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juushikaIt occurred to me intermittently in 2020 that if I reread books, I don't need to write full reviews of them—and reviews are one of the things that burned me out in reading 370+ books the year prior. This was successful! Except that I love rereads and generally write at least updated notes to my reviews—less formal, with less effort to be objective, but reflective of my changing relationship with a text. I love to see how I change as a reader and how/if the text ages with me; I'm interested in what I focus on when I'm already familiar with the plot, and to see which parts of the plot I forget; I admire even the lessons of the suck fairy.
...And I'll gather those those notes into batches, I thought! And then they kept gathering...! And then the year ran out and I'd still posted none!
Thus these are many reread notes from 2020. There are a number of oversights—mostly books I didn't review the first time I read them, probably because I loved them too much, and then failed to review the second time I read them, because I still loved them and had grown intimidated. That's a shitty reason not to talk about a book, but here we are. Also I reread Harry Potter and I'm not up to talking about that particular suck fairy--but I'm grateful for the Witch, Please podcast returning to shoulder some of that burden.
I hope for more rereads (and more timely posts) in 2021; I'd particular like to revisit some favorites from the last few years, to see what my longterm impressions are.
Mossflower, Brian Jacques
I have read this umpteen times. This time it felt less "my favorite-ever Redwall," but I expect this may be because I was less in the mood for Redwall than I thought I was at the time. I'm still astounded that I can remember every single adventure, all of them, every one; and because of my familiarity with so much else of the series, also see every proto-nod, every element that would later be fleshed out (which, in Redwall, is a lot of them). But my real takeaway from this pretty mild-on-the-takeaways reread was: if you take out the "they're repetitive, there's talking animals, the riddles are silly" truisms, wow is the death count in these books just ridiculous. They're absolutely for kids, but still feel wildly inappropriate for kids.
A Wizard of Earthsea, Ursula K. Le Guin
I hoped to like this better the second time around, approaching it with knowledge of its role in/commentary on the genre, and knowing how to set my expectations. But my response is almost identical to 2012. The tone is too distant, the take on fantasy too intentionally archetypal—so while Le Guin's strengths of atmosphere, travelogue, and realistic worldbuilding provide balance, and despite that the concept (and particularly the final chapters) are so strong, this still fails to grab me. I reread in order to continue the series, and probably still will, but I worry that Earthsea isn't for me.
ETA: Months later, I did not end up continuing the series; but the reread has kept it fresh enough in my mind that there may still be hope for 2021.
Watchtower (Chronicles of Tornor Book 1), Elizabeth A. Lynn
Dropping this from 4 stars down to 3 stars, but I actually like it more the second time through. My opinion of it had faded in time; I remembered it as the depressing Tornor book, the one where fulfillment in non-normative relationships/societies is dangled before the protagonist (and reader)—but denied. And all of that is there on reread, but knowing to expect disappointment turns it into a subdued study of why we can't always get what we want—of what needs and limitations lie in the way of fulfillment, even while undergoing personal growth; it makes that growth more real.
This is still the least enjoyable of the series, but I'm curious how it will compare to my reread of The Northern Girl, because I suspect I may actually like this more.
The Dancers of Arun (Chronicles of Tornor Book 2), Elizabeth A. Lynn
I like this a little less than I did the first time around, maybe because I knew what to expect from the interpersonal elements and so was seeing more of the larger plot.
But those interpersonal elements are still what interest me, particularly Lynn's variety of wish fulfillment. Everyone is bi, polyamory is unremarkable, and, in case you were wondering if that was an oversight, incest is fine, too: it's an intentional blanket acceptance of all attractions and relationships which pointedly contrasts the other forms of social strife (xenophobia, ableism) which motivate plot and character developments. This differs from the internalized homophobia in Watchtower, and Lynn interrogates the limits of acceptance via the non-consensual desires in The Sardonyx Net. These exceptions and limits serve to make the acceptance in books like The Dancers of Arun and A Different Light feel particularly intentional. The scene where the protagonist here wonders whether his attraction is permissible is charming because his doubts are so easily pacified. There's conflicts, sure, but not about this, not in this place—it's a relatable queer fantasy which makes for lovely comfort reading without fluffy escapism.
ETA: I reread these in their appropriate seasons (winter, spring) but forgot The Northern Girl (summer)—something to revisit in 2021!
