From the review . . .

Starter Villain was published by Tor in the latter half of a ten-year contract with John Scalzi. Signed in 2015, the contract stipulated a thirteen-book deal with an advance worth $3.4 million dollars. The publishers were evidently pleased with this arrangement because they signed another deal with Scalzi in 2024 for another ten books. Starter Villain won a prize and its subject matter widened Scalzi’s fan base. I mean, until this year Scalzi was not within the scope of my reading choices. Scalzi has been doing what any professional writer is meant to do for their publisher. He is popular and has earned them money. Nothing wrong with that!

From the review . . .

I do find that King’s writing of Charlie is particularly interesting. He is coloured as a villain but he is also somewhat an antihero, which is a particularly fascinating take. He is not designed to be utterly unlikeable, which I think is perhaps the most dangerous thing about him. He does his best to be convincing and savvy, filtering in violence piece by piece, but that is critical to his character. I find him interesting as a study because if you peel away even just a corner of the veneer, you see a particularly ugly sight: his philosophy is flawed at best, and it shows a really interesting view into the mind of an utterly psychopathic teenage boy.

From the review . . .

If you know anything about Sheridan Le Fanu’s vampire classic, Carmilla, before you start to read it, you will probably know that Bram Stoker was highly influenced by the novel when he wrote Dracula. In fact, Le Fanu was Stoker’s employer when he first started his career. Stoker worked as a theatre critic for the Dublin Evening Mail, the paper Le Fanu co-owned with Dr Henry Maunsell, himself a medical doctor and journalist. Most of what you can read about Carmilla will tell you that it predated Dracula by 25 years (Carmilla was published in 1871, Dracula, 1897) while my edition also claims, “Carmilla is the original vampire story”. This is not true. Tales of vampires appear as early as the mid-eighteenth century, and the nineteenth saw the publication of some key vampire texts, including John Polidori's The Vampyre (1819), itself inspired by a story written by Lord Byron, as well as Varney the Vampire, serialised as a Penny Dreadful from 1845 – 1847. Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s narrative poem, Cristabel, left unfinished, arguably has vampiric overtones which may have been fully realised had Coleridge completed it. In fact, it is considered a possible influence on Le Fanu’s Carmilla.

From the review . . .

It was only after I finished reading Eileen that I realised the book was giving me Wasp Factory vibes. For anyone who knows Iain Banks’ classic story of Frank Cauldhame, growing up on a small island just off the Scottish coast with his father, the connection may seem tenuous, even spurious. Eileen, the titular character, is a twenty-four-year-old woman living with her father in a small American town she calls X-ville. Like Frank, she is a loner. Her relationship with her father (as well as her now-dead mother) is a factor in her awkward sense of self. And as in Frank’s story, we know everything is building to something awful, a crime Eileen will commit, a fact she often foreshadows. Eileen makes the subject of her story clear: “This is not a story of how awful my father was” she tells us quite early on; rather, “This is the story of how I disappeared.”

From the review . . .

The genre is SoCal Noir, a murder mystery in the sunshine of Los Angeles city and county. Before going further, a preliminary remark is in order to quell the pedants. Kenneth Millar insisted that his pseudonym, Ross Macdonald, be spelled as it is here, no interior capital on that letter ‘d.’ He did that to distinguish the name from another murder mystery genre writer, that is, the John D. MacDonald with a pair of extravagant capital ‘D’s.’ However, all too frequently the author’s name gets the unwanted interior capital ‘D’ on some of the books. Moreover, the auto-complete and spell-checker have to be tamed to respect his wishes. So be it. But then a writer as famed as George Orwell fought and lost a similar battle when he insisted in the publishing contract that the title Nineteen Eighty-Four be spelled out in letters and not put into the numbers 1984. You would never know that to see this book on shelves or web pages. After some comments on The Instant Enemy, there is a further discussion of the author and his alter ego.

From the review . . .

Something I like about Caraval is the relationship between Scarlett and Tella. I really like Scarlett! She is a realistic depiction of a paranoid and insecure girl. She worries so much about everything she does, whether or not she has done the right thing. She goes on and on, agonising for entire pages over every possible outcome, and she gets frustrated with herself, which is accurate! We see less of Tella due to plot reasons, but the way Scarlett talks about her, their memories, what they've been through, and what annoys them about each-other, feels so real and so heart-warming. I see my sister and myself in them.

From the review . . .

Having been a fan of the films (with a clear acknowledgement of the franchise’s many vast shortfalls), it has been a long-time ambition of mine to read the novels that have inspired the cinema icon that is James Bond. It is well known that Casino Royale, not Dr. No, is the first chronological outing for the titular title character, but I was ill-prepared for just how haphazardly the filmmakers had jumbled the order of the stories around to make for better cinema (one assumes).

From the review . . .

