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mafiabadgers's reviews
118 reviews
Hashish: A Smuggler's Tale by Henry de Monfreid, Helen Buchanan Bell
Even after all his racism, he really had me going there! Up until the moment he said they had to be killed. It's almost like a practical joke, but it's a useful insight all the same. Anyway, the book is tremendously enjoyable, and if even half of it is true, then the so called realists have a lot to answer for.
adventurous
funny
informative
fast-paced
4.0
First read 01/2025
The blurb describes Henry de Monfreid as a "Nobleman, writer, adventurer and inspiration for the swashbuckling gun runner in the Adventures of Tintin". I think I should prefer to call him outrageously immoral, totally self-centred, and fantastically racist; that is to say, a fairly typical Frenchman.
It opens with the reminder that, as told in the previous volume of memoirs, a shipment of munitions that he had been smuggling had been seized, so the arms syndicate from whom he had acquired them on credit was not best pleased with him. This is more or less how George Lucas introduced Han Solo in Episode IV of Star Wars, and if Han Solo were an early-Twentieth Century Frenchman, he'd probably be a lot like de Monfreid. In fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that de Monfreid was an influence on George Macdonald Fraser's Flashman—they have that same scoundrelly feel to them, though Flashman doesn't have de Monfreid's passion for adventure. And what a passion it is! As much as he relishes the thought of making hearty profits from his eight cases of hashish, actually being an intrepid drug smuggler seems to excite him just as much, and indeed he admits that he often imagines himself as a cinema hero to spur on his failing courage. To set off his exploits, he often goes on philosophical tangents about the blighting of Nature by Man and Machinery, or the racial failings of Greeks and Egyptians. Some of these digressions have aged better than others, it is true, but much of the racism is so far removed from the sort that is prevalent today that the best response is simply to laugh at it.
Aside from the entertainment value, which is considerable, this book's greatest strength is in resurrecting a time long past. You can almost smell the tobacco smoke drifting from roadside cafés, or feel the grittiness of the pearls as you 'gift' them to corrupt officials. Marxists may also appreciate his commentary on English imperialism:
The blurb describes Henry de Monfreid as a "Nobleman, writer, adventurer and inspiration for the swashbuckling gun runner in the Adventures of Tintin". I think I should prefer to call him outrageously immoral, totally self-centred, and fantastically racist; that is to say, a fairly typical Frenchman.
It opens with the reminder that, as told in the previous volume of memoirs, a shipment of munitions that he had been smuggling had been seized, so the arms syndicate from whom he had acquired them on credit was not best pleased with him. This is more or less how George Lucas introduced Han Solo in Episode IV of Star Wars, and if Han Solo were an early-Twentieth Century Frenchman, he'd probably be a lot like de Monfreid. In fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that de Monfreid was an influence on George Macdonald Fraser's Flashman—they have that same scoundrelly feel to them, though Flashman doesn't have de Monfreid's passion for adventure. And what a passion it is! As much as he relishes the thought of making hearty profits from his eight cases of hashish, actually being an intrepid drug smuggler seems to excite him just as much, and indeed he admits that he often imagines himself as a cinema hero to spur on his failing courage. To set off his exploits, he often goes on philosophical tangents about the blighting of Nature by Man and Machinery, or the racial failings of Greeks and Egyptians. Some of these digressions have aged better than others, it is true, but much of the racism is so far removed from the sort that is prevalent today that the best response is simply to laugh at it.
Aside from the entertainment value, which is considerable, this book's greatest strength is in resurrecting a time long past. You can almost smell the tobacco smoke drifting from roadside cafés, or feel the grittiness of the pearls as you 'gift' them to corrupt officials. Marxists may also appreciate his commentary on English imperialism:
If the English are sowing drachmae in Greece, it is probably in order to reap pounds sterling elsewhere. They have probably some interest in preventing your country from producing hashish. The question of morality is only the classic excuse, most valuable as an argument, since it is unanswerable. These high principles did not prevent the English from methodically poisoning a magnificent race, the Red Indians, with alcohol in order to seize their country. The same clergymen who are today declaiming in America against the sale of intoxicating liquor lavished the deadly fire-water on the natives, accompanied, it is true, by Bibles and sermons. Their bodies were killed in the name of the Great Nation, but their souls were saved in the name of the Lord, so John Citizen’s conscience was clear. I’m only mentioning all this to indicate the importance which must be given to philanthropic movements on the part of governments. Anyhow, I don’t blame the English for killing the Red Indians as they did. Since they had to be killed, it was preferable to do it painlessly by selling death by the glass. You see how natural it is to suspect that the English have a commercial interest in stopping the Greeks from growing hemp. Hashish must exist in one of their colonies.