Blood and Chocolate, Annette Curtis Klause
I like this more than the last time I reread it, and the only real difference is that I'm less dead-set on hating everything I associate with my adolescence. It's still trash, but its position in the paranormal romance genre is interesting—namely that it's not "my monster boyfriend" but "me, the monster, getting a boyfriend." The positioning of the protagonist, that she begins as powerful, beautiful, and assured but has to fight to preserve that self-image when her social role is challenged, engages but inverts adolescent female feelings; it's refreshing. It's still flawed, particularly the dated, problematic framing of the romantic rivals, but also the rocky balance of pack dynamics and teenage drama. But the plot stretches the humid length of summer and the writing is, honestly, a delight: "Vivian stretched and pawed at the ground, she sniffed the glorious air. She felt as if her tail could sweep the stars from the sky."
Foundling (Monster Blood Tattoo Book 1), D.M. Cornish
I like this more and less on reread. It's so steampunk, retaining the class criticism, substituting monster-hunting ethics for imperialism/racism with something approximating grace, and delighting in material detail as avenue to worldbuilding. The plot and characters feel more MG than YA, particularly because the major twist is so obvious. But there's something charming in the way that heavy foreshadowing and chunky caricatures cross with class/race/boundary relations—it's not high art, but it's effective and even affecting. Or, in other words: Europe is great.
Lamplighter (Monster Blood Tattoo Book 2), D.M. Cornish
I remember so little of this from my first read, which is unusual for me. I think it indicates an overlong book with few meaningful developments, particularly because the big reveal has been obvious from the onset. But all the bulk which is given over not to plot but to world, to the minutiae of work and the slow progress of relationships and the ongoing plethora of fantasy names, serves a purpose; it flows over me with minimum retention, but flows pleasantly, and it becomes a living landscape for the continuing progression of "prickly caricatures having slightly nuanced, emotionally affecting relationships" as began in the first book.
ETA: The third and final book, Factotum, was new to me & is reviewed here.
Palimpsest, Catherynne M. Valente
I love this mostly for November. The price paid to enter/inhabit fairyland has become a theme in most modern portal fantasy (nonetheleast because of Palimpsest and the Fairyland series!), but I sincerely can never get too much of it and this is where it began for me; it's as compelling now as ever. But my borderline frustration with other elements makes me think of the (now defunct, it looks like?) Green Man review re: this novel's coldness and depiction of sex as payment, as punishment. I want room for that but also for joy; I want the quarto's relationship to be built and maintained and I want immigration to Palimpsest to exist on-page rather than as a fade to black. The escapist fantasy of the city itself is effectively dismantled through the course of the book, which is necessary and which is an element of building a realer, more keenly wanted, more needed place; but the book fails to build an equally complicated joy, a reason to pay the price, a joy in the price which feels necessary given context, and as a result lacks payoff ... and maybe even substance.
I still love it! So, so much. But I'm bothered more by those flaws now that I'm spoiled for choice thematically.
Forbidden, Tabitha Suzuma
I had forgotten the ending—which isn't a good sign, given what it is! I like that it's not an escape clause, that it has repercussions and becomes a version of "the hardest thing in this world is to live in it," but for me it's ultimately more a detraction than a strength. I'm not here for tear-jerker angst; I'm here for social angst, for tension, for us vs. the world and for stubborn, desperate coping mechanisms, and this has that in droves up until the ending. Again, I sped through it; such an engaging, comfort-food style reread.
(It makes me want to reread Flowers in the Attic just to interrogate ... relative "value," I guess. Insofar as gritty realism is all that separates Forbidden and Flowers, does this mean that Forbidden has realistic, rounded characters/relationships (mostly yes!) while Flowers doesn't (ambivalent yes? soft no?). Or, more likely, is it just the circumstances of their isolation and therefore relationship dynamic, which in Forbidden is certainly less contrived and offers more social commentary. Does that change in tone effect the entire quality and value of the book? Or is Forbidden better written rather than more "valuable"? Does the angsty ending revert it back to trash, or is it a natural result of a gritty aesthetic? What's gritty vs angsty vs melodramatic? What are the boundaries of a problem novel, really? Should I reread Go Ask Alice? How deep can this rabbit hole go?
(The thing which is stopping me is that I, uh, didn't love Flowers in the Attic. I may like it more now that I've gotten easy criticisms of wow, gothic melodrama!!! out of my system; I don't know. But I did read Emily Sidhe's recaps and liked that more, which makes rereading even less enticing.)
