Sanibel
Emily Tesh’s Some Desperate Glory is a profound exploration of vengeance, indoctrination, and the struggle to break free from control. Set in a future where Earth has been destroyed, the novel follows Kyr, a young woman raised on Gaea Station, a militant outpost obsessed with retribution against the majoda, the alien alliance they blame for the planet's annihilation. Trained since birth to believe in the righteousness of her cause, Kyr never questions her purpose—until she is forced to confront the truth about what her people have become.
At its core, Some Desperate Glory examines the cost of revenge, the difficulty of unlearning deeply ingrained beliefs and the dangers of a society built on manipulation and control. Gaea Station’s rigid hierarchy and blind loyalty turn its people into both victims and perpetrators, with every horror excused as necessity and every cruelty reframed as duty. Those in power seek to mold their people into unquestioning followers, using hate and war as tools to enforce obedience. Its leaders don’t just demand loyalty—they manufacture it, teaching their people to hate so they will never turn their anger inward. Kyr embodies this system—single-minded, self-righteous, and unwilling to see beyond what she has been taught. Her journey is not just one of rebellion but of dismantling the conditioning that has shaped her worldview.
Central to this unraveling is the majoda, long painted as inhuman oppressors. Their existence challenges everything Kyr has been led to believe: if the enemy is not a monster, then what was she fighting for? And if revenge is not the answer, what is left?
Tesh’s storytelling is both intimate and expansive, blending thrilling plot twists with deep emotional reckoning. Kyr is not an easy protagonist—harsh, judgmental, and steeped in ideology—but her transformation is gripping. The novel does not offer easy absolution. Change is painful, messy, and filled with resistance, as real growth always is.
Ultimately, Some Desperate Glory asks whether breaking free—not just from a cycle of violence and the past, but from the systems that sustain it—is possible. Forgiveness is hard, and escaping a cycle requires more than just recognizing the problem—it demands courage, self-reflection, and the willingness to build something new instead of destroying what exists. A haunting, thought-provoking novel, it forces both its characters and readers to confront the consequences of blind obedience, the cost of revenge, and the possibility of choosing a different path—one that redefines survival not as endurance, but as something worth living for.
This book shattered me and immediately earned a place among my favorites. It felt deeply personal—so many of the questions it raises are ones I’ve grappled with for a long time, without finding clear answers. The novel’s emotional depth, unflinching exploration of difficult themes, and gripping character journey made it impossible to put down—and even harder to forget.
Emily Tesh’s Some Desperate Glory is a profound exploration of vengeance, indoctrination, and the struggle to break free from control. Set in a future where Earth has been destroyed, the novel follows Kyr, a young woman raised on Gaea Station, a militant outpost obsessed with retribution against the majoda, the alien alliance they blame for the planet's annihilation. Trained since birth to believe in the righteousness of her cause, Kyr never questions her purpose—until she is forced to confront the truth about what her people have become.
At its core, Some Desperate Glory examines the cost of revenge, the difficulty of unlearning deeply ingrained beliefs and the dangers of a society built on manipulation and control. Gaea Station’s rigid hierarchy and blind loyalty turn its people into both victims and perpetrators, with every horror excused as necessity and every cruelty reframed as duty. Those in power seek to mold their people into unquestioning followers, using hate and war as tools to enforce obedience. Its leaders don’t just demand loyalty—they manufacture it, teaching their people to hate so they will never turn their anger inward. Kyr embodies this system—single-minded, self-righteous, and unwilling to see beyond what she has been taught. Her journey is not just one of rebellion but of dismantling the conditioning that has shaped her worldview.
Central to this unraveling is the majoda, long painted as inhuman oppressors. Their existence challenges everything Kyr has been led to believe: if the enemy is not a monster, then what was she fighting for? And if revenge is not the answer, what is left?
Tesh’s storytelling is both intimate and expansive, blending thrilling plot twists with deep emotional reckoning. Kyr is not an easy protagonist—harsh, judgmental, and steeped in ideology—but her transformation is gripping. The novel does not offer easy absolution. Change is painful, messy, and filled with resistance, as real growth always is.
Ultimately, Some Desperate Glory asks whether breaking free—not just from a cycle of violence and the past, but from the systems that sustain it—is possible. Forgiveness is hard, and escaping a cycle requires more than just recognizing the problem—it demands courage, self-reflection, and the willingness to build something new instead of destroying what exists. A haunting, thought-provoking novel, it forces both its characters and readers to confront the consequences of blind obedience, the cost of revenge, and the possibility of choosing a different path—one that redefines survival not as endurance, but as something worth living for.
This book shattered me and immediately earned a place among my favorites. It felt deeply personal—so many of the questions it raises are ones I’ve grappled with for a long time, without finding clear answers. The novel’s emotional depth, unflinching exploration of difficult themes, and gripping character journey made it impossible to put down—and even harder to forget.
Holly Black’s Curse Workers series was my guilty pleasure back in the day. I’m well aware of all its shortcomings — the sometimes thin world-building, the occasional pacing issues — but I loved it anyway. There was something irresistible about the blend of noir, crime, cons, and magic that hooked me, and I tore through those books like they were made for me.
Recently, while going through my shelves, I found my old Curse Workers books and got curious about what Black had written in the years since I stopped keeping up with her releases. That’s when I discovered Book of Night, the first in a new series, with a sequel set to release in 2025.
With a tagline like: “Charlie Hall has never found a lock she couldn’t pick, a book she couldn’t steal, or a bad decision she wouldn’t make,” how could I not pick it up?