Even after all his racism, he really had me going there! Up until the moment he said they had to be killed. It's almost like a practical joke, but it's a useful insight all the same. Anyway, the book is tremendously enjoyable, and if even half of it is true, then the so called realists have a lot to answer for.
Min Zemerin's Plan by Katherine Addison
3.0
First read 01/2025
Very short, and enjoyable, but probably not of interest to anyone who hasn't read The Witness for the Dead. Available here.
Very short, and enjoyable, but probably not of interest to anyone who hasn't read The Witness for the Dead. Available here.
My Chronicles of Osreth reviews:
The Goblin Emperor
The Goblin Emperor
The Grief of Stones by Katherine Addison
2.0
First read 01/2025
Very little to say about this one. Once again, there were many character names in quick succession, and no glossary. None of the characters really jumped out at me; the plot was only passably enjoyable; the setting could have been drawn more strongly.
My Chronicles of Osreth reviews:
The Goblin Emperor
Very little to say about this one. Once again, there were many character names in quick succession, and no glossary. None of the characters really jumped out at me; the plot was only passably enjoyable; the setting could have been drawn more strongly.
My Chronicles of Osreth reviews:
The Goblin Emperor
Lora Selezh by Katherine Addison
3.0
First read 01/2025
Starting to think I'm getting pretty good at this reviewing thing, because I said that The Witness for the Dead would be better in third-person, and lo and behold, when we get third-person narration of his work, it improves. I would have liked more description of the world, but it is only a short story.
Starting to think I'm getting pretty good at this reviewing thing, because I said that The Witness for the Dead would be better in third-person, and lo and behold, when we get third-person narration of his work, it improves. I would have liked more description of the world, but it is only a short story.
My Chronicles of Osreth reviews:
The Goblin Emperor
The Goblin Emperor
The Witness for the Dead by Katherine Addison
mysterious
- Loveable characters? No
2.0
First read 01/2025
When I first read The Goblin Emperor, I borrowed it from my local libary, so for my reread I picked up a physical copy of my own. I made sure to get it in a nice edition, and ensured that I could get nice, matching editions of the sequels, if they were good. I do not think I will not be doing so.
The Goblin Emperor was rather sparse when it came to descriptions of characters or the environment, but it was almost exclusively set in the halls of the Untheileneise Court, and it had a hearty glossary to help me keep track of the many, many unfamiliar names. The Witness for the Dead is the first book to be set in the wider world of Osreth, and this lack of description really, really hurt. There are mentions of airships, and factories, and putting coins into the meter to turn on the gas hob, but without more details about what these things look like it's difficult to envision it all. And it doesn't even have a glossary! It really could have done with a glossary.
In some ways, it feels very much like a videogame. Thara Celehar's job has him returning to his office in the mornings to pick up newquests petitions for help, then he spends the afternoons tackling them. Some are small. Some seem small and spill out into plotlines of their own. He deals with various murders, trials, investigations, petty power squabbles... Something about the rhythm of it all feels very gamey. It doesn't help that he returns home each night and feeds the cats, and this is couched in almost the same language each time.
That's not a criticism, because it drives the point home effectively. Celehar is a miserable man, and his life is empty outside his work. Unfortunately, this means it's a little difficult to get to like him, and he's not interesting enough to really hold my attention without being likeable. He's depressed, and it doesn't make for an engaging book.
