[EN] A Song for a New Day, by Sarah Pinsker

I’ve been thinking how to approach this review for a while and maybe it’ll be best to just deal with certain aspects head on.

There comes a moment when certain books become seemingly prescient. I’d say it’s especially easy with SF: if you pay attention, notice certain trends and extrapolate from them, you’re bound to hit something that comes true eventually.

A nation-wide lockdown following an epidemic takes a special bit of synchronicity, though.

A Song for a New Day originally came out in September 2019. I didn't get around to it then. A year later, reading the opening section felt more than a little uncanny. In it, we follow Luce, a singer-songwriter on tour with her band, as she gives what turns out to be the last live performance before a string of terrorist attacks and an epidemic lead to a ban on gatherings. The ensuing chaos of trying to get home, separation from friends and loved ones, lack of information, finding out about illnesses and deaths, felt very real and affecting in light of what the world has went through in recent months.

You might want to bear that in mind when you start reading.

That being said, this isn't a book *about* the pandemic. It feels a little disorienting (after all, we are still grappling with the prospect of long-term consequences of COVID-19), but Luce's storyline soon skips to the aftermath: the epidemic doesn't seem to pose a significant threat, and yet the world is fundamentally changed by it.

We observe the changes from the perspective of the second protagonist, Rosemary, a young woman from a small town who starts out working for a thinly-veiled Amazon analogue and soon becomes a recruiting agent looking for musicians playing underground to sign on for a virtual reality streaming platform.

The changes mostly have to do with increased atomisation of society (something that our pandemic also seems like an accelerant for). With the ban on mass gatherings, there are no more legal concerts (I think it's fair to assume cinemas are closed down, too) and people tend to huddle in their own close-knit communities. There are glimpses of a paranoid, mistrustful world, where travelers passing through small towns are trailed by police and refused accomodation, while groups of like-minded people sharing their interests have to devise elaborate safeguards against crackdowns and infiltrations.

All this forms a background for a depiction of an art world gripped by major corporations – they control the technology that can bring the artist to the audience, and therefore they get to decide who to platform and how to present them. The choice is either to join in or toil in obscurity, barely scraping by.

Rosemary idealistically joins the streaming company in the hopes that she can help artists connect with an audience, but soon comes to see the darker, more predatory aspects of her employer's activities. Meanwhile, Luce struggles to find meaning and carry on doing what she loves most – performing live – in a world that became fundamentally unfriendly to it. Their paths criss-cross throughout the novel, illuminating various aspects of the situation, and posing difficult dilemmas: is it better to preserve more authenticity with a limited reach? or is it possible to divert some of the power of large media companies to serve your own ends without completely compromising your ideals?

In the end, though, I keep coming back to the pandemic. I remember starting to leave the house during and immediately after the initial lockdown, just for a short while to grab some sun and air. I remember watching people with wariness and suspicion when they didn't wear a face mask outside or when they stood closer than 2 m from me. I remember how those feelings relaxed with the relaxing of guidelines and increased understanding of the most risky situations for viral transmission. (It's important to bear in mind that this can all vary from country to country given the different handling of the pandemic, as well as from person to person). Reading about Rosemary's panic during underground gigs or her nervousness while riding on a public transport resonated with those memories. I know we are all waiting for a vaccine or some other development that will eliminate the risk completely, but sometimes I wonder what if the risk never entirely goes away? What level will be acceptable if it won't go down to zero? What if it always lurks, just like it potentially lurks in the novel? (since we never find out what happened with the epidemic).

And so A Song for a New Day became a very thought-provoking book for me. It asks at what point should we move past fear (I don't necessarily have an answer here and live music events are quite far down the list of things I'd be comfortable participating in atm). It also reminds us what waits on the other side of it – the joy of unmediated human contact and the potential for change that we can only tap into when we are together.

It's an important reminder.

I received an electronic review copy of this book via NetGalley. This is an honest review.