Reading Book of Night felt like stepping into familiar territory, but with a darker, more mature edge. Like Curse Workers, Book of Night leans into noir elements—dangerous magic, crime, and a protagonist who can’t quite escape her past. Charlie Hall is a con artist, a survivor, and someone who’s spent most of her life making bad choices. She reminded me a lot of Cassel Sharpe, though her world is darker, and her mistakes feel heavier. Instead of curse magic, this world revolves around shadows—manipulating them, stealing them, and binding them in ways that feel both fascinating and horrifying.
The pacing here is slower than Curse Workers, more atmospheric. It’s heavier and leans more into psychological tension than action. The mystery unfolds in layers, and the story plays with trust and deception in ways that feel quintessentially Holly Black.
For most of the book, I was all in. I enjoyed Charlie as a protagonist—she’s reckless, sharp-witted, and haunted by her past in a way that felt real. I liked the way she navigates a world that constantly tries to swallow her whole. The world of shadow magic was intriguing, even if some of the mechanics felt underexplored. The plot had that classic Holly Black twisty, con-game feel, and I was fully invested in where it was going.
And then... the ending happened.
I can’t talk about it without spoilers, but I will say this: a choice was made that left me deeply uncomfortable. Not because it was a bad narrative decision—it made sense within the world, within the stakes—but because of what it says about love, power, and control. I understand why it happened. I even understand why it might have felt like the only option. But that understanding doesn’t make it sit any easier with me.
Book of Night is gripping, clever, and exactly the kind of dark urban fantasy I expected from Holly Black. It has all the elements I loved in Curse Workers—the morally gray protagonist, the magic-infused crime world, the tension between love and deception—but with a more adult, unsettling edge. I’d recommend it to those that like urban fantasy and noir, but with a caveat: this book lingers in ways you might not expect.
I’ll be reading the sequel. But I’ll also be watching closely to see how Black handles what comes next—because some choices aren’t so easy to undo.
P.S. This book also has a cat in it. Don’t know if you care about that, but you should. Holly Black writes cats really well. They always feel like more than just background animals—they have personality, presence, and a way of making their scenes feel lived in. Similar to Barron in Curse Workers, Lucipurr in Book of Night adds just the right touch of attitude and charm to the story.
Holly Black’s Curse Workers series was my guilty pleasure back in the day. I’m well aware of all its shortcomings — the sometimes thin world-building, the occasional pacing issues — but I loved it anyway. There was something irresistible about the blend of noir, crime, cons, and magic that hooked me, and I tore through those books like they were made for me.
Recently, while going through my shelves, I found my old Curse Workers books and got curious about what Black had written in the years since I stopped keeping up with her releases. That’s when I discovered Book of Night, the first in a new series, with a sequel set to release in 2025.
With a tagline like: “Charlie Hall has never found a lock she couldn’t pick, a book she couldn’t steal, or a bad decision she wouldn’t make,” how could I not pick it up?
Reading Book of Night felt like stepping into familiar territory, but with a darker, more mature edge. Like Curse Workers, Book of Night leans into noir elements—dangerous magic, crime, and a protagonist who can’t quite escape her past. Charlie Hall is a con artist, a survivor, and someone who’s spent most of her life making bad choices. She reminded me a lot of Cassel Sharpe, though her world is darker, and her mistakes feel heavier. Instead of curse magic, this world revolves around shadows—manipulating them, stealing them, and binding them in ways that feel both fascinating and horrifying.
The pacing here is slower than Curse Workers, more atmospheric. It’s heavier and leans more into psychological tension than action. The mystery unfolds in layers, and the story plays with trust and deception in ways that feel quintessentially Holly Black.
For most of the book, I was all in. I enjoyed Charlie as a protagonist—she’s reckless, sharp-witted, and haunted by her past in a way that felt real. I liked the way she navigates a world that constantly tries to swallow her whole. The world of shadow magic was intriguing, even if some of the mechanics felt underexplored. The plot had that classic Holly Black twisty, con-game feel, and I was fully invested in where it was going.
And then... the ending happened.
I can’t talk about it without spoilers, but I will say this: a choice was made that left me deeply uncomfortable. Not because it was a bad narrative decision—it made sense within the world, within the stakes—but because of what it says about love, power, and control. I understand why it happened. I even understand why it might have felt like the only option. But that understanding doesn’t make it sit any easier with me.
Book of Night is gripping, clever, and exactly the kind of dark urban fantasy I expected from Holly Black. It has all the elements I loved in Curse Workers—the morally gray protagonist, the magic-infused crime world, the tension between love and deception—but with a more adult, unsettling edge. I’d recommend it to those that like urban fantasy and noir, but with a caveat: this book lingers in ways you might not expect.
I’ll be reading the sequel. But I’ll also be watching closely to see how Black handles what comes next—because some choices aren’t so easy to undo.
P.S. This book also has a cat in it. Don’t know if you care about that, but you should. Holly Black writes cats really well. They always feel like more than just background animals—they have personality, presence, and a way of making their scenes feel lived in. Similar to Barron in Curse Workers, Lucipurr in Book of Night adds just the right touch of attitude and charm to the story.
At its core, Water Moon by Samantha Sotto Yambao is a story about choices, fate, and the lingering shadows of the past. It follows Hana, a pawnshop owner, who lives a life burdened by the unanswered questions surrounding her father who disappeared and the circumstances surrounding her mother's death. When Kei unexpectedly stumbles into her life, he promises to help her uncover the truth. Together, they navigate a world where the boundaries between destiny and free will blur, uncovering truths about themselves, the price of rewriting one’s past, and the cost of paving a new future.
I went into Water Moon expecting magical realism, lured by its promises of subtle, transformative magic intertwined with the mundane. What I found was something else —an urban fantasy dressed in magical realism’s clothes, occasionally flirting with its depth but never fully committing.
