic work. And look, havingBaba Jaga the reason for the Uptown Theater being as it is and having her live over the Buena Park Harold's is a level of genius that makes me want to pay for the author's Chicago flag tattoo.
The book however spends too much time dwelling in explanations on the ways of the supernatural and what everything is called and really is, and the romance feels distinctly Bioware. But it is short and fun. Maybe not unique, but definitely distinctive.
That pretty well lays out the entire plot, really. Were I inclined to be derisive, I would call it a sort of Mad Libs project where this is indistinguishable from any other urban fantasy, save its inclusions of both "Slavic folklore" and "Chicago," the former that you usually have to pull from The Witcher series (one of the inspirations cited by the author), the latter that have several contenders in the fantasy space, but - to this book's credit - none with as much veracity of the City So Real. (Maybe not the Uber to the steel mill.)
Except that it is also not Polish mythology, in that sort of way of Urban Fantasy that cannot resist hitting frappe and mixing in any other good mythological bits from other cultures, or otherwise treating them as a uniform whole of mythic existence. All of course operating under the noses of mere mortals, with the less mere of them doing something about it.
There are high notes. The action scenes are good. The Twist is the best kind, one that you foresee but hope is not going to happen (and of course it does). The magic was great, embracing the way that I always want to see magic work. And look, having
The book however spends too much time dwelling in explanations on the ways of the supernatural and what everything is called and really is, and the romance feels distinctly Bioware. But it is short and fun. Maybe not unique, but definitely distinctive.
Hell House by Richard Matheson
emotional
sad
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? It's complicated
- Flaws of characters a main focus? No
3.5
Hell house: like Hill House, but with an a!
The premise of Hell House is that of Hill House, where a diverse set of people, some with diverse supernatural talents, allegedly, go to investigate a haunted house of considerable repute. The similarity extends to the leader, a professor who occupies a sort of liminal space as both most skeptic and most believer, and his wife, who invites herself.
The differences mount quickly though, starting with how the all the sexual and romantic attraction of Hill, often overstated in discussion, are in Hell fully turgid and exposed, in a way that slips right past spicy and into something resembling explotation cinema. Mattheson, always with the screenwriter's chops, is at full form here. The horror scenes are visual and memorably scary, more than in Hill which can be frustrating in its uncertainty.
In fact, subtlety overall is not the book's think. There is a maxim about horror that it is about the problems that the characters bring into the setting that the get laid bare by the unnatural occurrences. In Hell, this is lampshaded. Not only is it unclear to the reader, it is unclear to the characters, and something worried over.
Both Hill and Hell are about the animus of the place, to the point that discussing this plot-central facet much further is full of spoliers. However, they both take this notion and run with it in opposite directions. This makes Hell less scary than Hill to me. This is a matter of your taste in horror however.
One thing is for sure: the creators of the Netflix series The Haunting of Hill House definitely read Hell House. The same goes for The September House. Curiously, this makes me regard the Nexflix series lower and Orlando's book higher.
There are three things that make Hell a weaker story than Hill. The first is not a fault, not really, but Hell operates as a much more conventional horror story. It does so well - again, Matheson is unimpeachable in his skills around this - but I find it harder to rate up with Hill, which transcends genre, with Jackson at the peak of her skills. The second is an artifact of history, which is that the decades in which the respective stories are set (50s for Hill and 70s for Hell) create a much less appealing mise en scene.
The third is the real issue here, which is that the opening of Hell is much weaker. Or maybe it is the characterization in general. Often the difference between good and bad horror is not the scary parts, but the interstitial material, how it makes you feel about these people and where it all leads. Hell takes a long time for it to create any sort of investment in the characters or their situation, introducing various interesting but dissatisfactory elements that lack trenchancy.
Hill is so far from that, so far, in a way that is superior to all other fiction, so it is a tough comparable. But I might have cashiered out were it not Matheson. It does get there, starting at about a fourth of the way in, but still the pathos is in the situation, more than the characters.
The upside to writing a more traditional haunted house is that Matheson is able to provide Hell with a satisfactory solve, something that others complain about Hill, and this keeps it in the highly readable category, but I was disappointed here. Not because Hell and Hill are comparable or it is a knockoff, but because Hell fails to live up to its high reputation.
The premise of Hell House is that of Hill House, where a diverse set of people, some with diverse supernatural talents, allegedly, go to investigate a haunted house of considerable repute. The similarity extends to the leader, a professor who occupies a sort of liminal space as both most skeptic and most believer, and his wife, who invites herself.