The Athsheans are a peaceful people. They live in innumerable tribes across the forest. There is no fighting among them. The concepts of violence and domination are alien to them. They are unable to understand humans as much as humans are unable to understand them. The Athsheans are wired differently from us. They sleep and wake at different times of the day than us. But to them, even more important than sleep is dreaming; especially dreaming that is deliberately done while awake. The Dream World provides them the archetypes and ideas through which they make sense of the world around them. They believe the Dream World is equally real as the material world. The human inability to dream like them is seen as a kind of sickness. They believe the humans take drugs because they don’t know how to dream.

From the review . . .

This is a novel about self-discovery and widening one’s perception. Much further into the novel, when Lyra is well into her journey, she meets an elderly man on a train who is attempting to keep a young child amused. He produces a pack of cards which have various illustrated scenes. The cards can be placed in any order and they will form a continuing picture which can be interpreted as a narrative: a Myriorama. The elderly gentleman uses the cards to tell stories to the child and he later leaves the deck for Lyra while she sleeps, along with a note warning her to be careful: “These are difficult times”. His warning suggests a link between his simple diversion and the wider realities of Lyra’s world.

From the review . . .

Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot have transcended their originators, Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie. Other writers have, within the limits of copyright laws, revived these two fictional detectives and put them back to work. And they are not alone; the one-named Spenser of Robert Parker, Jim Chee of Tony Hillerman, and Evariste Pel of Mark Hebden, all have had second and third reincarnations. Philip Marlowe, sprung from the brow of Raymond Chandler, joined these ranks in 2014 when The Black Eyed Blonde appeared from the keyboard of Benjamin Black. This is a Marlowe who is older but no wiser than he should be.

From the review . . .

Shirley Jackson’s 1959 The Haunting of Hill House is a critically acclaimed haunted-house novel, one which has arguably reached canonical status not only in the horror genre but in the field of American literature as a whole. Jackson writes in her 1962 essay ‘Experience and Fiction’ that The Haunting of Hill House is largely inspired by the true story of several nineteenth century “psychic researchers” who studied a supposedly haunted house. Upon reading their notes, what Jackson found “was not the story of a haunted house, it was the story of several earnest, I believe misguided, certainly determined people, with their differing motivations and backgrounds.” Arguably, this description can also be applied to Jackson’s resulting novel. Where it is quite light on supernatural horror, it is heavy with complex, flawed, and human characters – as Jackson herself puts it, “earnest, . . . misguided, certainly determined people . . .”

From the review . . .

Peril at End House was the first Christie mystery that I didn’t enjoy the first time I read it. The reason I didn’t enjoy it is a strange one – I solved the mystery. I thought it was obvious, with several clues that jumped off the page and slapped me in the face. Perhaps some people like being able to solve a Christie mystery, but I prefer it when the solution comes out of left field, and looking back, I see all the subtle clues I’d missed. On this reread I also found Poirot’s actions at the end unpalatable.

From the review . . .

Bad Man by Dathan Auerbach is an atmospheric horror, set primarily in a grocery store. If a nightshift stocking shelves in a grocery superstore sounds creepy to you, I recommend picking this up. The setting truly makes the novel. Auerbach draws from his own experience as a grocery stockboy, offering illustrative descriptions of mundane yet threatening equipment: the thunderous air conditioning, the industrial freezer, and, most hauntingly, the cardboard baler, a massive mechanical press that condenses cardboard into large, heavy bricks. Auerbach immerses the reader in the ghostliness of the afterhours store and the mugginess of the Florida nights. He compels the reader to almost wish they could explore the empty grocery store themself. It feels like there is an infinity of secrets to find there, especially because, in the opening of the story, it is revealed that the protagonist’s brother, a toddler at the time, disappeared there, seeming to vanish into the very air.

From the review . . .

The Shining is perhaps one of the stories most associated with King across his time as a writer; it is almost synonymous with him. It’s also, rather unfortunately, associated with Staney Kubrick’s cinematic interpretation and one very specific carpet pattern that I’ve wanted in my living room since time immemorial.

From the review . . .

Swallows and Amazons was published in 1930. It was the first of what became a series of twelve books (with a thirteenth unfinished) that follow the adventures of English children in the Lakes District and other waterways. In this first book the Walker children, John (12 years old), Susan (11), Titty (9), and Roger (7) are visiting Holly Howe farm with their mother and baby sister. As part of their stay, they have been given permission to use a small sailing dinghy, the Swallow, so they can explore the lake and camp on an uninhabited island. The lake and island are Arthur Ransome’s imaginative amalgamation of different locations in England’s Lake District. Peel Island in Coniston Water provided Ransome with the idea of a secret harbour for his story, which was used as a location in two film adaptations. Blake Holme in Windermere is thought to have also inspired other descriptions of the island.

From the review . . .