The novel starts strong, with evocative prose and intriguing world-building that hints at layered meanings. The opening chapters had me hooked, setting up a story that felt like it might deliver on the atmospheric, introspective magic I was hoping for. But as the pages turned, my excitement waned. The middle dragged, filled with fascinating ideas that were dangled like shiny objects but never fully explored or realized. By the time I reached the end, I felt a lingering sense of "what could have been." The conclusion wasn’t bad by any means, but it left me wishing for a deeper, more resonant payoff.
The book is sprinkled with lines that ache with potential: "Time has no borders except those people make," and "Losing your way is oftentimes the only way to find something you did not know you were looking for." These quotes capture the essence of what the story could have been—a meditation on choice, fate, and the invisible lines we draw around our lives. But instead of leaning into these philosophical undercurrents, the narrative often defaults to more conventional urban fantasy tropes.
One of the most compelling elements is the concept of the pawnshop of choices and the Shiikuin. The idea of trading choices and the consequences of those trades could have been a powerful metaphor for agency and regret. Instead, it feels like a missed opportunity, wrapped up in plot mechanics rather than thematic exploration. The book teases big questions about fate and freedom but shies away from delving into them with the depth they deserve.
The dynamic between Hana and Kei hints at complexity but ultimately plays it safe. Their relationship takes center stage a bit too often, and they fall for each other with unrealistic speed. Their interactions could have benefited from more tension and ambiguity, as the narrative opts for a straightforward path rather than exploring darker, more intricate twists.
Despite its shortcomings, Water Moon isn’t without merit. The writing is beautiful in places, and certain passages resonate deeply: "She was the moon in the water, close enough to touch, yet beyond reach," "Death is kind and swift. Longing is a life sentence," and "...life is about joy in the space between where you came from and where you are going..."These moments of lyrical introspection hint at the book's potential, even if they ultimately highlight its failure to fully realize it.
In the end, Water Moon is a story that feels like it’s constantly on the brink of something profound but never quite gets there. It’s the kind of book that makes you think, "Oh, I see where you’re going with this... but wouldn’t it be better if...?" I was looking for magical realism, but it turned out to be more of an urban fantasy with lyrical writing, leaving me more frustrated than fulfilled. But if you’re willing to accept it for what it is, there are moments of beauty worth savoring.
At its core, Water Moon by Samantha Sotto Yambao is a story about choices, fate, and the lingering shadows of the past. It follows Hana, a pawnshop owner, who lives a life burdened by the unanswered questions surrounding her father who disappeared and the circumstances surrounding her mother's death. When Kei unexpectedly stumbles into her life, he promises to help her uncover the truth. Together, they navigate a world where the boundaries between destiny and free will blur, uncovering truths about themselves, the price of rewriting one’s past, and the cost of paving a new future.
I went into Water Moon expecting magical realism, lured by its promises of subtle, transformative magic intertwined with the mundane. What I found was something else —an urban fantasy dressed in magical realism’s clothes, occasionally flirting with its depth but never fully committing.
The novel starts strong, with evocative prose and intriguing world-building that hints at layered meanings. The opening chapters had me hooked, setting up a story that felt like it might deliver on the atmospheric, introspective magic I was hoping for. But as the pages turned, my excitement waned. The middle dragged, filled with fascinating ideas that were dangled like shiny objects but never fully explored or realized. By the time I reached the end, I felt a lingering sense of "what could have been." The conclusion wasn’t bad by any means, but it left me wishing for a deeper, more resonant payoff.
The book is sprinkled with lines that ache with potential: "Time has no borders except those people make," and "Losing your way is oftentimes the only way to find something you did not know you were looking for." These quotes capture the essence of what the story could have been—a meditation on choice, fate, and the invisible lines we draw around our lives. But instead of leaning into these philosophical undercurrents, the narrative often defaults to more conventional urban fantasy tropes.
One of the most compelling elements is the concept of the pawnshop of choices and the Shiikuin. The idea of trading choices and the consequences of those trades could have been a powerful metaphor for agency and regret. Instead, it feels like a missed opportunity, wrapped up in plot mechanics rather than thematic exploration. The book teases big questions about fate and freedom but shies away from delving into them with the depth they deserve.
The dynamic between Hana and Kei hints at complexity but ultimately plays it safe. Their relationship takes center stage a bit too often, and they fall for each other with unrealistic speed. Their interactions could have benefited from more tension and ambiguity, as the narrative opts for a straightforward path rather than exploring darker, more intricate twists.
Despite its shortcomings, Water Moon isn’t without merit. The writing is beautiful in places, and certain passages resonate deeply: "She was the moon in the water, close enough to touch, yet beyond reach," "Death is kind and swift. Longing is a life sentence," and "...life is about joy in the space between where you came from and where you are going..."These moments of lyrical introspection hint at the book's potential, even if they ultimately highlight its failure to fully realize it.
In the end, Water Moon is a story that feels like it’s constantly on the brink of something profound but never quite gets there. It’s the kind of book that makes you think, "Oh, I see where you’re going with this... but wouldn’t it be better if...?" I was looking for magical realism, but it turned out to be more of an urban fantasy with lyrical writing, leaving me more frustrated than fulfilled. But if you’re willing to accept it for what it is, there are moments of beauty worth savoring.
Joe Abercrombie’s The Blade Itself is a character-driven fantasy that subverts traditional genre tropes with flawed protagonists, political intrigue, and sharp, darkly humorous dialogue. Set in a world of shifting alliances and looming conflict, the novel follows three main characters: Logen Ninefingers, a battle-worn barbarian trying to outrun his past; Jezal dan Luthar, a self-absorbed noble more interested in vanity than valor; and Inquisitor Glokta, a former war hero turned ruthless interrogator, now navigating the dangerous world of politics and espionage. Their fates slowly converge under the guidance of Bayaz, a mysterious and powerful mage with his own hidden agenda.