[EN] The Midnight Bargain, by C.L. Polk

A gripping feminist fantasy

The Midnight Bargain is a romantic fantasy set in a magical version of Regency England. Everyone has the capability to do magic (which is here based on rituals and spirit possession), but only men are allowed to become fully-fledged magicians. Due to the risk spirits would pose to fetuses, women are only allowed a rudimentary magical education and upon marrying they are forced to wear collars that dampen their magical gift.

The protagonist, Beatrice Clayborn, has her heart set on becoming a magician, even if it means forgoing marriage and children. Unfortunately her family, thrown into financial difficulties by her father’s bad investment, banks everything on her marrying well. And Beatrice’s own resolve starts to falter when she meets Ianthe Lavan, a kind and intelligent heir to a powerful trading dynasty...

My first association upon reading the synopsis was The Harwood Spellbook series by Stephanie Burgis – a fantasy romance also set in a magical Regency England and dealing with women being prevented from pursuing magic. The similarities, however, are very superficial. The Harwood Spellbook, while not lacking in drama, is explicitly written to be fluffy and uplifting. You can see that even in the structure of society, which has strict gender divisions, but is actually matriarchal, with women dealing in politics. The Midnight Bargain deals with similar themes of women’s agency and right to pursue their calling, but in a more serious manner, with women being subjugated based on their reproductive capabilities. And C.L. Polk doesn’t pull punches; the very concept of a marriage collar is upsetting, but it gets even more visceral when at one point we get a description of exactly how it feels to wear one. It was hard reading for me as a person who isn't subject to reproductive oppression in real life. But there are other aspects to Beatrice’s situation, too: the way she has to grovel in front of potential suitors who are well aware of the power they hold and lord it over her; or the way her family completely dismisses not just her ambitions, but the notion that she could propose other solutions to their problems, not to mention the full-on emotional abuse from her father.

You might have noticed I described The Midnight Bargain as a “romantic fantasy” and The Harwood Spellbook as a “fantasy romance” – this is because I agree with the notion that a romance needs a happy ending (whether a happily-ever-after or a happily-for-now) and for a large stretch of TMB I wasn’t at all sure what Beatrice was going to choose and whether she would end up with Ianthe at all. (Spoiler: they do end up together.) That doubt is, I think, a testament to how well-constructed the central dilemma is and how skillfully Polk manages all the developments and complications: Beatrice wants to become a magician in order to realise her ambitions, but also help her family at the expense of marrying. Her family, however, puts pressure on her by staking everything on a financially successful marriage. As Beatrice fights to achieve her own aims, her prospects dwindle, making the situation more and more desperate.

Ianthe represents a seductive possibility: he’s kind, intelligent, values Beatrice as a person, and he comes from unimaginable wealth. She could have a fulfilling marriage to him, solve her family’s financial problems, and even (since Ianthe comes from a culture more enlightened than the barbaric Chaslanders who control their wives’ magic permanently) perform magic in a limited capacity once she has children. That option starts to look more and more tempting as the complications start to pile up, but the big question that Beatrice has is: should she have to compromise at all? Is “slightly less oppresion” an acceptable – reasonable – alternative to “more oppression”? I’m writing this review in Poland, where the struggle for abortion rights had been stuck for decades in “reasonable compromise” mode (i.e. abortion is forbidden, except in some cases) before the conversation has been hijacked by right-wing extremists, so the question that Polk poses in the book feels as vital as the answer obvious.

I talked about the love interest, but I think it would be a big disservice to the book not to talk about the women surrounding Beatrice. At the very start of the book, she clashes with Ianthe’s sister, Ysbeta: they both crave a book that would help them expand their magical abilities. The struggle over a limited resource eventually gives way to an uneasy alliance, but that first scene is emblematic of other relationships, too, with Beatrice’s mother and sister, and other characters. The supporting cast offers a complex look at how women struggle to adapt and find a place for themselves in a precarious, oppressive system; how they might choose to risk their position to help others or hinder them in order to preserve their own sliver of security.