This gives us two reasons, then, why this book would have benefited mightily from third-person narration. It would have allowed for vastly more description (it's certainly possible to be light on detail and still do good high fantasy first-person—just look at Steven Brust—but Addison doesn't seem to have it down), and a bit more distance from Celehar's lifelessness would have allowed his character to come through without dragging down the tone of the book. The book is not wholly unenjoyable, but I really struggled to connect with it. On top of that, the white-elves-black-goblins thing is a clunky way to address race. Addison barely got away with it as a crude metaphor in The Goblin Emperor, but scaled up to the rest of the world, it feels hackneyed and borderline offensive. No doubt I'll reread The Goblin Emperor in the future, but I can't see myself returning to this.
When I first read The Goblin Emperor, I borrowed it from my local libary, so for my reread I picked up a physical copy of my own. I made sure to get it in a nice edition, and ensured that I could get nice, matching editions of the sequels, if they were good. I do not think I will not be doing so.
The Goblin Emperor was rather sparse when it came to descriptions of characters or the environment, but it was almost exclusively set in the halls of the Untheileneise Court, and it had a hearty glossary to help me keep track of the many, many unfamiliar names. The Witness for the Dead is the first book to be set in the wider world of Osreth, and this lack of description really, really hurt. There are mentions of airships, and factories, and putting coins into the meter to turn on the gas hob, but without more details about what these things look like it's difficult to envision it all. And it doesn't even have a glossary! It really could have done with a glossary.
In some ways, it feels very much like a videogame. Thara Celehar's job has him returning to his office in the mornings to pick up new
That's not a criticism, because it drives the point home effectively. Celehar is a miserable man, and his life is empty outside his work. Unfortunately, this means it's a little difficult to get to like him, and he's not interesting enough to really hold my attention without being likeable. He's depressed, and it doesn't make for an engaging book.
This gives us two reasons, then, why this book would have benefited mightily from third-person narration. It would have allowed for vastly more description (it's certainly possible to be light on detail and still do good high fantasy first-person—just look at Steven Brust—but Addison doesn't seem to have it down), and a bit more distance from Celehar's lifelessness would have allowed his character to come through without dragging down the tone of the book. The book is not wholly unenjoyable, but I really struggled to connect with it. On top of that, the white-elves-black-goblins thing is a clunky way to address race. Addison barely got away with it as a crude metaphor in The Goblin Emperor, but scaled up to the rest of the world, it feels hackneyed and borderline offensive. No doubt I'll reread The Goblin Emperor in the future, but I can't see myself returning to this.
My Chronicles of Osreth reviews:
The Goblin Emperor
The Goblin Emperor
The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison
emotional
hopeful
reflective
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? Yes
4.0
First read 05/2024, reread 01/2025
The first time I read The Goblin Emperor, I finished it in a day. I thought that, with this being a reread, I could take my time, get some work done. Unfortunately it's clocked in at under 24 hours and no work has been accomplished. Damn.
You could read it as a political fantasy, in the vein of stories like The Prisoner of Zenda, wherein a person of good character comes to a position of immense power and procedes to do an incredible job, much better than the person who was meant to hold that position. It is a dream of competent, caring political leadership. This, perhaps, is the fantasy element, more than the elves and the magics, and I daresay it is no coincidence that the ascension is usually the result of a rather improbable string of events. (TGE is towards the more plausible end, whena Duke's assassination plot is accelerated without his knowledge by one of the workers he's corrupted, whose own political convictions run counter to the Duke's. )
The book, more than anything else, is about Maia as a character and his development into a bold and confident ruler. Not that he reaches that point (nor should he, given the timescale of the book, which covers—I think—less than a year), but the groundwork has clearly been laid for a long and successful reign. If you tried to list off plot events, you'd struggle to come up with much, but Addison does such a tremendous job of overwhelming Maia with issues that need to be tended to that it feels a very busy book. Some of the most notable events come with no real lead-up, since efforts have been made to conceal them from Maia, and they don't come with as much drama as you'd expect from a novel of political intrigue; this is very much a book about the everyday business of ruling, not about alliances and assassinations.
Since one of the major themes (perhaps the biggest) has to do with the distance between the emperor and those who serve him, it doesn't allow any of the other characters to take up a lot of space. But in a way, the whole thrust of the book is about encouraging Maia to look through the layers of protocol and tradition to see the very real affection that people have for him and each other. The book is inviting us to look at the intriguing little character sketches and fill in details about what they're like, what they're thinking and feeling. It's a very elegant mode of storytelling. Csethiro Ceredin takes up only about a page of the novel, if you put all her little moments together, and yet I like her an awful lot.
