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The English Civil wars are living memory. A king is back on the throne, and a nation remains wary of Rome while adjusting to its newfound peace.

Pears begins with a simple plot detail, the death of a university academic. Readers have this story recounted by a Venetian fop called Marco da Cola, who introduces characters and remarks on the strange land and customs he finds himself amidst. The author gradually 'pulls the camera back' to reveal a web of intrigue and inhumanity involving a wide cast, years in the making, and he does it by retelling the same series of events from three additional perspectives. After the Venetian's version comes that of a proud hothead, bent on restoring his father's honor. Next comes the entry from a high-placed civil servant, convinced of the superiority of his own assessment. The last part is told by a priest in love.

Each successive account informs prior ones, serving to either muddy details that used to be clear, or crystallizing their importance. Entire characters, their background and motives and capabilities, are thrown into a whole new light. It's a mystery novel but it isn't concerned with whodunit as opposed to who-done-what and how it got done. There are several excellent reveals that tie plot threads together. The final account by the priest is quite introspective and does the least plotwise, but is where the novel really bears its heart - for while you think you're reading one type of story for much of the book's 600-odd pages, Pears is about to reveal another.

Interested readers shouldn't alternate between this and other books. This demands persistent attention. I found it worth diagramming the character relationships. It includes a 'dramatis personae,' many members of which are real historical figures.

Adam Reith and company are on a response mission to the planet Tschai, 212 light years away, after receiving a signal. Their reconnaissance craft soon gets hit by a missile from the planet's surface, stranding Reith with little hope of return.

Tschai hosts four distinct races who are at odds with each other to varying degrees. The Chasch, industrious urbanites, the Dirdir, highly stratified sport hunters; the Wankh, inscrutable in their cities of black glass, and hovering above (below) it all, the Pnume, aloof insectoid chroniclers of the surface's changing fortunes, a morbid subterranean priesthood. All four races employ a sub-race - mankind - or Chaschmen, Dirdirmen, Wankhmen and Pnumekin - brought to Tschai millennia ago in mysterious circumstances. Planet of Adventure is an escape story at first glance, and a good one, but it's also portrait of an alternate humanity that is profoundly dysfunctional, robbed of its inclinations to discover, to know, to imagine and create, and in some cases even its resemblance as human. What if we took Us and made us serfs of our domain instead of masters, and let that cook for 100 millennia? asks Vance. The nature of individual liberty and agency are also explored.

Reith teams up with Traz, an adolescent boy with major responsibilities and major totems to uphold, and Anacho, a Dirdirman fugitive. There is little character introspection (Reith is a Neil Armstrong-James Bond of the far future who doesn't have a qualm with kicking heads in if he has to) but they are still competently sketched, as are the supporting cast. The worldbuilding is the true highlight. Tschai is vibrantly colorful yet worn through. Tschai is pungent and rank and unfair and brutally transactional and at home with itself. Tschai works. Yet in retrospect it feels like all Vance ever describes is the color of the sky, the murky light cast by its star Carina 4269, the cuisine, and various episodes of haggling. I still enjoyed my time there.

The four books total about 450 pages. It's effectively a single four-volume novel. Vance doesn't muck around - his plotting and pacing is lean, in contrast to nearly any modern fantasy author, where 450 pages wouldn't see the first book finished. He achieves immersion by means other than padding the time investment. I wish SF/F authors rediscovered the value of basic writing economy (they might actually finish more series). I love Vance's brand of refined pulpiness and plan to read more of him.

Part social survey, part natural history, part travelogue.

The book is a study of Harar's people, human and spotted hyena alike, focusing on inter-species relations as well as how the hyena clans organize and behave inside and outside city walls.

The first chapters set the scene. Harar is a city of 100 thousand whose old quarters, known as Jugol, form a mostly walled complex about one square km in area. While it has many attractions for hyenas thanks to our ability to waste food, the city also has a cottage tourist industry in hyena feeding. Baynes-Rock examines two such operations, uncovering not only interesting logistical differences but very different underlying attitudes toward the animals they court. The author comes to recognize hyenas like so many other animals have distinct personalities.