In the end, The Midnight Bargain offers a forceful answer to the problems it presents, even if there are certain aspects that feel glossed over and that I would like a little more engagement with (like the questions of consent and bodily autonomy surrounding spirit possession, or the resolution to Beatrice and her father’s relationship). At the same time as weighty matters relating to women's liberation, there is also a lot of suspense and humour (as in the scenes where Beatrice acts under the influence of Nadi, the spirit of chance) that makes it an energetic, breezy read. A most successful marriage of elements, I would say.

I received an electronic review copy via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.

[EN] Of Dragons, Feasts and Murders, by Aliette de Bodard

I have some broad knowledge of the Dominion of the Fallen setting, but the books still wait for me on my kindle. I thought “Of Dragons, Feasts and Murders” might be a good taster of the series. I don’t yet know whether it is, but I know I’m intrigued and want to read the whole series even more.


What strikes me most after a few days mulling over the book, is the mixture of tones. On one hand, there is a fair share of playfulness and humour in the setup of “a couple goes to visit the family of one of the spouses... except they’re an imperial dynasty”, as well as the dynamic between Thuan – a bookish dragon prince who abhors political games and left his family’s domain behind – and Asmodeus – a charming and murderous fallen angel (it's a bit like if “Hannibal” featured a non-abusive relationship and was a rom-com).

On the other hand, we have the backdrop of a struggling kingdom and topics of inequality, justice, political unease, oppression. While on their visit, Thuan and Asmodeus are thrown into a murder investigation that’s quickly revealed to have wider implications. In the course of the investigation, Thuan struggles with loyalty to his family and his desire to be left in piece, as well as some blind spots resulting from his privileged upbringing.

Those two aspects mesh together pretty well, although I was occasionally confused about how seriously I should take stuff like Asmodeus’ propensity for murder (in the end I think he’s far more discriminate and restrained than Thuan gives him credit for) or one character advocating executions as a way of restoring order (but the ethos of the book ultimately leans towards kindness, not despotic rule).

The style of the book is detailed but very clear and the plot strikes a great balance between the intrigue and personal scenes between Thuan and Asmodeus. I greatly enjoyed how much of the book was dialogue driven, with a lot of space devoted to the way things are phrased, what is said and unsaid, the characters trying to parse what the other party is communicating and untangle the complex webs of meaning. Because of that the book felt tense even though there wasn't a lot of action as such.

This is a short and entertaining read, a hybrid of crime story and romance (in typical romance fashion Thuan and Asmodeus experience some conflict and while their marriage is never really threatened, both of them seem to grow a little by the end and learn to appreciate the other’s perspective on the situation) with some pleasantly weighty socio-political considerations. I am eager to dive into the main series.

Note: I received an electronic copy of this book via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.

[EN] By Force Alone, by Lavie Tidhar

Power and ideology

I approached By Force Alone with both excitement and trepidation. I enjoy seeing new takes on Arthuriana and the time after the Romans withdrew from Britain is a fascinating period. At the same time, I tend to be wary of cynical and brutal stories because they run a risk of devolving into an exercise in empty misery that masquerades as profoundness.

Overall, I'm happy to say that my worries were unfounded. Don't get me wrong: it's a pretty bleak story. It's just that the bleakness has a purpose and isn't all there is to the book.

I've seen Tidhar describe the book asessentially King Arthur for the Brexit era and you can see that in the book's preoccupation with myth-making, with the way people and events get turned into stories – and the fact that the stories are tools made by someone for a specific purpose (and not a good one, of course) – as well as in its focus on the tensions between the various groups that dwell or arrive in Britain.

It's also a book that doesn't fall for romanticism of conquests, warriors, kings, the glamour of fighting and fucking. In fact I'd say it's completely disillusioned with power, and absolutely clear about how base the drive for power is, how utterly miserable it makes the world.