Rather than a traditional fantasy story with a clear overarching quest, The Blade Itself is more focused on its characters and the intricate power struggles they become entangled in. The world Abercrombie builds is rich and detailed, with a dry wit underlying even its darker moments. There is certainly violence, cynicism, and moral ambiguity, but I found myself expecting even more grimness and brutality given Abercrombie’s reputation as a quintessential modern grimdark writer. While the book leans into the messiness of war and power, it balances this with a surprising amount of humor and character-driven storytelling.
Despite its strengths, my experience with The Blade Itself was initially frustrating. I had attempted to read the book twice before and struggled to get past the halfway point. The beginning is slow and, at times, disorienting, with frequent shifts in perspective and little clarity on how the characters or their stories connect. The narrative seemed to lack a clear direction, making it difficult to stay engaged.
However, determined to give it another chance, I persisted. And once I crossed the halfway mark, everything began to fall into place. The characters became more compelling, their interactions more meaningful, and the overarching story started to take shape. By the final quarter of the book, I was fully invested, and upon finishing, I was eager to continue the series.
It is difficult to pinpoint exactly why the first half was such a struggle—whether due to pacing, structure, or the sheer amount of setup required for such a complex world. However, in retrospect, I am glad I gave it another attempt. If you are willing to push through the slower opening, The Blade Itself offers a rewarding and immersive experience, setting the stage for what promises to be an engaging and unpredictable trilogy.
Joe Abercrombie’s The Blade Itself is a character-driven fantasy that subverts traditional genre tropes with flawed protagonists, political intrigue, and sharp, darkly humorous dialogue. Set in a world of shifting alliances and looming conflict, the novel follows three main characters: Logen Ninefingers, a battle-worn barbarian trying to outrun his past; Jezal dan Luthar, a self-absorbed noble more interested in vanity than valor; and Inquisitor Glokta, a former war hero turned ruthless interrogator, now navigating the dangerous world of politics and espionage. Their fates slowly converge under the guidance of Bayaz, a mysterious and powerful mage with his own hidden agenda.
Rather than a traditional fantasy story with a clear overarching quest, The Blade Itself is more focused on its characters and the intricate power struggles they become entangled in. The world Abercrombie builds is rich and detailed, with a dry wit underlying even its darker moments. There is certainly violence, cynicism, and moral ambiguity, but I found myself expecting even more grimness and brutality given Abercrombie’s reputation as a quintessential modern grimdark writer. While the book leans into the messiness of war and power, it balances this with a surprising amount of humor and character-driven storytelling.
Despite its strengths, my experience with The Blade Itself was initially frustrating. I had attempted to read the book twice before and struggled to get past the halfway point. The beginning is slow and, at times, disorienting, with frequent shifts in perspective and little clarity on how the characters or their stories connect. The narrative seemed to lack a clear direction, making it difficult to stay engaged.
However, determined to give it another chance, I persisted. And once I crossed the halfway mark, everything began to fall into place. The characters became more compelling, their interactions more meaningful, and the overarching story started to take shape. By the final quarter of the book, I was fully invested, and upon finishing, I was eager to continue the series.
It is difficult to pinpoint exactly why the first half was such a struggle—whether due to pacing, structure, or the sheer amount of setup required for such a complex world. However, in retrospect, I am glad I gave it another attempt. If you are willing to push through the slower opening, The Blade Itself offers a rewarding and immersive experience, setting the stage for what promises to be an engaging and unpredictable trilogy.
Brandon Sanderson’s The Frugal Wizard’s Handbook for Surviving Medieval England is an isekai story with a clever twist: a handbook designed for time travelers trying to survive (and maybe thrive) in medieval England. While the premise is intriguing and the book shows flashes of brilliance, it ultimately doesn’t deliver on its promise.
As a fan of isekai stories, I appreciated the concept and the nods to irreverent classics like The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams and Bring Me the Head of Prince Charming by Roger Zelazny and Robert Sheckley. Much like those works, Sanderson infuses his tale with whimsy, sharp commentary on human nature, and a guidebook that serves as a constant source of humor and charm. The extracts from the titular handbook are a highlight—quirky, clever, and full of personality, they stand out as the most memorable aspect of the book.
Unfortunately, the rest of the narrative doesn’t hold up as well. Despite the promising start, the story quickly loses momentum. The plot, while functional, feels flat, and the characters don’t leave a lasting impression. There’s nothing glaringly wrong, but there’s also nothing gripping about the journey. It’s as if the book drifts into the realm of mediocrity, lacking the spark to make it truly engaging. Personally, I found myself stuck in a bit of a reading slump because of it, unable to pinpoint exactly why the story failed to connect.
That said, the artwork deserves special mention. The illustrations throughout the book are beautifully done, adding an extra layer of enjoyment to the reading experience. They help bring the world and the handbook to life in a way that the prose sometimes struggles to achieve.
In the end, The Frugal Wizard’s Handbook is an amusing diversion that never quite finds its footing. For fans of humorous sci-fi and fantasy, it’s worth a look for the handbook extracts and the artwork alone—but don’t expect a story as gripping or polished as Sanderson’s best works.
Brandon Sanderson’s The Frugal Wizard’s Handbook for Surviving Medieval England is an isekai story with a clever twist: a handbook designed for time travelers trying to survive (and maybe thrive) in medieval England. While the premise is intriguing and the book shows flashes of brilliance, it ultimately doesn’t deliver on its promise.