And there are a lot of fleeting characters, with names usually preceded by the honorific ([Dach']Os)Min/Mer(rem), to denote gender and degree of rank and marriage status (if female). Fortunately the book opens with a guide to pronunciation and significance, followed by a twelve page glossary. Standard fantasy novel shenanigans. No map, though, as the book is almost entirely situated within the walls of the Untheileneise Court. The linguistic elements are deftly executed, but not spectacular.
Is it designed to tug on the heartstrings? Very much so. Is it sweet and good-natured to the point of excess? Also true. Does it seem to have acquired a special place in my heart? Looks that way. I can't quite bring myself to give it that coveted five star rating, but no doubt I'll be reading it again.
The first time I read The Goblin Emperor, I finished it in a day. I thought that, with this being a reread, I could take my time, get some work done. Unfortunately it's clocked in at under 24 hours and no work has been accomplished. Damn.
You could read it as a political fantasy, in the vein of stories like The Prisoner of Zenda, wherein a person of good character comes to a position of immense power and procedes to do an incredible job, much better than the person who was meant to hold that position. It is a dream of competent, caring political leadership. This, perhaps, is the fantasy element, more than the elves and the magics, and I daresay it is no coincidence that the ascension is usually the result of a rather improbable string of events. (TGE is towards the more plausible end, when
The book, more than anything else, is about Maia as a character and his development into a bold and confident ruler. Not that he reaches that point (nor should he, given the timescale of the book, which covers—I think—less than a year), but the groundwork has clearly been laid for a long and successful reign. If you tried to list off plot events, you'd struggle to come up with much, but Addison does such a tremendous job of overwhelming Maia with issues that need to be tended to that it feels a very busy book. Some of the most notable events come with no real lead-up, since efforts have been made to conceal them from Maia, and they don't come with as much drama as you'd expect from a novel of political intrigue; this is very much a book about the everyday business of ruling, not about alliances and assassinations.
Since one of the major themes (perhaps the biggest) has to do with the distance between the emperor and those who serve him, it doesn't allow any of the other characters to take up a lot of space. But in a way, the whole thrust of the book is about encouraging Maia to look through the layers of protocol and tradition to see the very real affection that people have for him and each other. The book is inviting us to look at the intriguing little character sketches and fill in details about what they're like, what they're thinking and feeling. It's a very elegant mode of storytelling. Csethiro Ceredin takes up only about a page of the novel, if you put all her little moments together, and yet I like her an awful lot.
And there are a lot of fleeting characters, with names usually preceded by the honorific ([Dach']Os)Min/Mer(rem), to denote gender and degree of rank and marriage status (if female). Fortunately the book opens with a guide to pronunciation and significance, followed by a twelve page glossary. Standard fantasy novel shenanigans. No map, though, as the book is almost entirely situated within the walls of the Untheileneise Court. The linguistic elements are deftly executed, but not spectacular.
Is it designed to tug on the heartstrings? Very much so. Is it sweet and good-natured to the point of excess? Also true. Does it seem to have acquired a special place in my heart? Looks that way. I can't quite bring myself to give it that coveted five star rating, but no doubt I'll be reading it again.
My Chronicles of Osreth reviews:
The Goblin Emperor
The Goblin Emperor
Beyond Black by Hilary Mantel
Did not finish book. Stopped at 25%.
Did not finish book. Stopped at 25%.
Valiantly attempted 01/2025, my first DNF for Farnham book club
Chapter One is a nice page and a half prologue, very atmospheric. Unfortunately things immediately take a turn for the worse. Structurally, it feels rather perfunctory: forty pages of tawdry psychic feats, forty-five pages of Colette's loveless failed marriage and subsequent meeting with Alison, forty-two pages of Alison's childhood neglect. There's not a single happy moment until page 92, and even then it only lasts another page. In the end, I couldn't stand it any more.
It doesn't help that I've also been reading a collection by Eileen Chang, Love in a Fallen City. They're both literary and cynical and bound up with women's lives and concerns, but Love is exciting where Beyond Black is drab, seedy where it is sordid. No competition at all.