The Haunting of Hill House, Shirley Jackson
Castle is still my favorite Jackson, but this is nonetheless perfect, begging the question: how can an author write two perfect books? The house is a metaphor for person/body, for relationships, for home, but the haunting isn't explicable by simple human backstory—and so the haunted-house-as-home creates a sense of fierce, euphoric belonging to intermix with precise and cleverly-realized terror. It's a flawless interplay, and it has just the effect on me as on Elanor, that attraction/repulsion, escapism/disintegration.
Mélusine (Doctrine of Labyrinths Book 1), Sarah Monette
I really came to enjoy this series, so I thought I might like the first book better on reread. Certainly my specific responses have changed: Trauma is such a consistent, thoughtful throughline that this doesn't feel exploitative, although it is obviously grim; similarly, Felix's madness reads better to me now, an inseparable combination of external conditions and internal experience. And while it has an original slashfic feel, I've grown more comfortable enjoying that vibe and I love the balance of elements, idealization gilding the grittier elements of world and plot and even character dynamic.
But my opinion on the whole is unchanged. The dynamic between the brothers is what makes the series work, so this is only backstory—useful and ultimately interesting backstory, but belabored: things don't really begin until some 300 pages in.
...And I still hate the tense changes! I generally dislike first person, but here the first person narratives are distinct and convincing—they sell the characters, the world, the dialog, the dynamic. The tense change for dream sequences interrupts that immersion, and it's an incredible loss.
The Virtu (Doctrine of Labyrinths Book 2), Sarah Monette
Narratives about bad communication and miscommunication are cheap and tedious; narratives about why people are bad at communicating & the effect it has on their self and relationships are an absolute delight. Much of that tropey interpersonal tension and payoff remains, but there's more insight with less contrivance.
I'm dropping this from 5 stars to 4: it isn't perfect, the pacing is uneven, there remains some contrivance, etc. But this is where the series coalesces. Where the first book feels like a prologue, this could be the end of a duology. It has good closure, and the sequels will also be satisfying and contained. But more remarkably it carries itself forward, persistently and exhaustively: the backstory elements of the first book, the turbulent character development, the vast world and its diverse and contradictory magic systems are all remembered. It builds something complex and realistic within the series's particular heightened style, and that's what I love & remember best. (It also makes my initial doubts about how the series handles trauma particularly ridiculous in retrospect! The series may have its problematic flaws, but using trauma for hollow shock value isn't one of them.)
The Mirador (Doctrine of Labyrinths Book 3), Sarah Monette
I think I liked Mehitabel's PoV better the first time around; now I find her less convincing than other narrators, and the theatre metaphors are particularly one-note. But I appreciate what she brings to the narrative. The Mirador becomes a fully realized place with class, culture, a complicated social tableau, and each narrator offers a different view of that whole; each is constrained to their space, class, culture, society, but those constraints are permeable constructs. The plot is similarity isolated/interconnected, a contained murder mystery in which our protagonists are tools rather than actors and denouement is frankly too expansive ... but, again, characters mostly/only inhabit their part of the whole—but the reader sees cameos and overlaps. I don't know that I love that as a reading experience, and this is my least favorite of the series after Mélusine. But I appreciate it as a larger part of the whole. A loosely-constructed series allows for experimentation, and here the experiments with constrained plot/setting inform the narrative in interesting ways.
Corambis (Doctrine of Labyrinths Book 4), Sarah Monette
My opinion is largely unchanged from my first reading. If the payoff/comfort comes too easy in this volume, it's still satisfying because the journey towards it has been a protracted struggle. This affects all elements, unfortunately including this book's climax. But I love it as often as not. Take as example the delightful conversation about the conflicting magical systems operating as magical metaphors, not prescriptive but descriptive (and therefore limited). It's obvious in retrospect of the generous, indulgent location-hopping throughout the series, but—like the character growth—it's been a long journey getting there for the characters themselves, so it's satisfying to see them achieve it.
My only real change of opinion is Kay. Giving him a dialect is more effective than the techniques used to make Mehitabel's voice distinct, nonetheleast because of the way that language and politics dovetail in this series. The tropes surrounding him—how he frames his disability, his fiancée's characterization—are predictable, but he still comes to feel like a distinct, complete person.
Threshold, Caitlín R. Kiernan
I'll never be able to recapture the first time I read this, which was also my introduction to new weird and modern cosmic horror, some of the first horror to really get me. This gave me a favorite author and genre; it gave me a way of seeing the unknown askance, where navigating "don't show the monster" is part of the monster, as well as the horror. Some favorite books improve on reread; this I see in a larger context upon reread, but it's too much for the text to live up to. Especially so as Kiernan's body of work continues many of the same themes and techniques, but better—in particular, her short fiction & later books have better corporeal facets of the unknowable and less tortured (by missed communication) views askance, and I've come to prefer them.