As a fan of isekai stories, I appreciated the concept and the nods to irreverent classics like The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams and Bring Me the Head of Prince Charming by Roger Zelazny and Robert Sheckley. Much like those works, Sanderson infuses his tale with whimsy, sharp commentary on human nature, and a guidebook that serves as a constant source of humor and charm. The extracts from the titular handbook are a highlight—quirky, clever, and full of personality, they stand out as the most memorable aspect of the book.
Unfortunately, the rest of the narrative doesn’t hold up as well. Despite the promising start, the story quickly loses momentum. The plot, while functional, feels flat, and the characters don’t leave a lasting impression. There’s nothing glaringly wrong, but there’s also nothing gripping about the journey. It’s as if the book drifts into the realm of mediocrity, lacking the spark to make it truly engaging. Personally, I found myself stuck in a bit of a reading slump because of it, unable to pinpoint exactly why the story failed to connect.
That said, the artwork deserves special mention. The illustrations throughout the book are beautifully done, adding an extra layer of enjoyment to the reading experience. They help bring the world and the handbook to life in a way that the prose sometimes struggles to achieve.
In the end, The Frugal Wizard’s Handbook is an amusing diversion that never quite finds its footing. For fans of humorous sci-fi and fantasy, it’s worth a look for the handbook extracts and the artwork alone—but don’t expect a story as gripping or polished as Sanderson’s best works.
When I first picked up The Invention of Morel, I wasn’t sure what to expect. It’s sometimes called one of the first works of magical realism, but to me, it felt more like sci-fi or horror — haunting, imaginative, and eerily ahead of its time. Jorge Luis Borges, who wrote the prologue, called it a work of “reasoned imagination,” and I can’t think of a better description. The book is unsettling, thought-provoking, and honestly, perfect.
The story follows a fugitive hiding on an island, where strange things start happening. He notices a group of people—dressed like they’re at a fancy party—but they don’t acknowledge him. At first, it feels like a ghost story, but as the mystery unfolds, you realize it’s something much stranger. At the center of it all is a machine created by Morel, an invention that records and replays moments in time. The narrator becomes obsessed with one of the visitors, Faustine, and things spiral into a weird mix of obsession, longing, and questions about reality versus delusion.
What really struck me is how creepy and modern the book feels, even in 2025. Bioy Casares taps into themes like memory, loneliness, and immortality, but they also connect to things we’re grappling with today—VR, social media, parasocial relationships, AI, even darker topics like stalking or revenge AI porn. It’s amazing that a book from 1940 captures ideas that are still so relevant now. The narrator’s obsession with Faustine reminded me of how people get fixated on influencers or celebrities they’ll never meet, while Morel’s machine felt like an early vision of technology’s power to distort reality and relationships.
This isn’t just a story you read—it’s one you feel. The eerie atmosphere of the island, the narrator’s growing desperation, and the chilling questions about what’s real and what’s an illusion stick with you. It’s also a book that makes you think. Can you love someone who isn’t truly there? Is it worth giving up your life for an illusion? And what happens when we let technology blur the lines between memory and reality?
If you’re into stories that feel a bit like a Black Mirror episode or something out of a Kafka fever dream, The Invention of Morel will hit the spot. It’s eerie, thought-provoking, and unique. It’s short but dense, and you’ll want to sit with it after you’re done. For me, it was a surreal and unforgettable experience.
When I first picked up The Invention of Morel, I wasn’t sure what to expect. It’s sometimes called one of the first works of magical realism, but to me, it felt more like sci-fi or horror — haunting, imaginative, and eerily ahead of its time. Jorge Luis Borges, who wrote the prologue, called it a work of “reasoned imagination,” and I can’t think of a better description. The book is unsettling, thought-provoking, and honestly, perfect.
The story follows a fugitive hiding on an island, where strange things start happening. He notices a group of people—dressed like they’re at a fancy party—but they don’t acknowledge him. At first, it feels like a ghost story, but as the mystery unfolds, you realize it’s something much stranger. At the center of it all is a machine created by Morel, an invention that records and replays moments in time. The narrator becomes obsessed with one of the visitors, Faustine, and things spiral into a weird mix of obsession, longing, and questions about reality versus delusion.
What really struck me is how creepy and modern the book feels, even in 2025. Bioy Casares taps into themes like memory, loneliness, and immortality, but they also connect to things we’re grappling with today—VR, social media, parasocial relationships, AI, even darker topics like stalking or revenge AI porn. It’s amazing that a book from 1940 captures ideas that are still so relevant now. The narrator’s obsession with Faustine reminded me of how people get fixated on influencers or celebrities they’ll never meet, while Morel’s machine felt like an early vision of technology’s power to distort reality and relationships.
This isn’t just a story you read—it’s one you feel. The eerie atmosphere of the island, the narrator’s growing desperation, and the chilling questions about what’s real and what’s an illusion stick with you. It’s also a book that makes you think. Can you love someone who isn’t truly there? Is it worth giving up your life for an illusion? And what happens when we let technology blur the lines between memory and reality?
If you’re into stories that feel a bit like a Black Mirror episode or something out of a Kafka fever dream, The Invention of Morel will hit the spot. It’s eerie, thought-provoking, and unique. It’s short but dense, and you’ll want to sit with it after you’re done. For me, it was a surreal and unforgettable experience.
I picked up Julie & Julia after falling in love with the movie adaptation. The film was such a delightful experience that I craved more—the kind of behind-the-scenes insight that only a book can provide. Before watching the movie, I hadn’t heard of Julie Powell or Julia Child, but after some quick online research, I became fascinated by both women and rushed to the nearest bookstore to grab a copy.