Chapter One is a nice page and a half prologue, very atmospheric. Unfortunately things immediately take a turn for the worse. Structurally, it feels rather perfunctory: forty pages of tawdry psychic feats, forty-five pages of Colette's loveless failed marriage and subsequent meeting with Alison, forty-two pages of Alison's childhood neglect. There's not a single happy moment until page 92, and even then it only lasts another page. In the end, I couldn't stand it any more.
It doesn't help that I've also been reading a collection by Eileen Chang, Love in a Fallen City. They're both literary and cynical and bound up with women's lives and concerns, but Love is exciting where Beyond Black is drab, seedy where it is sordid. No competition at all.
Frederica by Georgette Heyer
funny
lighthearted
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Loveable characters? Yes
- Diverse cast of characters? No
3.0
First read 01/2025
This was my second Georgette Heyer book, so naturally I must compare it to The Grand Sophy, and unfortunately I found it a little wanting. Sophy was so willing to get involved in everyone else's problems, not just arranging marriages but also breaking engagements, as well as trying to fix people's familial issues, that there was a delightful array of subplots that kept on rearing their heads at pace. By comparison, Frederica doesn't have quite enough material to pad out the length, particularly around the middle, and so began to feel a bit tiresome.
Once again, it ended as soon as the couple admitted their love to each other (and promptly got engaged). I can't help but think of the hard-won delights at the end of Pride and Prejudice, in which Lizzy and Darcy both know that they're just waiting for Darcy to pop the question, and getting along splendidly. Heyer concludes her novels as though she thinks her protagonists would have nothing to do together, if they didn't have the will-they-won't-they energy to sustain them. I think she's right, but a part of me wants to see this miserable shit-stirrer and his blathering wife raising her younger brothers at his country estate. I believe Heyer wrote some (unsuccessful) murder mysteries? Perhaps she could have taken a leaf from P.D. James' book, and written her very own Death Comes to Pemberley. But no matter.
Heyer remains a very funny novelist, if not necessarily a sympathetic one, and while the book doesn't have much substance it is very good fun. She has graciously kept her rabid antisemitism out of this one, and if it has more incest than ever, at least none of the couples are too closely related. (Look, it's historical. Let her have this one.)
This was my second Georgette Heyer book, so naturally I must compare it to The Grand Sophy, and unfortunately I found it a little wanting. Sophy was so willing to get involved in everyone else's problems, not just arranging marriages but also breaking engagements, as well as trying to fix people's familial issues, that there was a delightful array of subplots that kept on rearing their heads at pace. By comparison, Frederica doesn't have quite enough material to pad out the length, particularly around the middle, and so began to feel a bit tiresome.
Once again, it ended as soon as the couple admitted their love to each other (and promptly got engaged). I can't help but think of the hard-won delights at the end of Pride and Prejudice, in which Lizzy and Darcy both know that they're just waiting for Darcy to pop the question, and getting along splendidly. Heyer concludes her novels as though she thinks her protagonists would have nothing to do together, if they didn't have the will-they-won't-they energy to sustain them. I think she's right, but a part of me wants to see this miserable shit-stirrer and his blathering wife raising her younger brothers at his country estate. I believe Heyer wrote some (unsuccessful) murder mysteries? Perhaps she could have taken a leaf from P.D. James' book, and written her very own Death Comes to Pemberley. But no matter.
Heyer remains a very funny novelist, if not necessarily a sympathetic one, and while the book doesn't have much substance it is very good fun. She has graciously kept her rabid antisemitism out of this one, and if it has more incest than ever, at least none of the couples are too closely related. (Look, it's historical. Let her have this one.)
Beware the Cat: The First English Novel by William A. Ringler Jr., Michael Flachmann, William Baldwin
challenging
funny
informative
slow-paced
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
3.0
First read 01/2025, available to borrow from the Internet Archive here.
The subtitle proudly proclaims it to be "The First English Novel": Ringler and Flachmann neglect to mention that (for those who care about such things) by length it might be better categorised as a novelette, and by content perhaps as a romance, but since I'm not a literary historian I'm relieved to say I don't have to care very much about these things.