I Am a Witch's Cat, Harriet Muncaster
Bumping this up to the five stars it deserves. Do I wish I could tweak the dioramas to remove things like the too-detailed organic sprig against the paper cutout fence? yeah, I do; there's details that make some sets feel deceptively sparse or clunky. But that nitpicking indicates that I've poured over each panel for an age. I love it more with each reread, obsessing over and even discovering new favorite details: the way the rooms interconnect; the perfect pattern of the star-studded curtains, perhaps my favorite single detail; the bedroom—with that plush miniature quilt! It's an immersive art style that suits a cozy, kind, enchanted book, and the cat elements speak to me personally. I hope by this time next year I've bought a copy of my own, so someone else can get their hands on the library one.
Goth, Otsuichi
You know what? The transparent machinations of the plot are delightful, actually—the way that contrivances of narrative function as part of the deductive-based mystery (and reading through narrative assumptions to what we know of the characters and internal logic is therefore part of the solution) is playful and clever. As that was essentially the only flaw I ever found in these stories, they're even more enjoyable on reread.
(Well, Morino's obliviousness is still ridiculous. But I take that as comic relief, which fits as there's a lot of comic relief in Morino.)
White is for Witching, Helen Oyeyemi
This is so short that the less successful elements, particularly the parts that dip towards prosaic, particularly in Eliot's social life, feel like a huge waste of time—time that would be better spent smoothing out reveals of the house's motives, or unpacking and ramping up into the climax. But while these technical flaws feel more obvious to me now, I'm still in love with the premise. The haunted house is all but a character in the best haunted house stories; to give the house an explicit narrative voice is a brilliant addition to the genre. I love the second person address and the way it entangles the unusual narrative style; I wish the voice were stronger & more frequent, but it's a necessary compromise to maintain some unknowability. This is such a unique book, in voice and in combination of inspirations, that I would rather have it than not, even with its flaws.
Lost Souls, Poppy Z. Brite
The visceral, over the top, viscous blood and cloying twinkies aesthetic is one of the most memorable part of this, but it still surprised me. It's Brite's multi-sense descriptions which get me—I find the sticky textures and rotting smells much more effective than visuals alone. It's nearly nauseating; it's also a selling point.
This is a relic of its time and of myself when I first read it; I can no longer disentangle the plot from the way it lodged itself into my id, or my reactions from my fond/cringe memories of my younger self. I still argue that the second half runs long. But every element which is flagrantly "problematic"—which relationships are homoerotic subtext, which are lascivious taboo; the role and fate of women—is the product of a cultural and personal queer awakening. It's telling, messy, memorable. The actual reread honestly didn't hold up to my nostalgia, but reflecting on the book, then & now, does.
The Monster of Elendhaven, Jennifer Giesbrecht
To quote my own self in reviewing Ancrum's The Wicker King: Insofar as this is trash, it's my trash and I appreciate it. And it's not even bad trash! This grows even more delightful upon reread, and sincerely could be written just for me in every edgy trope and moment of weird intimacy.
...And I'll gather those those notes into batches, I thought! And then they kept gathering...! And then the year ran out and I'd still posted none!
Thus these are many reread notes from 2020. There are a number of oversights—mostly books I didn't review the first time I read them, probably because I loved them too much, and then failed to review the second time I read them, because I still loved them and had grown intimidated. That's a shitty reason not to talk about a book, but here we are. Also I reread Harry Potter and I'm not up to talking about that particular suck fairy--but I'm grateful for the Witch, Please podcast returning to shoulder some of that burden.
I hope for more rereads (and more timely posts) in 2021; I'd particular like to revisit some favorites from the last few years, to see what my longterm impressions are.
Mossflower, Brian Jacques
I have read this umpteen times. This time it felt less "my favorite-ever Redwall," but I expect this may be because I was less in the mood for Redwall than I thought I was at the time. I'm still astounded that I can remember every single adventure, all of them, every one; and because of my familiarity with so much else of the series, also see every proto-nod, every element that would later be fleshed out (which, in Redwall, is a lot of them). But my real takeaway from this pretty mild-on-the-takeaways reread was: if you take out the "they're repetitive, there's talking animals, the riddles are silly" truisms, wow is the death count in these books just ridiculous. They're absolutely for kids, but still feel wildly inappropriate for kids.