As someone who typically avoids non-fiction, especially biographies and autobiographies, I was initially hesitant. I spent some time flipping through the pages to see if it would truly resonate with me. Before I knew it, I was completely engrossed and couldn’t put it down.
What struck me most about Julie & Julia is how it doesn’t feel like a traditional autobiography. If I hadn’t known about Julie Powell and her blog beforehand, I would have assumed it was a work of fiction—light and captivating, much like an entertaining contemporary novel. The story flows so naturally that I devoured it in nearly a single day.
Some readers have described Julie Powell’s writing as hysterical, but I don’t agree. To me, her style is alive. Her honesty, vivid storytelling, and sharp humor make the book feel authentic and unfiltered. She doesn’t try to present herself as perfect or add qualities she doesn’t possess. Instead, she embraces her flaws and humanity, making her incredibly relatable and likable.
I’m enormously grateful to the filmmakers for introducing me to Julie Powell and Julia Child, two remarkable women with very different yet equally inspiring stories. I wholeheartedly recommend Julie & Julia not only to fans of autobiographies and cooking but also to anyone who enjoys witty, heartfelt narratives with a strong voice. Whether you’re drawn to the culinary world, personal journeys, or simply a good story, this book is a joy to read.
I picked up Julie & Julia after falling in love with the movie adaptation. The film was such a delightful experience that I craved more—the kind of behind-the-scenes insight that only a book can provide. Before watching the movie, I hadn’t heard of Julie Powell or Julia Child, but after some quick online research, I became fascinated by both women and rushed to the nearest bookstore to grab a copy.
As someone who typically avoids non-fiction, especially biographies and autobiographies, I was initially hesitant. I spent some time flipping through the pages to see if it would truly resonate with me. Before I knew it, I was completely engrossed and couldn’t put it down.
What struck me most about Julie & Julia is how it doesn’t feel like a traditional autobiography. If I hadn’t known about Julie Powell and her blog beforehand, I would have assumed it was a work of fiction—light and captivating, much like an entertaining contemporary novel. The story flows so naturally that I devoured it in nearly a single day.
Some readers have described Julie Powell’s writing as hysterical, but I don’t agree. To me, her style is alive. Her honesty, vivid storytelling, and sharp humor make the book feel authentic and unfiltered. She doesn’t try to present herself as perfect or add qualities she doesn’t possess. Instead, she embraces her flaws and humanity, making her incredibly relatable and likable.
I’m enormously grateful to the filmmakers for introducing me to Julie Powell and Julia Child, two remarkable women with very different yet equally inspiring stories. I wholeheartedly recommend Julie & Julia not only to fans of autobiographies and cooking but also to anyone who enjoys witty, heartfelt narratives with a strong voice. Whether you’re drawn to the culinary world, personal journeys, or simply a good story, this book is a joy to read.
What was I thinking?!
What was I thinking?!
It was quite good. I just wish that the idea wouldn't be close to identical to I am Legend.
It was quite good. I just wish that the idea wouldn't be close to identical to I am Legend.
First time rereading in six years and what an excellent time to do so - June 2016 (if you read the book, you'll get the date). The book is still amazing. One day I need to read the second one in the series.
First time rereading in six years and what an excellent time to do so - June 2016 (if you read the book, you'll get the date). The book is still amazing. One day I need to read the second one in the series.
The Invention of Morel by Adolfo Bioy Casares is one of those books that sneaks up on you. It’s short, strange, and full of twists that make you question everything by the time you finish. If you like stories that feel like a puzzle, this one’s for you.
The setup is simple: an unnamed narrator (who’s on the run for a crime we don’t know much about) hides out on a deserted island. At least, he thinks it’s deserted. Pretty soon, he starts noticing people—elegantly dressed, almost otherworldly—and things get weird. Why don’t they acknowledge him? How do they seem so… disconnected from reality?
The narrator becomes obsessed with Faustine, one of these “visitors,” and we get pulled into his spiraling thoughts about love, immortality, and what it means to truly connect with someone.
What’s great about this book is how it balances mystery with some really big ideas. You can enjoy it as a sci-fi mind-bender or dig into the deeper stuff about memory, obsession, and loneliness. The island feels dreamlike and unsettling, and the writing is simple but evocative. It’s not a long book, but it packs a lot into its pages.
If you’re into stories that feel a bit like a Black Mirror episode or something out of a Kafka fever dream, The Invention of Morel will hit the spot. It’s eerie, thought-provoking, and unique. Plus, it’ll leave you wondering about what’s real and what’s just an illusion—long after you’ve put it down.
The Invention of Morel by Adolfo Bioy Casares is one of those books that sneaks up on you. It’s short, strange, and full of twists that make you question everything by the time you finish. If you like stories that feel like a puzzle, this one’s for you.
The setup is simple: an unnamed narrator (who’s on the run for a crime we don’t know much about) hides out on a deserted island. At least, he thinks it’s deserted. Pretty soon, he starts noticing people—elegantly dressed, almost otherworldly—and things get weird. Why don’t they acknowledge him? How do they seem so… disconnected from reality?
The narrator becomes obsessed with Faustine, one of these “visitors,” and we get pulled into his spiraling thoughts about love, immortality, and what it means to truly connect with someone.
What’s great about this book is how it balances mystery with some really big ideas. You can enjoy it as a sci-fi mind-bender or dig into the deeper stuff about memory, obsession, and loneliness. The island feels dreamlike and unsettling, and the writing is simple but evocative. It’s not a long book, but it packs a lot into its pages.
If you’re into stories that feel a bit like a Black Mirror episode or something out of a Kafka fever dream, The Invention of Morel will hit the spot. It’s eerie, thought-provoking, and unique. Plus, it’ll leave you wondering about what’s real and what’s just an illusion—long after you’ve put it down.