The introduction is excellent, providing: a brief history of English prose fiction; what information about Baldwin there is; an overview of the religious tensions that characterised England in the mid-sixteenth century (very useful, as Baldwin was one of those Protestants, I'm afraid), and a pre-emptive analysis of the text, which did a great deal to help me appreciate it.
'Beware the Cat' itself takes a while to really get going, so its value in the first half comes mostly from admiring its construction. It's framed as Baldwin's recounting of a long talk by a Master Streamer, who in turn recounts various tales told to him about whether or not animals are sapient, then some of his own misadventures involving alchemy, and then an account of Mouse-slayer's life, as told by the cat herself. It's a lot of layers of narrative to juggle, but it's handled well. Baldwin's marginalia offer a rough summary, very useful to someone trying to find a particular passage, but they often take on a snide tone as he comment's on Streamer's story, or drive home the critique of Catholicism. Given that Master Streamer is established as a fellow Protestant, one might expect Baldwin to fill him with noble virtues, but instead he's a bit of an idiot; for a story that's willing to slag off Catholics in the margins, it's surprising how preachy it isn't.
Towards the end, though, with Mouse-slayer's narrative, it really hits its stride, so although some points had been a bit of a slog I was actually quite sorry to see it end. Some of the episodes she narrates even had me laughing out loud. Much like the gothic feline murder mystery novel Felidae, the cat is ultimately positioned as a bringer of justice, even as they have their own set of morals and customs. Including sexual ones. Urban fantasy authors have ever been a horny bunch, it seems.
Afterwards, there are reasonably extensive notes on the text. I didn't realise they were there until I finished, which was annoying; I would really have liked to have had them alongside. The book rounds off with two appendices: the first, 'A History of Longer Fictional Prose Narratives in England to 1558', was interesting enough, but the second, 'Plot Summaries of Longer Fictional Prose Narratives in English to 1558', strikes me as the 1980s equivalent of Wikipedia synopses. Useful to undergrads trying to pick a dissertation topic, perhaps, but tiresome to read through. Still, I particularly like the sound of A merye Jest of a man that was called Howleglas.
The subtitle proudly proclaims it to be "The First English Novel": Ringler and Flachmann neglect to mention that (for those who care about such things) by length it might be better categorised as a novelette, and by content perhaps as a romance, but since I'm not a literary historian I'm relieved to say I don't have to care very much about these things.
The introduction is excellent, providing: a brief history of English prose fiction; what information about Baldwin there is; an overview of the religious tensions that characterised England in the mid-sixteenth century (very useful, as Baldwin was one of those Protestants, I'm afraid), and a pre-emptive analysis of the text, which did a great deal to help me appreciate it.
'Beware the Cat' itself takes a while to really get going, so its value in the first half comes mostly from admiring its construction. It's framed as Baldwin's recounting of a long talk by a Master Streamer, who in turn recounts various tales told to him about whether or not animals are sapient, then some of his own misadventures involving alchemy, and then an account of Mouse-slayer's life, as told by the cat herself. It's a lot of layers of narrative to juggle, but it's handled well. Baldwin's marginalia offer a rough summary, very useful to someone trying to find a particular passage, but they often take on a snide tone as he comment's on Streamer's story, or drive home the critique of Catholicism. Given that Master Streamer is established as a fellow Protestant, one might expect Baldwin to fill him with noble virtues, but instead he's a bit of an idiot; for a story that's willing to slag off Catholics in the margins, it's surprising how preachy it isn't.
Towards the end, though, with Mouse-slayer's narrative, it really hits its stride, so although some points had been a bit of a slog I was actually quite sorry to see it end. Some of the episodes she narrates even had me laughing out loud. Much like the gothic feline murder mystery novel Felidae, the cat is ultimately positioned as a bringer of justice, even as they have their own set of morals and customs. Including sexual ones. Urban fantasy authors have ever been a horny bunch, it seems.