A Wizard of Earthsea, Ursula K. Le Guin
I hoped to like this better the second time around, approaching it with knowledge of its role in/commentary on the genre, and knowing how to set my expectations. But my response is almost identical to 2012. The tone is too distant, the take on fantasy too intentionally archetypal—so while Le Guin's strengths of atmosphere, travelogue, and realistic worldbuilding provide balance, and despite that the concept (and particularly the final chapters) are so strong, this still fails to grab me. I reread in order to continue the series, and probably still will, but I worry that Earthsea isn't for me.
ETA: Months later, I did not end up continuing the series; but the reread has kept it fresh enough in my mind that there may still be hope for 2021.
Watchtower (Chronicles of Tornor Book 1), Elizabeth A. Lynn
Dropping this from 4 stars down to 3 stars, but I actually like it more the second time through. My opinion of it had faded in time; I remembered it as the depressing Tornor book, the one where fulfillment in non-normative relationships/societies is dangled before the protagonist (and reader)—but denied. And all of that is there on reread, but knowing to expect disappointment turns it into a subdued study of why we can't always get what we want—of what needs and limitations lie in the way of fulfillment, even while undergoing personal growth; it makes that growth more real.
It was less than a month and a half. Yet in that time they had gone from winter to summer to winter again, juggling between north and south—and now it was spring in Tornor.
This is still the least enjoyable of the series, but I'm curious how it will compare to my reread of The Northern Girl, because I suspect I may actually like this more.
The Dancers of Arun (Chronicles of Tornor Book 2), Elizabeth A. Lynn
I like this a little less than I did the first time around, maybe because I knew what to expect from the interpersonal elements and so was seeing more of the larger plot.
But those interpersonal elements are still what interest me, particularly Lynn's variety of wish fulfillment. Everyone is bi, polyamory is unremarkable, and, in case you were wondering if that was an oversight, incest is fine, too: it's an intentional blanket acceptance of all attractions and relationships which pointedly contrasts the other forms of social strife (xenophobia, ableism) which motivate plot and character developments. This differs from the internalized homophobia in Watchtower, and Lynn interrogates the limits of acceptance via the non-consensual desires in The Sardonyx Net. These exceptions and limits serve to make the acceptance in books like The Dancers of Arun and A Different Light feel particularly intentional. The scene where the protagonist here wonders whether his attraction is permissible is charming because his doubts are so easily pacified. There's conflicts, sure, but not about this, not in this place—it's a relatable queer fantasy which makes for lovely comfort reading without fluffy escapism.
ETA: I reread these in their appropriate seasons (winter, spring) but forgot The Northern Girl (summer)—something to revisit in 2021!
Blood and Chocolate, Annette Curtis Klause
I like this more than the last time I reread it, and the only real difference is that I'm less dead-set on hating everything I associate with my adolescence. It's still trash, but its position in the paranormal romance genre is interesting—namely that it's not "my monster boyfriend" but "me, the monster, getting a boyfriend." The positioning of the protagonist, that she begins as powerful, beautiful, and assured but has to fight to preserve that self-image when her social role is challenged, engages but inverts adolescent female feelings; it's refreshing. It's still flawed, particularly the dated, problematic framing of the romantic rivals, but also the rocky balance of pack dynamics and teenage drama. But the plot stretches the humid length of summer and the writing is, honestly, a delight: "Vivian stretched and pawed at the ground, she sniffed the glorious air. She felt as if her tail could sweep the stars from the sky."
Foundling (Monster Blood Tattoo Book 1), D.M. Cornish
I like this more and less on reread. It's so steampunk, retaining the class criticism, substituting monster-hunting ethics for imperialism/racism with something approximating grace, and delighting in material detail as avenue to worldbuilding. The plot and characters feel more MG than YA, particularly because the major twist is so obvious. But there's something charming in the way that heavy foreshadowing and chunky caricatures cross with class/race/boundary relations—it's not high art, but it's effective and even affecting. Or, in other words: Europe is great.
Lamplighter (Monster Blood Tattoo Book 2), D.M. Cornish
I remember so little of this from my first read, which is unusual for me. I think it indicates an overlong book with few meaningful developments, particularly because the big reveal has been obvious from the onset. But all the bulk which is given over not to plot but to world, to the minutiae of work and the slow progress of relationships and the ongoing plethora of fantasy names, serves a purpose; it flows over me with minimum retention, but flows pleasantly, and it becomes a living landscape for the continuing progression of "prickly caricatures having slightly nuanced, emotionally affecting relationships" as began in the first book.
ETA: The third and final book, Factotum, was new to me & is reviewed here.