James Logan’s debut, The Silverblood Promise, offers an intriguing premise and a compelling setting that hints at great potential, but the execution falls short in nearly every other aspect, leaving me frustrated and disconnected.
The story’s worldbuilding is perhaps its strongest point, with flashes of creativity that show promise. However, the narrative is bogged down by an overwhelming reliance on exposition. The entire book feels like a guided tour rather than an immersive experience. Instead of showing us the world, the characters, and their motivations, Logan opts to tell—often in clunky explanations.
The characters, unfortunately, are thinly drawn and inconsistent. The protagonist lacks agency, functioning more like a passive participant in a series of poorly-constructed MMO-style fetch quests. Goals are nested within goals, creating a disorienting sense of endless errands that feel more frustrating than purposeful. I often was left wondering, “What was the point again?”
Dialogue is another weak point, with unrealistic exchanges that fail to capture natural rhythm or genuine emotion. Relationships between characters jump inexplicably, lacking any meaningful development. Additionally, the characters often act outside their established (or non-existent) personalities, making it difficult to invest in them or their journeys.
Tropes are present in abundance but not in a way that feels clever or subversive. Instead, they seem thrown together haphazardly, as if the author hoped the mere presence of familiar elements would suffice. Comparisons to The Lies of Locke Lamora feel inevitable, but The Silverblood Promise lacks the wit, depth, and nuance needed to stand alongside Scott Lynch’s work.
To Logan’s credit, this is a debut novel, and there is a glimmer of potential buried under the shortcomings. With time and experience, the author may learn to craft more dynamic characters, build relationships that resonate, and create narratives that immerse rather than frustrate. But as it stands, The Silverblood Promise is an immature and uneven effort that struggles to deliver on its premise.
Final Verdict: A promising idea marred by poor execution, flat characters, and uninspired storytelling. Fans of fantasy may find hints of potential, but patience is required to wade through a disappointing debut.
James Logan’s debut, The Silverblood Promise, offers an intriguing premise and a compelling setting that hints at great potential, but the execution falls short in nearly every other aspect, leaving me frustrated and disconnected.
The story’s worldbuilding is perhaps its strongest point, with flashes of creativity that show promise. However, the narrative is bogged down by an overwhelming reliance on exposition. The entire book feels like a guided tour rather than an immersive experience. Instead of showing us the world, the characters, and their motivations, Logan opts to tell—often in clunky explanations.
The characters, unfortunately, are thinly drawn and inconsistent. The protagonist lacks agency, functioning more like a passive participant in a series of poorly-constructed MMO-style fetch quests. Goals are nested within goals, creating a disorienting sense of endless errands that feel more frustrating than purposeful. I often was left wondering, “What was the point again?”
Dialogue is another weak point, with unrealistic exchanges that fail to capture natural rhythm or genuine emotion. Relationships between characters jump inexplicably, lacking any meaningful development. Additionally, the characters often act outside their established (or non-existent) personalities, making it difficult to invest in them or their journeys.
Tropes are present in abundance but not in a way that feels clever or subversive. Instead, they seem thrown together haphazardly, as if the author hoped the mere presence of familiar elements would suffice. Comparisons to The Lies of Locke Lamora feel inevitable, but The Silverblood Promise lacks the wit, depth, and nuance needed to stand alongside Scott Lynch’s work.
To Logan’s credit, this is a debut novel, and there is a glimmer of potential buried under the shortcomings. With time and experience, the author may learn to craft more dynamic characters, build relationships that resonate, and create narratives that immerse rather than frustrate. But as it stands, The Silverblood Promise is an immature and uneven effort that struggles to deliver on its premise.
Final Verdict: A promising idea marred by poor execution, flat characters, and uninspired storytelling. Fans of fantasy may find hints of potential, but patience is required to wade through a disappointing debut.
James Logan’s debut, The Silverblood Promise, offers an intriguing premise and a compelling setting that hints at great potential, but the execution falls short in nearly every other aspect, leaving me frustrated and disconnected.
The story’s worldbuilding is perhaps its strongest point, with flashes of creativity that show promise. However, the narrative is bogged down by an overwhelming reliance on exposition. The entire book feels like a guided tour rather than an immersive experience. Instead of showing us the world, the characters, and their motivations, Logan opts to tell—often in clunky explanations.
The characters, unfortunately, are thinly drawn and inconsistent. The protagonist lacks agency, functioning more like a passive participant in a series of poorly-constructed MMO-style fetch quests. Goals are nested within goals, creating a disorienting sense of endless errands that feel more frustrating than purposeful. I often was left wondering, “What was the point again?”
Dialogue is another weak point, with unrealistic exchanges that fail to capture natural rhythm or genuine emotion. Relationships between characters jump inexplicably, lacking any meaningful development. Additionally, the characters often act outside their established (or non-existent) personalities, making it difficult to invest in them or their journeys.
Tropes are present in abundance but not in a way that feels clever or subversive. Instead, they seem thrown together haphazardly, as if the author hoped the mere presence of familiar elements would suffice. Comparisons to The Lies of Locke Lamora feel inevitable, but The Silverblood Promise lacks the wit, depth, and nuance needed to stand alongside Scott Lynch’s work.
To Logan’s credit, this is a debut novel, and there is a glimmer of potential buried under the shortcomings. With time and experience, the author may learn to craft more dynamic characters, build relationships that resonate, and create narratives that immerse rather than frustrate. But as it stands, The Silverblood Promise is an immature and uneven effort that struggles to deliver on its premise.
Final Verdict: A promising idea marred by poor execution, flat characters, and uninspired storytelling. Fans of fantasy may find hints of potential, but patience is required to wade through a disappointing debut.