But it's not just shit and mud and misery. By Force Alone is in a way a reversion of the Clive Owen King Arthur movie. Where the latter was gritty 'realism' masking a typical Hollywood yarn that sands off all the edges (including Lancelot dying so that Guinevere can't cheat on Arthur), the former is historical materialism coated in a mish-mash of absolutely buck wild ideas. Some of them are deep cuts from Arthurian legends (such as Cath Palug, a ghost mer-cat), some are taken from folklore (like the Fae) – and then there are elements from other genres that Tidhar mixes in (Lancelot knows kung fu in this one, and where Tidhar ultimately goes with the Grail is best left unspoiled, although earlier parts might remind readers of Jeff Vandermeer's Reach Trilogy).

Those elements disrupt the bleakness and make the book very entertaining. And while everyone is a murderous asshole to an extent because everyone is willing to go along with Arthur in order to climb the ladder, there are characters who also exhibit sympathetic traits. Arthur himself seems most consumed by the lust for power and it's interesting that the reader always sees him at a remove. But there is Gawain who's dragged into stuff against his will; Lancelot who's torn between desire for riches and more elusive pursuits and who's increasingly Done With Shit; sir Pellinore chasing after his Questing Beast; and possibly the coolest Guinevere I have ever encountered. It was also really cool to see some gay and lesbian characters, as all too often fantasy books that pretend to a degree of historical realism mistakenly assume queer people did not exist in the past.

The book is long, but moves at a brisk pace, jumping in time, switching perspectives, never overstaying its welcome. It occasionally can feel a little disjointed and certain characters seem to just drop out of the narrative (I would have loved more Guinevere); but the novel feels very purposeful in how it stays very little in Camelot once it's established. The characters can't really enjoy the wealth and splendour they chased after – nearly as soon as they've 'made it' a rot sets in and the time comes for a doomed fight against another young upstart who wants a shot at the crown. I also really enjoyed the prose style: it's concise and not too ornate, but has a slightly elevated register that brings to mind epic poetry.

By Force Alone is a very cool revisionist take on Arthurian legends, one that seems to come from a similar place to Kieron Gillen and Dan Mora's Once & Future. It skillfully mixes a bleakness of outlook with some pleasantly bizarre ideas and a touch of humour in a very enjoyable way.

Note: I received an electronic review copy from the publisher in exchange for an honest review.

[EN] Doctor Mirage, by Magdalene Visaggio, Nick Robles, Jordie Bellaire

 Doctor Mirage used to see ghosts – including her late husband, whim she tried to resurrect – but something went very wrong. Now she’s on a journey with a pill-popping teenager. Will she break free or is a fate worse than death awaiting her?

I like Magdalene Visaggio’s writing for anchoring the trippy weirdness of her premises to emotional and existential arcs of her characters. Doctor Mirage is no different and an expedition into the land of the dead is intimately connected to the protagonist’s loss of powers and her husband. At the same time it introduces tension between her and Grace, a teenage girl who maintains that they are in hell and need to get out: Mirage is tagging along, but with her own agenda. This occasionally leads to conflict between the two characters, which with time becomes a tad repetitive, as it largely hits the same beats issue-to-issue, but at the beginning at least makes their dynamic more interesting.

It would be a spoiler to say what the purpose of the journey ultimately is, as there are a few twists and turns along the way. I will say that Visaggio never loses sight of the human element and ties the story to struggles all of us experience. The ending has interesting things to say that are uplifting, but quite different from the trite sentiments we usually hear.

As for the visuals, Nick Robles does a great job with the design, particularly of the monsters, and I am in love with the work of Jordie Bellaire, who makes the transition from ordinary world (or what passes for it) to the realms of the deat absolutely incredible. The colours in the latter are very psychedelic purples, yellows, pinks, blues, strange smears and blobs that don’t conform to the linework. It’s a fantastic effect and made the comic a joy to look at.

If you’re a fan of Visaggio’s work on Eternity Girl, you’re going to love this. If you’re into gnostic, psychedelic weirdness – you’re going to love it, too.

I received an electronic review copy via NetGalley. This is an honest review.

[EN] Everyone on the Moon Is Essential Personnel, by Julian K. Jarboe

 Warren Ellis said that we already live in the future, we just don’t notice it. It makes sense, therefore, that Julian K. Jarboe uses the future in their stories in order to better illuminate the present.