The next chapters introduce us to the local Sofi and Aboker hyena clans, named after the two mosques that outside Jugol that fall within their territory. Hyenas mark clan boundaries using a range of scent glands. In open space these can be delinated clearly, but Jugol becomes a de facto neutral territory because of its overbuilt, cramped nature. Typically wary of humans, Harar hyenas employ the town garbage dump and nearby brush as a base prior to navigating the town. The author spends later chapters not only at the feeding exhibits but actively following them throughout the town, gaining greater knowledge of individual hyenas.

Hyenas feature heavily in Harari and Oromo folklore. The author investigates the legend of Ashura, an anti-violence truce involving a cauldron of special porridge, whose degree of overnight consumption by the hyenas is a portent of the future. They are also supposed to regulate and exorcize djinn (Islamic demonic spirits, origin of the English 'genie'). Several great interviews with local elders provide the details.

The author documents his trials and errors with getting to know the clan members. Becoming too familiar too quickly risks a devastating loss of trust. Some can develop a level of courage and inquisitiveness that becomes dangerous if not met with a quick response (namely curious biting). During his trailing sessions the author comes to relish the electricity outages because the lack of light attracts less attention.

You get immersed in the locale too. By the end of the read you realize you enjoyed your time in this sweaty, unkempt but very much alive, respectable and textured city. The mid section has the standard photo gallery to be expected of these assignments. In one shot he's literally head to head with one of the most familiar hyenas.

Pala is an island nation in South East Asia. It has engineered the ego out of human institutions, and over the course of 150 years the result is a state and society whose primary goal is generating fully realized, spiritually fulfilled human beings, as opposed to economic growth or military power - human beings as a genuine end instead of a means. Carefully managing a combination of Western scientific advances in medicine and sanitation with Buddhist ethics, it's largely avoided the repressions of capitalism and communism. What would a nation's social, cultural and economic architecture have to be like for this to happen? What kind of institutions would it possess? What foreign influences would it welcome or discard or completely invert to suit its aims?

We follow Will, a jaded English reporter who finds himself recovering in a Palanese hospital. Mobile again, he accepts a tour of the island, meeting locals and the diplomat from the neighboring nation of Rendang. Everyone speaks English! And speak it well they should, for these dialogues make up the bulk of this philosophical book about how we might defang and repurpose the worst tendencies of human nature. This is an ideas novel, pure plot and character readers should look elsewhere.

Will's guides see the first world, Europe in particular, as a tangle of mass dysfunctions responsible for widespread generational trauma, psychoses and sociopathy among its populations, stemming from its social and economic organization, its religious baggage and its disciplinary insistence on treating mind and body as separate. It turns out Pala has alternatives (and alternative purposes) for all sorts of things - the nuclear family, state education, hallucinogenic drug use, physical activity. A coming-of-age custom, the Pre-Elementary Test, sees participants scale a high edifice with not much equipment than a rope ('An ordeal [...] which is the first stage of their initiation out of childhood into adolescence. An ordeal that helps them to understand the world they'll have to live in, helps them to realize the omnipresence of death'). Families exist in the context of Mutual Adoption Clubs ('Take twenty sexually satisfied couples and their offspring; add science, intuition and humor in equal quantities; steep in Tantrik Buddhism and simmer indefinitely in an open pan in the open air over a brisk flame of affection.' 'And what comes out of your open pan?' Will asked. 'An entirely different kind of family. Not exclusive, not predestined, not compulsory. An inclusive, unpredestined and voluntary family. Twenty pairs of fathers and mothers, eight or nine ex-fathers and ex-mothers, and forty or fifty children of all ages.')