Afterwards, there are reasonably extensive notes on the text. I didn't realise they were there until I finished, which was annoying; I would really have liked to have had them alongside. The book rounds off with two appendices: the first, 'A History of Longer Fictional Prose Narratives in England to 1558', was interesting enough, but the second, 'Plot Summaries of Longer Fictional Prose Narratives in English to 1558', strikes me as the 1980s equivalent of Wikipedia synopses. Useful to undergrads trying to pick a dissertation topic, perhaps, but tiresome to read through. Still, I particularly like the sound of A merye Jest of a man that was called Howleglas.
The House in the Cerulean Sea by TJ Klune
The first sentence could be removed with no loss of meaning whatsoever. In fact, all that would be needed to conjure up images of drab government offices, stricken by austerity and surveillance managerialism, would be to say that the room is too small for the several hundred desks crammed in there, that the ceiling is low and the fluorescent lights wash out all the colours. It really doesn't matter precisely how many desks there are, or where Linus is sitting. The difficulties that these arrangements cause him don't need to be explained, since Klune alludes to them whenever Linus moves in or out of this array. This description carries on for another two sentences after this, and it's all unnecessary. This is characteristic of the writing throughout the book.
Another reason for this bloated feeling is the unfortunate habit of italicising and repeating passages from earlier in the book when they become thematically relevant. It's all unnecessary. I'd much prefer the book trusted me to pay attention, rather than trying to connect the dots for me. It's a little insulting.
Linus was a boring protagonist. To improve the book, I think he should have been even more boring. He meets Lucifer the Antichrist, Prince of Devils, son of Satan (Lord of Hell, Devourer of the Abyss, etc. etc.), and yet this provokes no crisis of faith whatsoever. He remains a lapsed Christian. This is very funny. The book does not acknowledge that this lack of change might be significant. Instead, it will have him say or do something remarkable, with no setup or further recognition: for example, he is revealed to be familiar with the work of Kant and Schopenhauer, even though he goes to work early, gets home late, and never does anything for fun except listen to his records. It's done purely to try to create a nice moment, not because it makes sense for Linus as a character. Towards the end, it's mentioned that he remembers the names of every child he's ever worked with (which seems to contravene his character arc, which began with a staid refusal to get attached), and shortly afterwards he recites a passage that one of the kids read out exactly once, shortly after they first met. Does he have an eidetic memory? This is apparently not worth commenting on.
On top of all that, the book's morality is mind-numbingly simplistic. When the magical islander children are brought to the village, we see not two instances in quick succession where the island kids have a moment of connection with the village kids, before the village parents whisk their children away hatefully. Yes, Mr Klune. Children are pure and innocent angels. We get the point. It is around this time that Linus tells one of the islander kids that "you can always judge a person by how they treat animals. If there is cruelty, then that person should be avoided at all costs. If there is kindness, I like to think it’s the mark of a good soul." I, for one, am glad we have such a reliable litmus test for determining if people are bad or good. Surely, bad people could never be nice to animals.
Okay, well, it's a cosy fantasy book. It's not trying to present itself as a nuanced, shades-of-moral-greyness sort of story. Right? Wrong! The book repeatedly insists that "It cannot be boiled down to black and white. Not when there is so much in between. You cannot say something is moral or immoral without understanding the nuances behind it." It is, however, very much a black and white sort of book. All the children have tragic backstories, but now they are sweet and lovely and kind. They are raised by someone with a lot of orphanage-related trauma, but fortunately this has absolutely no bearing on his behaviour and he remains a perfect father figure at all times. Even when one of the kids has a nightmare and his powers run wild, nobody gets hurt, because he simply doesn't want them to be. For The House in the Cerulean Sea, not hurting people is a simple matter of not wanting to hurt them. If someone is racist, they're obviously bad, but fortunately you can change them by having a stern word with them and shaming them into being better. If the authoritarian, racist government is perpetuating systemic harm to children, this can be resolved byappealing to the rest of the (authoritarian, racist) goverment. How fortunate that there is always a higher authority to invoke. If there weren't, Linus might have had to have done something genuinely subversive.