Palimpsest, Catherynne M. Valente
I love this mostly for November. The price paid to enter/inhabit fairyland has become a theme in most modern portal fantasy (nonetheleast because of Palimpsest and the Fairyland series!), but I sincerely can never get too much of it and this is where it began for me; it's as compelling now as ever. But my borderline frustration with other elements makes me think of the (now defunct, it looks like?) Green Man review re: this novel's coldness and depiction of sex as payment, as punishment. I want room for that but also for joy; I want the quarto's relationship to be built and maintained and I want immigration to Palimpsest to exist on-page rather than as a fade to black. The escapist fantasy of the city itself is effectively dismantled through the course of the book, which is necessary and which is an element of building a realer, more keenly wanted, more needed place; but the book fails to build an equally complicated joy, a reason to pay the price, a joy in the price which feels necessary given context, and as a result lacks payoff ... and maybe even substance.
I still love it! So, so much. But I'm bothered more by those flaws now that I'm spoiled for choice thematically.
Forbidden, Tabitha Suzuma
I had forgotten the ending—which isn't a good sign, given what it is! I like that it's not an escape clause, that it has repercussions and becomes a version of "the hardest thing in this world is to live in it," but for me it's ultimately more a detraction than a strength. I'm not here for tear-jerker angst; I'm here for social angst, for tension, for us vs. the world and for stubborn, desperate coping mechanisms, and this has that in droves up until the ending. Again, I sped through it; such an engaging, comfort-food style reread.
(It makes me want to reread Flowers in the Attic just to interrogate ... relative "value," I guess. Insofar as gritty realism is all that separates Forbidden and Flowers, does this mean that Forbidden has realistic, rounded characters/relationships (mostly yes!) while Flowers doesn't (ambivalent yes? soft no?). Or, more likely, is it just the circumstances of their isolation and therefore relationship dynamic, which in Forbidden is certainly less contrived and offers more social commentary. Does that change in tone effect the entire quality and value of the book? Or is Forbidden better written rather than more "valuable"? Does the angsty ending revert it back to trash, or is it a natural result of a gritty aesthetic? What's gritty vs angsty vs melodramatic? What are the boundaries of a problem novel, really? Should I reread Go Ask Alice? How deep can this rabbit hole go?
(The thing which is stopping me is that I, uh, didn't love Flowers in the Attic. I may like it more now that I've gotten easy criticisms of wow, gothic melodrama!!! out of my system; I don't know. But I did read Emily Sidhe's recaps and liked that more, which makes rereading even less enticing.)
The Haunting of Hill House, Shirley Jackson
Castle is still my favorite Jackson, but this is nonetheless perfect, begging the question: how can an author write two perfect books? The house is a metaphor for person/body, for relationships, for home, but the haunting isn't explicable by simple human backstory—and so the haunted-house-as-home creates a sense of fierce, euphoric belonging to intermix with precise and cleverly-realized terror. It's a flawless interplay, and it has just the effect on me as on Elanor, that attraction/repulsion, escapism/disintegration.
Mélusine (Doctrine of Labyrinths Book 1), Sarah Monette
I really came to enjoy this series, so I thought I might like the first book better on reread. Certainly my specific responses have changed: Trauma is such a consistent, thoughtful throughline that this doesn't feel exploitative, although it is obviously grim; similarly, Felix's madness reads better to me now, an inseparable combination of external conditions and internal experience. And while it has an original slashfic feel, I've grown more comfortable enjoying that vibe and I love the balance of elements, idealization gilding the grittier elements of world and plot and even character dynamic.
But my opinion on the whole is unchanged. The dynamic between the brothers is what makes the series work, so this is only backstory—useful and ultimately interesting backstory, but belabored: things don't really begin until some 300 pages in.
...And I still hate the tense changes! I generally dislike first person, but here the first person narratives are distinct and convincing—they sell the characters, the world, the dialog, the dynamic. The tense change for dream sequences interrupts that immersion, and it's an incredible loss.
The Virtu (Doctrine of Labyrinths Book 2), Sarah Monette
Narratives about bad communication and miscommunication are cheap and tedious; narratives about why people are bad at communicating & the effect it has on their self and relationships are an absolute delight. Much of that tropey interpersonal tension and payoff remains, but there's more insight with less contrivance.