Although the stories in this collection vary strongly in terms of length and genre, the dominant note for me is near-future dystopia. Climate change drowning cities and rich tourists moving in to gentrify everything that’s left (plus the underwater ruins), locking the citizens in strictly controlled zones, while late capitalism sends precarious part-cyborg employees to work on the Moon with no holiday (after all, everyone is essential personnel). It sounds wild, but for many people it’s already part of their lived experience.

As such, the characters mostly focus on survival rather than fighting to change the world they live in. It frequently feels too vast, complicated, and powerful to be changed by a small group of individuals. The best one can do is to cling to the communities one has for as long as they last; particularly since the characters frequently don’t quite realise the extent of the abuse and exploitation they are subjected to: it’s usually taken in stride and described very matter-of-factly (see for example the family abuse in the title story). It’s a very effective way of making the readers feel for the characters.

The fantasy pieces – “The Seed and the Stone” and “We Did Not Know We Were Giants” – seemed to me to be the few more outwardly positive stories in the collection, as there seemed to be more that the characters were able to do to change their situation, particularly in the latter, with its themes of apotheosis and wrenching control away from inscrutable and unpredictable powers.

Among the stories written in a more literary realist fashion (I’m thinking slice of life, not strongly driven by plot, focused more on personal epiphanies, such as “Self Care” or the titular “Everyone on the Moon is Essential Personnel”), there are also a few that utilise strong central metaphors to talk about certain experiences. “The Heavy Things” has been a favourite of mine ever since I read it in Transcendent 3 and it’s a frankly terrifying portrait of reproductive violence that removes the bodily autonomy of people experiencing periods. “Estranged Children of Storybook Houses” is a similarly affecting story about a neuroatypical person searching for their place in the world (and what a great idea to use a metaphor of the changeling, given that a popular theory is that they were a figure representing neuroatypicality), while “I Am a Beautiful Bug!” is a playful riff on Kafka’s “Metamorphosis” that talks about the alienation (not to mention oppression) that befall you once you undergo a significant alteration of your body. This is a great use of the fantastic and I enjoyed all of those stories very much.

Aside from full-length short stories (some of which probably cross over into novella territory), there is also flash fiction that borders on prose poetry and some poems. They showcase Jarboe’s facility for beautiful, poetic language*, though of course the longer stories are also full of sentences you want to underline and re-read over and over.

* See for example a bit from “The Android that Designed Itself”: Make me large and soft and rolling: a photovoltaic mucus that envelopes all it touches. Make me edible but make me poisonous. Give me one of every face that has ever been called ugly. Give me one of every skin that has ever been called excessive. Give me a way of moving that no space can admit or accommodate, and then reshape the entire world to hold me. I could go on.

This is a collection that captures very well what it’s like to live under capitalism while (gender)queer, disabled, mentally ill, when you are unwilling or simply – particularly – unable to climb higher in the great chain of oppression. But it also offers moments of joy and liberation that come with the possibility of self-expression and with finding your community. The rareness and fleetingness of those should make us all the more determined to fight the forces that threaten to take those things away from us.

Thank you to the author for sending me an e-ARC of this collection in exchange for my honest thoughts.

Conchita

To wasza wina mówią chłopcy
w czarnych i brunatnych koszulach

nie dochowałyście czujności zamieniłyście
pochodnie na neony
mundury na cekiny
waszym wieczorowym sukienkom
brakuje kieszeni gdzie palce
mogłyby czule
zaciskać się na spuście

a jednak klucze sterczą
z waszych zamkniętych pobielałych dłoni

same widzicie:
jak moglibyśmy żyć
bez wzajemnie gwarantowanego zniszczenia
kiedy świat jest pełen
ludzi takich jak my?

same rozumiecie
musimy to robić:
po roztańczonej Europie
krążą już widma ojców
carów kaiserów
führerów

więc palić tęcze golić brody
zdjąć sukienki

niech przejeżdżając
czują się jak w domu