In Canto XX of The Inferno Dante had futurists with their heads on backwards walking forward around the fourth pit of the eighth circle of Hell. These fortune tellers, seers, and oracles were the futurists of their age. A timely example of such divinations is one edited by Roger Darvall and Morris Coath, called Australia 2025 published by the Electrolux Corporation which once promoted vacuum cleaners with the memorable slogan: ‘Nothing sucks like an Electrolux.’

In the 1960s and 1970s there were ranks of daredevils who risked Dante’s curse by looking into the future as futurism, futurology, and futuristics were the fashion de jour. Moreover, many who plied this dark art did not advertise it with such terms but nonetheless aped the practice while marching under other banners. In the prosperous optimism of the time the future seemed plastic, ready to bend to human will.

From the review . . .

The six novels which form Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials and The Book of Dust, are nominally children’s fiction. They are written at a level suitable for children with protagonists who are children or, at least, are children to begin with. But the novels are far more sophisticated and philosophical than we might expect from most fiction written for children. Of course there are always exceptions, like Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince, even Milne’s Winnie the Pooh. Everyone will be able to make their own list. But what sets Pullman’s books apart is their self-conscious sophistication: their overt literary allusions and their use of philosophical, religious and scientific thought. Despite this, the novels are highly accessible for children, and would likely be read with pleasure by many adults, too. When I first read Northern Lights, the first book in His Dark Materials trilogy, I felt strongly drawn into the world Pullman had created. Pullman’s story was set in London and Oxford, it seemed, but it was a version that was unfamiliar. Characters had dæmons, which wasn’t immediately explained, and Pullman’s world seemed like an older and more magical version of our own. The world building was intriguing, as was the story. Then there were mysteries, like the whispered rumours of children who were being taken by the ‘Gobblers’, as well as fantastical elements like witches and armoured bears. Who could resist? But His Dark Materials also draws upon scientific theories about Dark Matter and from religion, albeit couched in fantastical terms accessible for children, and it has an epic sweep with pretensions rivalling Milton’s Paradise Lost. Clearly, Pullman had more on his mind than a light entertainment when he wrote these books.

From the review . . .

Albert Camus’s The Stranger is an examination of a life without any meaning, attachments or feeling. It is a very short book that is divided into two parts, told from the point of view of Monsieur Meursault. In the first part, we see him live his daily life and attitude towards society. He has a girlfriend and a job with “growth prospects”. He is disconnected with everything around him and does not have a care in life. In the second part we see him stand trial for murder and his life in jail while awaiting execution by guillotine.

From the review . . .

To be frank, Hicks is one of the least interesting characters in Shadow Ticket, a novel populated with a cast of colourful characters. But he has his moments. One of his best scenes involves a confrontation with two of Peppino’s goons, Nunzi and Dominic, who are sent to intimidate him over April. Instead, Hicks turns their aggression against them. He knocks out Dominic and Nunzi is smart enough to beg for a release form to show Peppino they actually tried to do their job. There’s another good scene in which Hicks is handed a ticking package wrapped in Christmas paper by two thugs who describe themselves as “Santa’s elves”. It’s much like a scene from a Looney Tunes cartoon, in which there is likely going to be a comic explosion. That’s Pynchon. His scenes are populated by detectives, femme fatales, prohibition police, Nazis and any other manner of person or group that would normally lend themselves to drama, yet Pynchon twists the situation into farce.

From the review . . .

Scalzi’s worldbuilding is absolutely fascinating, mixing real science with the fantastical and Godzilla lore. Nuclear blasts cause the barriers between universes to tear. There is a universe where humanity never happened and the world is instead roamed by gargantuan creatures. They seek our nuclear power for sustenance. They are living nuclear reactors.

From the review . . .

Readers of Kuang’s two previous novels will feel somewhat familiar with the circumstances and tenets of Katabasis. These are stories of academia or writing – campus novels – along with their attendant concerns. Kuang’s life experience resides in academia and she is well placed to articulate its attractions and its torturous uncertainties. In fact, Kuang’s evocation of academia as hell is not subtle in that she literally turns hell into a university, with various levels that satirise different aspects of university life. The first level, associated with the sin of Pride, is a library where shades must try to ‘DEFINE THE GOOD’ before they can move on. The second level, associated with the sin of desire, incorporates a student centre which is suffused with a sense of decay, where shades obsessively fixate on inexplicable desires. In its physical layout, as it turns out, hell is similar to Dante’s vision: a series of levels devoted to addressing mortal sins of increasing severity on each succeeding level.

From the review . . .

Here, at least, Pratchett is starting to find his groove. For one, there’s kind of a driving force behind the narrative this time! Sure, the protagonists still mostly just float from place to place until they end up where they need to be at the end, but at least there’s some semblance of progression this time. He has also seemingly taken my criticism about the slow pacing to heart, because instead of lingering in scenes that overstay their welcome, we’re now flying through them so fast that occasionally we don’t even have time to adequately describe a setting before we’re on to the next one. See? Improvement!