I'm dropping this from 5 stars to 4: it isn't perfect, the pacing is uneven, there remains some contrivance, etc. But this is where the series coalesces. Where the first book feels like a prologue, this could be the end of a duology. It has good closure, and the sequels will also be satisfying and contained. But more remarkably it carries itself forward, persistently and exhaustively: the backstory elements of the first book, the turbulent character development, the vast world and its diverse and contradictory magic systems are all remembered. It builds something complex and realistic within the series's particular heightened style, and that's what I love & remember best. (It also makes my initial doubts about how the series handles trauma particularly ridiculous in retrospect! The series may have its problematic flaws, but using trauma for hollow shock value isn't one of them.)
The Mirador (Doctrine of Labyrinths Book 3), Sarah Monette
I think I liked Mehitabel's PoV better the first time around; now I find her less convincing than other narrators, and the theatre metaphors are particularly one-note. But I appreciate what she brings to the narrative. The Mirador becomes a fully realized place with class, culture, a complicated social tableau, and each narrator offers a different view of that whole; each is constrained to their space, class, culture, society, but those constraints are permeable constructs. The plot is similarity isolated/interconnected, a contained murder mystery in which our protagonists are tools rather than actors and denouement is frankly too expansive ... but, again, characters mostly/only inhabit their part of the whole—but the reader sees cameos and overlaps. I don't know that I love that as a reading experience, and this is my least favorite of the series after Mélusine. But I appreciate it as a larger part of the whole. A loosely-constructed series allows for experimentation, and here the experiments with constrained plot/setting inform the narrative in interesting ways.
Corambis (Doctrine of Labyrinths Book 4), Sarah Monette
My opinion is largely unchanged from my first reading. If the payoff/comfort comes too easy in this volume, it's still satisfying because the journey towards it has been a protracted struggle. This affects all elements, unfortunately including this book's climax. But I love it as often as not. Take as example the delightful conversation about the conflicting magical systems operating as magical metaphors, not prescriptive but descriptive (and therefore limited). It's obvious in retrospect of the generous, indulgent location-hopping throughout the series, but—like the character growth—it's been a long journey getting there for the characters themselves, so it's satisfying to see them achieve it.
My only real change of opinion is Kay. Giving him a dialect is more effective than the techniques used to make Mehitabel's voice distinct, nonetheleast because of the way that language and politics dovetail in this series. The tropes surrounding him—how he frames his disability, his fiancée's characterization—are predictable, but he still comes to feel like a distinct, complete person.
Threshold, Caitlín R. Kiernan
I'll never be able to recapture the first time I read this, which was also my introduction to new weird and modern cosmic horror, some of the first horror to really get me. This gave me a favorite author and genre; it gave me a way of seeing the unknown askance, where navigating "don't show the monster" is part of the monster, as well as the horror. Some favorite books improve on reread; this I see in a larger context upon reread, but it's too much for the text to live up to. Especially so as Kiernan's body of work continues many of the same themes and techniques, but better—in particular, her short fiction & later books have better corporeal facets of the unknowable and less tortured (by missed communication) views askance, and I've come to prefer them.
I Am a Witch's Cat, Harriet Muncaster
Bumping this up to the five stars it deserves. Do I wish I could tweak the dioramas to remove things like the too-detailed organic sprig against the paper cutout fence? yeah, I do; there's details that make some sets feel deceptively sparse or clunky. But that nitpicking indicates that I've poured over each panel for an age. I love it more with each reread, obsessing over and even discovering new favorite details: the way the rooms interconnect; the perfect pattern of the star-studded curtains, perhaps my favorite single detail; the bedroom—with that plush miniature quilt! It's an immersive art style that suits a cozy, kind, enchanted book, and the cat elements speak to me personally. I hope by this time next year I've bought a copy of my own, so someone else can get their hands on the library one.
Goth, Otsuichi
You know what? The transparent machinations of the plot are delightful, actually—the way that contrivances of narrative function as part of the deductive-based mystery (and reading through narrative assumptions to what we know of the characters and internal logic is therefore part of the solution) is playful and clever. As that was essentially the only flaw I ever found in these stories, they're even more enjoyable on reread.
(Well, Morino's obliviousness is still ridiculous. But I take that as comic relief, which fits as there's a lot of comic relief in Morino.)
White is for Witching, Helen Oyeyemi
This is so short that the less successful elements, particularly the parts that dip towards prosaic, particularly in Eliot's social life, feel like a huge waste of time—time that would be better spent smoothing out reveals of the house's motives, or unpacking and ramping up into the climax. But while these technical flaws feel more obvious to me now, I'm still in love with the premise. The haunted house is all but a character in the best haunted house stories; to give the house an explicit narrative voice is a brilliant addition to the genre. I love the second person address and the way it entangles the unusual narrative style; I wish the voice were stronger & more frequent, but it's a necessary compromise to maintain some unknowability. This is such a unique book, in voice and in combination of inspirations, that I would rather have it than not, even with its flaws.