The differences mount quickly though, starting with how the all the sexual and romantic attraction of Hill, often overstated in discussion, are in Hell fully turgid and exposed, in a way that slips right past spicy and into something resembling explotation cinema. Mattheson, always with the screenwriter's chops, is at full form here. The horror scenes are visual and memorably scary, more than in Hill which can be frustrating in its uncertainty.
In fact, subtlety overall is not the book's think. There is a maxim about horror that it is about the problems that the characters bring into the setting that the get laid bare by the unnatural occurrences. In Hell, this is lampshaded. Not only is it unclear to the reader, it is unclear to the characters, and something worried over.
Both Hill and Hell are about the animus of the place, to the point that discussing this plot-central facet much further is full of spoliers. However, they both take this notion and run with it in opposite directions. This makes Hell less scary than Hill to me. This is a matter of your taste in horror however.
One thing is for sure: the creators of the Netflix series The Haunting of Hill House definitely read Hell House. The same goes for The September House. Curiously, this makes me regard the Nexflix series lower and Orlando's book higher.
There are three things that make Hell a weaker story than Hill. The first is not a fault, not really, but Hell operates as a much more conventional horror story. It does so well - again, Matheson is unimpeachable in his skills around this - but I find it harder to rate up with Hill, which transcends genre, with Jackson at the peak of her skills. The second is an artifact of history, which is that the decades in which the respective stories are set (50s for Hill and 70s for Hell) create a much less appealing mise en scene.
The third is the real issue here, which is that the opening of Hell is much weaker. Or maybe it is the characterization in general. Often the difference between good and bad horror is not the scary parts, but the interstitial material, how it makes you feel about these people and where it all leads. Hell takes a long time for it to create any sort of investment in the characters or their situation, introducing various interesting but dissatisfactory elements that lack trenchancy.
Hill is so far from that, so far, in a way that is superior to all other fiction, so it is a tough comparable. But I might have cashiered out were it not Matheson. It does get there, starting at about a fourth of the way in, but still the pathos is in the situation, more than the characters.
The upside to writing a more traditional haunted house is that Matheson is able to provide Hell with a satisfactory solve, something that others complain about Hill, and this keeps it in the highly readable category, but I was disappointed here. Not because Hell and Hill are comparable or it is a knockoff, but because Hell fails to live up to its high reputation.
Midworld by Alan Dean Foster
3.0
It's an inverse, plant-based, Independence Day.
Born's hanging out on the home-tree with his ursine hexapod, miffed that buff Losting is about to steal his girl, when Born's natural curiosity leads him to discover that there's a whole universe out there, which leads to a sort of first contact in reverse with the humans showing up in a flying saucer on the planet of the "aliens".
Foster occasionally writes like he's being paid for the trips you make to the dictionary, or at least assumes that you know plants and plant anatomy well. And it's the world building that is the star of the show here on an overly verdant world. There are weird predators and fantastical visions, and great sci-fi thinking about how you would perceive things on a planet like that. The plot is sharp and while the characters are a bit antiquated, Foster plays with the tropes here to produce unexpected results.
My gripe is with the message, which is covered without subtext, from the narrator, within dialog, and in internal character thought. Now, I'm not here to tell you that bulldozing forests is a good thing, actually, but I am going to say that it's a particular sort of 60-70s environmentalism. I am onboard with the sentiment that man is part of nature, and must act that way, but some of the big showdown scenes lost their steam for me when it felt like a dueling pair of straw men. Not, again, out of the author's intent to provide a bad argument but because there are years of additional discussion, sadly, and some of them hold less water.
Born's hanging out on the home-tree with his ursine hexapod, miffed that buff Losting is about to steal his girl, when Born's natural curiosity leads him to discover that there's a whole universe out there, which leads to a sort of first contact in reverse with the humans showing up in a flying saucer on the planet of the "aliens".
Foster occasionally writes like he's being paid for the trips you make to the dictionary, or at least assumes that you know plants and plant anatomy well. And it's the world building that is the star of the show here on an overly verdant world. There are weird predators and fantastical visions, and great sci-fi thinking about how you would perceive things on a planet like that. The plot is sharp and while the characters are a bit antiquated, Foster plays with the tropes here to produce unexpected results.
My gripe is with the message, which is covered without subtext, from the narrator, within dialog, and in internal character thought. Now, I'm not here to tell you that bulldozing forests is a good thing, actually, but I am going to say that it's a particular sort of 60-70s environmentalism. I am onboard with the sentiment that man is part of nature, and must act that way, but some of the big showdown scenes lost their steam for me when it felt like a dueling pair of straw men. Not, again, out of the author's intent to provide a bad argument but because there are years of additional discussion, sadly, and some of them hold less water.
Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly (Updated Edition) by Anthony Bourdain
3.0
Into the Drowning Deep by Mira Grant
1.0
I'm also a sucker for the weird deep. If there's an opposite to thalassophobia, I've got that. But I did not like this book.
They say, in writing, to show, not tell. I was unprepared for a book that tells, shows, then tells again. It is as if the writer was not being paid by the word, but by the ounce. Everything is overdescribed, overexplained, and retold again in case you missed it, but not in the manner of bad writing, rather in the manner of the narrator addressing the unspoken alien reading the book.
The characters that are meant to be likable are unlikable. The characters that are meant to be unlikable aren't characters, but Captain Planet villains. And there are so many of them. Their introduction is like the catalog of ships from the Iliad - no, really, it's two characters taking about each of the other characters as they come by - except that then there are more characters, many more, mostly unnamed. There are so many damn people and I do not know why.
The plot is the worst kind of plot, where it feels unrealistic but has no point of unrealism to point to. Yes, I know that complaining about realism in a monster book is wrong, but the book seems so concerned with the realism of the monsters, veering into Moby Dick territory with its investigation of anatomy, so plainly the realism is important to the author. I can't judge the science, but I can judge the story structure.
I think of the opposite of Chekov's gun as being Deus Ex Machina, but the plot here challenges that definition, where things that feel really, really important to the plot or the resolution occur without future context. Others, where the narrator takes what amounts to a fourth-wall break to mention, repeatedly, amount to nothing at all.
The ending is almost cool. There's some fridge logic...okay, a substantial amount of fridge logic, but as above, strict realism is a limited virtue. But then nothing. There really isn't an ending, so much as a sort of arbitrary point of climax, a funny enough joke, and an epilogue that re-establishes what we already know. So much is left unaddressed. Again, I'm not looking for the socioeconomic or philosophical ramifications of what just happened, but, gee, if I were interested in any of the sixteen other characters I am left only with a sense that they are not dead. I do not know how their plots resolved. I could, I assume, piece some of it together from the epigrams that start off chapters, but look, this ain't House of Leaves.
And now I would like to turn to the wokeness.
Assuming a vaudeville crook does not rip me away as I key this, I venture into this with delicacy. I like books with diverse casts. Between you me and the cat, I think that something like representation in the text is tertiary to having diverse authors, publishers, and other staff writing and producing the books, but it is important in books. I am sensitive to how complaints about diversity is a racist dogwhistle. I recall Justice Ginsburg's line to the appropriate number of women on the Supreme Court. And I'm doubtful of my ability to appropriately assess things.
But look, in an aesthetic sense, there are better and worse ways to be inclusive in a novel. There is no singular way of doing it, and the answer is not 'don't do it' like so many of the typical complainants assert. But there is good and there is bad. I'd give examples but doing so would run against my point of there being no one way. I think, though, that it relates to the show, don't tell factor. Make it their character.
It may be that the combination of this with the prolix descriptors makes for an awful read, where every time the narrative swings to certain characters suddenly we dive into yet another explanation of what it feels like to be an Evangelical Latino Veteran and how that background is influencing what is happening here and now, and, as you know Bob, here is the history of the Protestant church in Honduras. The result, even if unintentional, is the author showing off how much they know about traditionally marginalized people and their life, and how deeply they feel their problems. It is not useless, as there are instances when it is okay, and it is not particular (not Honduran history qua Honduran history), but you used your word count thusly?
The only virtue, absent the fact that it was long and took me a long time to read, so I have an immense sense of value for my money, is that the gore and violence descriptions around characters dying are, for the most part, quite good. Though even there is a bit of a cheat, where much (all?) of the unnamed cast is killed off-screen and then repped by grim descriptors about the ship, which could have been effective, but this books determination to show how much they don't matter makes me feel like it doesn't.
This author is a HuLN winner. I am not reading any of their other books.
They say, in writing, to show, not tell. I was unprepared for a book that tells, shows, then tells again. It is as if the writer was not being paid by the word, but by the ounce. Everything is overdescribed, overexplained, and retold again in case you missed it, but not in the manner of bad writing, rather in the manner of the narrator addressing the unspoken alien reading the book.
The characters that are meant to be likable are unlikable. The characters that are meant to be unlikable aren't characters, but Captain Planet villains. And there are so many of them. Their introduction is like the catalog of ships from the Iliad - no, really, it's two characters taking about each of the other characters as they come by - except that then there are more characters, many more, mostly unnamed. There are so many damn people and I do not know why.