From the review . . .

Circe is Madeleine Miller’s second book based upon Greek legend. Her first, The Song of Achilles, told the story of Achilles, the hero from the Trojan War, from the point of view of his lover Patroclus, following popular tradition. Miller remained faithful to the supernatural elements of the original tales while at the same time re-imagining Achilles as a complex man with a more nuanced attitude to war and women than we may expect from his representation in The Iliad. The Song of Achilles won the Women’s Prize for fiction. Perhaps it was an odd subject for this award, some may think, although there is no reason to assume that a prize meant for women writers must be awarded only to works about women. Nevertheless, Circe is in fact more concerned with female characters and the world of women. Yet, Miller’s treatment of Circe has similarities with her treatment of Achilles. Miller narrates Circe’s childhood, as she did with Achilles, thus rounding her and explaining the long journey she takes to give us a more layered character. But Circe’s childhood is not just about the influence of her family. She offers us Circe’s seminal moment, too.

From the review . . .

In Medieval China a new emperor ascends the throne after the former emperor, his father, chokes to death on a chicken bone. The new emperor, Lu Huang Du, is pleased to hear rumours are spreading that he is responsible. After all, to be believed to have acquired the throne through luck rather than cunning would only make him look weak. So, to reinforce this false perception of ruthlessness the only thing to do is become ruthless – the idea preceding reality – by executing all who spread the rumour and to have all the chickens in his dominions killed, as though they were all in on a plot. After this, during his reign, Lu Huang Du will bend his subjects and their reality to his will. Meanwhile, in modern-day Australia, a man of Chinese descent is exposed as a fraud. Xiang Lu looks Chinese and for the past six months he has been employed as an interpreter at the Consulate-General of the People’s Republic of China, but he cannot speak Mandarin. He has gotten by using Google Translate. His disgrace turns into opportunity when film director, Baby Bao, offers him the chance to fly to China to the ghost city, Port Man Tou, which has been adapted as a gigantic film set and populated by a host of ‘citizen-actors’ whose lives are lived at the whim of the director. Xiang Lu has gone viral on social media – #BadChinese – after his exposure, and Baby Bao sees that Xiang’s new profile provides a lucrative opportunity.

Like the emperor, whom he claims as an ancestor, Baby Bao will become a tyrant.

From the review . . .

Discworld as a series doesn’t have a set chronological order. Most attempts I’ve seen to develop some sort of reading sequence split the books into a number of groups based on recurring characters or themes, which themselves may have some continuity between them. If you decide to jump in by release order, however, The Colour of Magic is the first you’ll hit. I mention this because, while Discworld is beloved in part for its wide cast of varied, amusing, yet relatable characters and a setting that is both unorthodox yet comfortingly analogous to our own world . . . The Colour of Magic contains little of what the series would grow to become (aside from the humour, of course. No dearth of that).

From the review . . .

Book 10 is a microcosm of The Odyssey, just as Book 9 is. The repetition of themes and motifs show that Odysseus and his crew face two fundamental threats that strike at their core purpose: to return home. The first threat is in the form of violence from races like the cyclopes and the Laestrygonians. The second threat is more subtle, since it resides in the enticements offered in lands that make the men forget their mission and their homes: places of plenty which offer lives of ease which seem preferable to lives of toil and responsibility to which they are sworn to return.

From the review . . .

Until recently, I was not aware that Agatha Christie had written a lot of plays. I only knew of a few. Everyone knows about Mousetrap, the long running play in London’s West End. I saw it at St Martin’s Theatre in 1997. And I’ve seen the film version of Witness for the Prosecution, which was originally written as a play. But Black Coffee, and the two other plays, also adapted by Charles Osborne, were unknown to me until recently. I did think it was odd that this book was included in the Christie reading challenge this year, and the challenge page admits that it is a contentious choice. But looking up its history, I’ve found that the play was first performed in 1930, and it really is the next appearance of Poirot after The Mystery of the Blue Train.

From the review . . .

As I read The Living Sea of Waking Dreams I wasn’t sure whether I would eventually dismiss or admire this book. What Flanagan does seems simple – obvious, maybe – and it’s also so depressing, but damn it, the man can write! The book is unashamedly partisan: it boldly thwacks the reader with a point of view over and over and makes no pretence that the author is hiding his hand. The stakes are high and there is no room for ambiguity about the novel’s most fundamental concerns. Climate change is a thing. Species are disappearing from the face of the planet and humans, on the whole, have not come to terms with what this means for the environment, or even for ourselves. Flanagan is a well-known environmentalist, and he has often expressed his concern for the natural world. He won the Baillie Gifford Prize in 2024 for Question 7 but initially refused the prize because of Baillie Gifford’s investments in fossil fuels.