Lost Souls, Poppy Z. Brite
The visceral, over the top, viscous blood and cloying twinkies aesthetic is one of the most memorable part of this, but it still surprised me. It's Brite's multi-sense descriptions which get me—I find the sticky textures and rotting smells much more effective than visuals alone. It's nearly nauseating; it's also a selling point.
This is a relic of its time and of myself when I first read it; I can no longer disentangle the plot from the way it lodged itself into my id, or my reactions from my fond/cringe memories of my younger self. I still argue that the second half runs long. But every element which is flagrantly "problematic"—which relationships are homoerotic subtext, which are lascivious taboo; the role and fate of women—is the product of a cultural and personal queer awakening. It's telling, messy, memorable. The actual reread honestly didn't hold up to my nostalgia, but reflecting on the book, then & now, does.
The Monster of Elendhaven, Jennifer Giesbrecht
To quote my own self in reviewing Ancrum's The Wicker King: Insofar as this is trash, it's my trash and I appreciate it. And it's not even bad trash! This grows even more delightful upon reread, and sincerely could be written just for me in every edgy trope and moment of weird intimacy.
no subject
Date: 2021-01-17 10:50 pm (UTC)Any thoughts you might have about the most important Kiernans would be helpful! The Drowning Girl was the first one I've really liked; I previously tried The Red Tree, Low Red Moon, and Agents of Dreamland, and none of those quite worked for me.
no subject
Date: 2021-01-19 01:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-01-20 12:37 am (UTC)The Red Tree is the most similar to The Drowning Girl, stylistically and thematically, but also in the sense of feeling like they're in the same era of Kiernan's work--something like similar levels of authorial maturity, which also reflects on how successful style/theme are. So if you're looking for more like The Drowning Girl but didn't find it there, you may be out of luck.
That said, her earlier books have similar themes re: concepts of reality & intersections between life experiences/trauma and surreal events, but they feel ... less authorially mature. I'm due a reread so my memory is fuzzy, but I think Silk and Murder of Angels are probably your best bets. I like Threshold, but mostly for nostalgia--objectively it's not super strong.
The other place I'd look is her her short fiction. To Charles Fort, With Love is my personal favorite collection; The Ammonite Violin and Others is great too and explicitly about sexuality and the weird. But honestly you could probably start anywhere. Her style is pretty repetitive ("distinct" may be a kinder word) re: snapshots, maybe dreamy, probably sexy, probably grungy, of the weird--but it's an approach I respond to and I enjoy how committed to style/conceit/premise she can be without the responsibility of an entire novel. If you recall the in-fiction short story, "Pony," in The Red Tree--that's relatively indicative of her short fiction style.
...That said, she's been a hugely prolific short fiction writer, some of it for early Patreon-style equivalents, and lots of it I haven't read. I can't speak to the quality of the recent massive bind-ups, which I imagine collect a lot of those works.
Daughter of Hounds (and Low Red Moon) I mentally shelve closer to urban fantasy and I don't think they're particularly strong. (Her Siobhan Quinn series is urban fantasy and wasn't my thing--I only read the first.) Her work that leans more science fictional tends to work better for me in retrospect than in reading; again I'm due a reread, but I liked The Dry Salvages more than her (ongoing?) Tinfoil Dossier series.
Let me know if that's too detailed as to be unhelpful, or anything like that!
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Date: 2021-01-19 12:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-01-20 12:42 am (UTC)I haven't read The Tombs of Atuan, no. A Wizard of Earthsea was one of my first Le Guins, actually, and for ages I thought "glad she exists but must not be for me" before reading her SF and primarily the Hainish books ... but I made that assumption on the basis of the first novel, assume it indicative of the series, which is silly in retrospect. That's the real reason I want to give the series another go--almost all Le Guin does work for me, so odds are it's more than specific book than the series entire.
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Date: 2021-01-20 01:31 pm (UTC)I love "The Wizard of Earthsea" so I'm probably not the best person to judge the series objectively, but many people have told me that they hugely prefer "The Tombs of Atuan" and that it's unfortunate that people feel they have to read "Wizard" first, as it puts them off from reading "Atuan". "Atuan" is much more character driven, and has a more appealing main character (a young woman called Tenar), and is set in one place rather than being something of a travelogue. Ged is a character in "Atuan", but he's much older and wiser than in "Wizard".