The plot is the worst kind of plot, where it feels unrealistic but has no point of unrealism to point to. Yes, I know that complaining about realism in a monster book is wrong, but the book seems so concerned with the realism of the monsters, veering into Moby Dick territory with its investigation of anatomy, so plainly the realism is important to the author. I can't judge the science, but I can judge the story structure.
I think of the opposite of Chekov's gun as being Deus Ex Machina, but the plot here challenges that definition, where things that feel really, really important to the plot or the resolution occur without future context. Others, where the narrator takes what amounts to a fourth-wall break to mention, repeatedly, amount to nothing at all.
The ending is almost cool. There's some fridge logic...okay, a substantial amount of fridge logic, but as above, strict realism is a limited virtue. But then nothing. There really isn't an ending, so much as a sort of arbitrary point of climax, a funny enough joke, and an epilogue that re-establishes what we already know. So much is left unaddressed. Again, I'm not looking for the socioeconomic or philosophical ramifications of what just happened, but, gee, if I were interested in any of the sixteen other characters I am left only with a sense that they are not dead. I do not know how their plots resolved. I could, I assume, piece some of it together from the epigrams that start off chapters, but look, this ain't House of Leaves.
And now I would like to turn to the wokeness.
Assuming a vaudeville crook does not rip me away as I key this, I venture into this with delicacy. I like books with diverse casts. Between you me and the cat, I think that something like representation in the text is tertiary to having diverse authors, publishers, and other staff writing and producing the books, but it is important in books. I am sensitive to how complaints about diversity is a racist dogwhistle. I recall Justice Ginsburg's line to the appropriate number of women on the Supreme Court. And I'm doubtful of my ability to appropriately assess things.
But look, in an aesthetic sense, there are better and worse ways to be inclusive in a novel. There is no singular way of doing it, and the answer is not 'don't do it' like so many of the typical complainants assert. But there is good and there is bad. I'd give examples but doing so would run against my point of there being no one way. I think, though, that it relates to the show, don't tell factor. Make it their character.
It may be that the combination of this with the prolix descriptors makes for an awful read, where every time the narrative swings to certain characters suddenly we dive into yet another explanation of what it feels like to be an Evangelical Latino Veteran and how that background is influencing what is happening here and now, and, as you know Bob, here is the history of the Protestant church in Honduras. The result, even if unintentional, is the author showing off how much they know about traditionally marginalized people and their life, and how deeply they feel their problems. It is not useless, as there are instances when it is okay, and it is not particular (not Honduran history qua Honduran history), but you used your word count thusly?
The only virtue, absent the fact that it was long and took me a long time to read, so I have an immense sense of value for my money, is that the gore and violence descriptions around characters dying are, for the most part, quite good. Though even there is a bit of a cheat, where much (all?) of the unnamed cast is killed off-screen and then repped by grim descriptors about the ship, which could have been effective, but this books determination to show how much they don't matter makes me feel like it doesn't.
This author is a HuLN winner. I am not reading any of their other books.
The Luminous Dead by Caitlin Starling
3.0
It's as if Mary Shelly went to Lascaux instead of Lake Geneva in 1816.
I didn't like this book, but I kept reading. I'm not afraid to DNF something, but something else kept me reading. I think that I couldn't articulate why it was that I didn't like it.
With only two characters the book is set entirely in a cave. Like, not an analogy, but an actual cave. One thing that I admire about some science fiction, Ender's Game shoots to mind, is how it can describe something complex or non-intuitive in understandable terms. Here I admit that I was frequently lost or trying to catch up, because the action of caving is difficult and technical.
What eventually, very late in the book, pushed me off the proverbial fence and into the like yard is when it hit me that this is a science fiction take on a gothic novel, and a traditional one at that. Probably more Henry James than Mary Shelly, but I think that the joke works better that way.
When I realized that, everything falls into place, to the point that it wholly reconstructed my thoughts on the novel. I still think that it's more of good novel than a likable novel: atmospheric and intense, dry but very haunted.
I didn't like this book, but I kept reading. I'm not afraid to DNF something, but something else kept me reading. I think that I couldn't articulate why it was that I didn't like it.
With only two characters
Spoiler
(or are there...)What eventually, very late in the book, pushed me off the proverbial fence and into the like yard is when it hit me that this is a science fiction take on a gothic novel, and a traditional one at that. Probably more Henry James than Mary Shelly, but I think that the joke works better that way.
When I realized that, everything falls into place, to the point that it wholly reconstructed my thoughts on the novel. I still think that it's more of good novel than a likable novel: atmospheric and intense, dry but very haunted.