A review by ghostluvr2000
Babel: An Arcane History by R.F. Kuang
5.0
wow. so many books these days r carbon copies they do nothing new they take zero risks and this is exactly what i wanted. it isnt even perfect but its just so different that i cant help but love it. writing is amazing, thematically amazing, tonally amazing. so interesting to consider the robin/rin remy/altan victoire/kitay parallels. kuang can not keep being allowed to do this.
'at night, the moon conspired with streetlamps to bathe the city in a faint, otherwordly glow.' 'later, when everything when sideways and the world broke in half, robin would think back to this day, to this hour at this table, and wonder why they had been so quick, so carelessly eager to trust one another. why had they refused to see the myriad ways they could hurt each other? why had they not paused to interrogate their differences in birth, in raising, that meant they were not and could never be on the same side? but the answer was obvious -- that they were all four of them drowning in the unfamiliar, and they saw in each other a raft, and clinging to one another was the only way to stay afloat.' '"but what is the opposite of fidelity? [...] betrayal. translation means doing violence upon the original, means warping and distorting it for foreign, unintended eyes. so then where does that leave us? how can we conclude, except by acknowledging that an act of translation is then necessarily always an act of betrayal?"' 'for simple ink on paper was not enough to describe this golden afternoon; the warmth of uncomplicated friendship, all fights forgotten, all sins forgiven; the sunlight melting away the memory of the classroom chill; the sticky taste of lemon on their tongues and their startled, delighted relief.'
'he went back to his first morning in oxford: climbing a sunny hill with ramy, picnic basket in hand. elderflower cordial. warm brioche, sharp cheese, a chocolate tart for dessert. the air that day smelled like a promise, all of oxford shone like an illumination, and he was falling in love. "it's so odd," robin said. back then they'd already passed the point of honesty; the spoke to one another unfiltered, unafraid of the consequences. "it's like i've known you forever." "me too," ramy said. "and that makes no sense," said robin, drunk already, though there was no alcohol in the cordial. "because i've known you for less than a day, and yet..." "i think," said ramy," it's because when i speak, you listen." "because you're fascinating." "because you're a good translator." ramy leaned back on his elbows. "that's just what translation is, i think. that's all speaking is. listening to the other and trying to see past your own biases to glimpse what they're trying to say. showing yourself to the world, and hoping someone else understands."'
'at night, the moon conspired with streetlamps to bathe the city in a faint, otherwordly glow.' 'later, when everything when sideways and the world broke in half, robin would think back to this day, to this hour at this table, and wonder why they had been so quick, so carelessly eager to trust one another. why had they refused to see the myriad ways they could hurt each other? why had they not paused to interrogate their differences in birth, in raising, that meant they were not and could never be on the same side? but the answer was obvious -- that they were all four of them drowning in the unfamiliar, and they saw in each other a raft, and clinging to one another was the only way to stay afloat.' '"but what is the opposite of fidelity? [...] betrayal. translation means doing violence upon the original, means warping and distorting it for foreign, unintended eyes. so then where does that leave us? how can we conclude, except by acknowledging that an act of translation is then necessarily always an act of betrayal?"' 'for simple ink on paper was not enough to describe this golden afternoon; the warmth of uncomplicated friendship, all fights forgotten, all sins forgiven; the sunlight melting away the memory of the classroom chill; the sticky taste of lemon on their tongues and their startled, delighted relief.'
'he went back to his first morning in oxford: climbing a sunny hill with ramy, picnic basket in hand. elderflower cordial. warm brioche, sharp cheese, a chocolate tart for dessert. the air that day smelled like a promise, all of oxford shone like an illumination, and he was falling in love. "it's so odd," robin said. back then they'd already passed the point of honesty; the spoke to one another unfiltered, unafraid of the consequences. "it's like i've known you forever." "me too," ramy said. "and that makes no sense," said robin, drunk already, though there was no alcohol in the cordial. "because i've known you for less than a day, and yet..." "i think," said ramy," it's because when i speak, you listen." "because you're fascinating." "because you're a good translator." ramy leaned back on his elbows. "that's just what translation is, i think. that's all speaking is. listening to the other and trying to see past your own biases to glimpse what they're trying to say. showing yourself to the world, and hoping someone else understands."'