Scan barcode
A review by _b_a_l_
Ruin of Angels by Max Gladstone
5.0
I adored this.
More Tara. More godpunk fractured worlds. Magic corporations and nightmare powered telecoms. Artists and angels and squid-borg-parasites.
Max Gladstone's writing is the perfect balance of poetry and story; both dreamy painterliness and fast-paced action.
And I'm pretty sure that this is the most beautiful and true paragraph about being trans ever published in a fantasy novel:
"“I understand that during initiation Kavekanese priests and priestesses rebuild themselves around their soul, which allows the smooth and complete correction of many . . . bookkeeping errors. Not all of us have such access, and medical Craft has certain path-dependent limitations: physical transformations of any sort are trivial if you don’t mind dying in the process. I happen to enjoy my independence—not to mention my heartbeat. I’m happy to share a moment later, but can we focus on business for now?”
“Of course,” Kai said. She did not look at Eberhardt Jax in the brief pause as he lifted his briefcase to the table and spun the wheel locks on its latch. That much she could offer, even in this room, even chained and buttressed by their roles of venture-priest and pitchman. The pool let her rewrite herself from the inside out, but she still felt a stab of anxiety meeting mainlanders who knew: do they see me, or are they looking for something inside me that isn’t there at all? Jax must have felt the same. Worse. But they weren’t meeting to discuss that."
Other bits of beauty and squee-ing and tears:
"It answered in a language she didn’t understand, that sounded like the death of something beautiful."
***
"There, in the sky, approaching a foreign city beneath the belly of an ancient beast, tossed by winds, stuck in coach because the priesthood didn’t think this side trip rated business class, she felt the touch of a cool blue hand upon her brow. The touch melted against her forehead and rolled down her skin like honey tears, hot and sweet and deep, to bead and tremble on her lips, then slip within. She tasted salt and sand and volcanic rock. Root musk rolled down her tongue into her throat. She burned all over at once, and exhaled the beauty worming through her veins."
***
"So easy to look out at the world through warped glass and think the world was warped itself. Easy, too, to live in a warped world and forget that, with effort, you could make crooked lines straight."
***
"The city changed—buildings changed, streets changed, languages changed—but people adapted, and endured."
***
"The boy with the flowers blocked her path. His eyes were big and wet and needy, and that need ran deeper than the sale. The scar on his cheek drank sunlight. He offered her a flower."
***
“I do not understand you. But neither do I understand fire, or starlight, or storms, and I love them."
***
"The flood reared, cobra-like and vast, slavering mouths and crooked claws and burning eyes, and struck.... She fought to remain herself in the flood. A reflex, the oldest battle: she knew who she was, she knew her body, knew her past and her home and her family and her soul. She clung to them."
***
"She was larger than the limits of her skin."
***
“I heard—legs. Skittering closer. Whispers older than time. They speak in the pulses of distant suns. They’re so, so hungry. And they smell us.”
More Tara. More godpunk fractured worlds. Magic corporations and nightmare powered telecoms. Artists and angels and squid-borg-parasites.
Max Gladstone's writing is the perfect balance of poetry and story; both dreamy painterliness and fast-paced action.
And I'm pretty sure that this is the most beautiful and true paragraph about being trans ever published in a fantasy novel:
"“I understand that during initiation Kavekanese priests and priestesses rebuild themselves around their soul, which allows the smooth and complete correction of many . . . bookkeeping errors. Not all of us have such access, and medical Craft has certain path-dependent limitations: physical transformations of any sort are trivial if you don’t mind dying in the process. I happen to enjoy my independence—not to mention my heartbeat. I’m happy to share a moment later, but can we focus on business for now?”
“Of course,” Kai said. She did not look at Eberhardt Jax in the brief pause as he lifted his briefcase to the table and spun the wheel locks on its latch. That much she could offer, even in this room, even chained and buttressed by their roles of venture-priest and pitchman. The pool let her rewrite herself from the inside out, but she still felt a stab of anxiety meeting mainlanders who knew: do they see me, or are they looking for something inside me that isn’t there at all? Jax must have felt the same. Worse. But they weren’t meeting to discuss that."
Other bits of beauty and squee-ing and tears:
"It answered in a language she didn’t understand, that sounded like the death of something beautiful."
***
"There, in the sky, approaching a foreign city beneath the belly of an ancient beast, tossed by winds, stuck in coach because the priesthood didn’t think this side trip rated business class, she felt the touch of a cool blue hand upon her brow. The touch melted against her forehead and rolled down her skin like honey tears, hot and sweet and deep, to bead and tremble on her lips, then slip within. She tasted salt and sand and volcanic rock. Root musk rolled down her tongue into her throat. She burned all over at once, and exhaled the beauty worming through her veins."
***
"So easy to look out at the world through warped glass and think the world was warped itself. Easy, too, to live in a warped world and forget that, with effort, you could make crooked lines straight."
***
"The city changed—buildings changed, streets changed, languages changed—but people adapted, and endured."
***
"The boy with the flowers blocked her path. His eyes were big and wet and needy, and that need ran deeper than the sale. The scar on his cheek drank sunlight. He offered her a flower."
***
“I do not understand you. But neither do I understand fire, or starlight, or storms, and I love them."
***
"The flood reared, cobra-like and vast, slavering mouths and crooked claws and burning eyes, and struck.... She fought to remain herself in the flood. A reflex, the oldest battle: she knew who she was, she knew her body, knew her past and her home and her family and her soul. She clung to them."
***
"She was larger than the limits of her skin."
***
“I heard—legs. Skittering closer. Whispers older than time. They speak in the pulses of distant suns. They’re so, so hungry. And they smell us.”