James Logan’s debut, The Silverblood Promise, offers an intriguing premise and a compelling setting that hints at great potential, but the execution falls short in nearly every other aspect, leaving me frustrated and disconnected.
The story’s worldbuilding is perhaps its strongest point, with flashes of creativity that show promise. However, the narrative is bogged down by an overwhelming reliance on exposition. The entire book feels like a guided tour rather than an immersive experience. Instead of showing us the world, the characters, and their motivations, Logan opts to tell—often in clunky explanations.
The characters, unfortunately, are thinly drawn and inconsistent. The protagonist lacks agency, functioning more like a passive participant in a series of poorly-constructed MMO-style fetch quests. Goals are nested within goals, creating a disorienting sense of endless errands that feel more frustrating than purposeful. I often was left wondering, “What was the point again?”
Dialogue is another weak point, with unrealistic exchanges that fail to capture natural rhythm or genuine emotion. Relationships between characters jump inexplicably, lacking any meaningful development. Additionally, the characters often act outside their established (or non-existent) personalities, making it difficult to invest in them or their journeys.
Tropes are present in abundance but not in a way that feels clever or subversive. Instead, they seem thrown together haphazardly, as if the author hoped the mere presence of familiar elements would suffice. Comparisons to The Lies of Locke Lamora feel inevitable, but The Silverblood Promise lacks the wit, depth, and nuance needed to stand alongside Scott Lynch’s work.
To Logan’s credit, this is a debut novel, and there is a glimmer of potential buried under the shortcomings. With time and experience, the author may learn to craft more dynamic characters, build relationships that resonate, and create narratives that immerse rather than frustrate. But as it stands, The Silverblood Promise is an immature and uneven effort that struggles to deliver on its premise.
Final Verdict: A promising idea marred by poor execution, flat characters, and uninspired storytelling. Fans of fantasy may find hints of potential, but patience is required to wade through a disappointing debut.
Sophie Kinsella’s The Burnout is another delightful gem that effortlessly combines humor, heart, and life lessons. With her signature light touch, Kinsella introduces us to a story that feels both relatable and uplifting. The quote, “Pretty much everything I’ve learned in life, I learned from Terry,” encapsulates the wisdom hidden in everyday moments—a theme Kinsella beautifully weaves throughout the book.
The story revolves around a protagonist - Sasha - grappling with burnout—a feeling that so many of us know all too well. The constant chain of emails, endless calls, and never-ending documents at work can wear anyone down, and the main character’s struggles feel incredibly relatable, at least to me. Kinsella captures that all-consuming exhaustion and the yearning to break free with such authenticity that it resonates deeply.
One thing Sophie Kinsella does better than almost anyone else is writing those hilariously cringe-worthy “character is very embarrassed” moments. Whether it’s an awkward misunderstanding, an over-the-top reaction, or just bad luck, she somehow turns even the most mortifying situations into moments of pure comedy gold. In The Burnout, these moments provide just the right balance of levity to the heavier themes, making you laugh out loud while empathizing deeply with characters.
The setting of a run-down resort is a stroke of nostalgia, evoking the magic of childhood summers. The reunion of characters who once visited it as children creates a charming juxtaposition of past and present, and for anyone who’s ever returned to a place that holds treasured memories, it strikes a deeply personal chord.
This story reminded me of my own summers spent at resorts, the way they brimmed with innocence, adventure, and fleeting but cherished connections. Kinsella has a knack for taking what might seem obvious or even mundane and presenting it with a fresh, optimistic lens that feels anything but sanctimonious.
Her books always leave me feeling inspired, happier, and more optimistic about life, and The Burnout is no exception. It’s a perfect read for anyone seeking solace in the chaos, a reminder of life’s joys, and the beauty of rediscovering oneself through reflection, nostalgia, and a touch of whimsy.
Sophie Kinsella’s The Burnout is another delightful gem that effortlessly combines humor, heart, and life lessons. With her signature light touch, Kinsella introduces us to a story that feels both relatable and uplifting. The quote, “Pretty much everything I’ve learned in life, I learned from Terry,” encapsulates the wisdom hidden in everyday moments—a theme Kinsella beautifully weaves throughout the book.
The story revolves around a protagonist - Sasha - grappling with burnout—a feeling that so many of us know all too well. The constant chain of emails, endless calls, and never-ending documents at work can wear anyone down, and the main character’s struggles feel incredibly relatable, at least to me. Kinsella captures that all-consuming exhaustion and the yearning to break free with such authenticity that it resonates deeply.
One thing Sophie Kinsella does better than almost anyone else is writing those hilariously cringe-worthy “character is very embarrassed” moments. Whether it’s an awkward misunderstanding, an over-the-top reaction, or just bad luck, she somehow turns even the most mortifying situations into moments of pure comedy gold. In The Burnout, these moments provide just the right balance of levity to the heavier themes, making you laugh out loud while empathizing deeply with characters.
The setting of a run-down resort is a stroke of nostalgia, evoking the magic of childhood summers. The reunion of characters who once visited it as children creates a charming juxtaposition of past and present, and for anyone who’s ever returned to a place that holds treasured memories, it strikes a deeply personal chord.
This story reminded me of my own summers spent at resorts, the way they brimmed with innocence, adventure, and fleeting but cherished connections. Kinsella has a knack for taking what might seem obvious or even mundane and presenting it with a fresh, optimistic lens that feels anything but sanctimonious.
Her books always leave me feeling inspired, happier, and more optimistic about life, and The Burnout is no exception. It’s a perfect read for anyone seeking solace in the chaos, a reminder of life’s joys, and the beauty of rediscovering oneself through reflection, nostalgia, and a touch of whimsy.