1.0
First read 01/2025 for Farnham book club
I'm wavering back and forth between one star and two (with two stars being a positive review on my scale). On the one hand, it was kind of sweet, and generally fun, and if I imagined it all done up in Ghibli-esque animation it was quite lovely. On the other hand, the sprucing up was quite necessary, because Klune seems to have settled on the word "cerulean" and promptly decided that that was enough fine prose for one book. And yet, despite lacking the details that might have brought it to life, the writing tends to be unnecessarily bloated:
I'm wavering back and forth between one star and two (with two stars being a positive review on my scale). On the one hand, it was kind of sweet, and generally fun, and if I imagined it all done up in Ghibli-esque animation it was quite lovely. On the other hand, the sprucing up was quite necessary, because Klune seems to have settled on the word "cerulean" and promptly decided that that was enough fine prose for one book. And yet, despite lacking the details that might have brought it to life, the writing tends to be unnecessarily bloated:
His small wooden desk was almost at the center of the room: Row L, Desk Seven in a room comprising twenty-six rows with fourteen desks in each row. There was barely any space between the desks. A skinny person would have no trouble getting by, but one who carried a few extra pounds around the middle (few being the operative word, of course)?
The first sentence could be removed with no loss of meaning whatsoever. In fact, all that would be needed to conjure up images of drab government offices, stricken by austerity and surveillance managerialism, would be to say that the room is too small for the several hundred desks crammed in there, that the ceiling is low and the fluorescent lights wash out all the colours. It really doesn't matter precisely how many desks there are, or where Linus is sitting. The difficulties that these arrangements cause him don't need to be explained, since Klune alludes to them whenever Linus moves in or out of this array. This description carries on for another two sentences after this, and it's all unnecessary. This is characteristic of the writing throughout the book.
Another reason for this bloated feeling is the unfortunate habit of italicising and repeating passages from earlier in the book when they become thematically relevant. It's all unnecessary. I'd much prefer the book trusted me to pay attention, rather than trying to connect the dots for me. It's a little insulting.
Linus was a boring protagonist. To improve the book, I think he should have been even more boring. He meets Lucifer the Antichrist, Prince of Devils, son of Satan (Lord of Hell, Devourer of the Abyss, etc. etc.), and yet this provokes no crisis of faith whatsoever. He remains a lapsed Christian. This is very funny. The book does not acknowledge that this lack of change might be significant. Instead, it will have him say or do something remarkable, with no setup or further recognition: for example, he is revealed to be familiar with the work of Kant and Schopenhauer, even though he goes to work early, gets home late, and never does anything for fun except listen to his records. It's done purely to try to create a nice moment, not because it makes sense for Linus as a character. Towards the end, it's mentioned that he remembers the names of every child he's ever worked with (which seems to contravene his character arc, which began with a staid refusal to get attached), and shortly afterwards he recites a passage that one of the kids read out exactly once, shortly after they first met. Does he have an eidetic memory? This is apparently not worth commenting on.
On top of all that, the book's morality is mind-numbingly simplistic. When the magical islander children are brought to the village, we see not two instances in quick succession where the island kids have a moment of connection with the village kids, before the village parents whisk their children away hatefully. Yes, Mr Klune. Children are pure and innocent angels. We get the point. It is around this time that Linus tells one of the islander kids that "you can always judge a person by how they treat animals. If there is cruelty, then that person should be avoided at all costs. If there is kindness, I like to think it’s the mark of a good soul." I, for one, am glad we have such a reliable litmus test for determining if people are bad or good. Surely, bad people could never be nice to animals.
Okay, well, it's a cosy fantasy book. It's not trying to present itself as a nuanced, shades-of-moral-greyness sort of story. Right? Wrong! The book repeatedly insists that "It cannot be boiled down to black and white. Not when there is so much in between. You cannot say something is moral or immoral without understanding the nuances behind it." It is, however, very much a black and white sort of book. All the children have tragic backstories, but now they are sweet and lovely and kind. They are raised by someone with a lot of orphanage-related trauma, but fortunately this has absolutely no bearing on his behaviour and he remains a perfect father figure at all times. Even when one of the kids has a nightmare and his powers run wild, nobody gets hurt, because he simply doesn't want them to be. For The House in the Cerulean Sea, not hurting people is a simple matter of not wanting to hurt them. If someone is racist, they're obviously bad, but fortunately you can change them by having a stern word with them and shaming them into being better. If the authoritarian, racist government is perpetuating systemic harm to children, this can be resolved by