Pala isn't powerful or materially wealthy either. It knows what it's given up to achieve the intangibles. There is no large scale industry ('Electricity minus heavy industry plus birth control equals democracy and plenty. Electricity plus heavy industry minus birth control equals misery, totalitarianism and war'). Because a low level of income inequality is socially reinforced, it hasn't got financiers or captains of industry. Politically it's too federated - across geographic, social and professional lines - for any Great Man of History ('Muscle People' as the Palanese call personalities like Stalin) to amass an unassailable power base.

It's not a book about capitalism versus communism. To come away with that assumption is to have misunderstood Huxley's concerns. It's about one British man of letters daring to wonder, as he witnessed the British Empire rapidly being dismantled, whether some corners of the world might have a go at incubating real civilization. It's definitely about endings of all sorts - the latter half is packed with Buddism. It's a highly unbalanced novel, even by the author's admission. But it's never boring.

Augustus Melmotte is coming to town! Financier of the new world, host of Emperors, scourge of prudential regulators! He's incorporating the Mexican American Railway Co. in London, and looking for the right sorts to direct the enterprise. Thankfully he's found several young lords who happen to be inveterate gamblers.

London doesn't ask too many questions of Mr Melmotte, like how he obtained his fortune or trivial affairs like capital structure. Why bother when it's self-evident he's a man of action who knows how to get things done.

Let's meet the board. Felix Carbury, a feckless waste of space who mooches off his mother; Lord Nidderdale, a dopey aristocratic wallflower; Miles Grendall, a man to make an amoeba in cryogenic stasis seem inquisitive; and Paul Montague, a comparitively ordinary chap boasting a head least unscrewed.

Felix wants to marry Melmotte's heir, Marie, to fund his lifestyle, but prefers a country girl as his sidepiece. Paul desires Felix's sister, Henrietta, as does Henrietta's cousin, the sanctimonous but sympathetic Roger Carbury, nearly twice her age. Paul's tempestuous ex from the United States, one Winifred Hurtle, crossed the pond to old Blighty to pay him a visit in the meantime.

The engine of this 800-page satirical chonker is Mr Melmotte and his navigation of high society's commercial interests. Hideously transactional and with a pathological want of self-insight, he hustles as hard as a politician trying to contain an illicit sex island clientele list. The book has loads of amusing vignettes like the gambling sessions at the Beargarden gentlemen's club, and the company board meetings. You'll meet about 20 characters and get to know them well. If Dickens excels at caricature, Trollope's forte is having the reader go 'yep, I know this person IRL' all too often. His portraits of Roger Carbury and Winifred Hurtle are highlights. The tangle involving Paul, Winifred, Roger and Henrietta is nearly moving in its resolution.

If you decide to invest the time, it's worth noting that marriage in Victorian times is a very different and far more serious matter compared to now, especially for young women. I suspect choosing wisely back then determined not onlya woman's financial security but also her social mobility and lifestyle quality for the rest of her life. Ouch.

This is an apocalpyse novel at its heart - one triggered by social and technological disaster instead of a natural event. We follow several characters who live in several different nation-states, known simply as The Federation, the Union and the Republic (the real-world countries they represent become obvious). The one unifying aspect of all their plots is the need to maintain contact with another human being somewhere in the world, and the ways in which government seeks to prevent/distort/interfere with communication. It's also about the relationship between state and citizen, and whether systems are truly able to change from within or require exogenous factors/black swan events to undergo real transformation.

The author spends a lot of time talking about the Federation's dreadful control architecture and the effects it has on the books characters and Federation society at large. However it struck me that much of it has analogs in Western countries - de facto social credit schemes, surveillance meshnets, advanced behavioral fingerprinting, etc.

The novel isn't totally pessimistic, ending on a note of hope. There's a long afterword by the author regarding his intentions in writing the book (it felt like a cheatsheet though - apparently just putting the answers in the back in case your readers don't get the text is a thing in genre fiction now?). It's a very 2020s novel.

This is a temporary DNF, and one of my big disappointments of the year. I read to approx. p220, giving up during an extended (and frankly inane) overstuffed dialog sequence.

I like the author. Palmer is intelligent, and passionate about her chosen subjects. I share a stack of the same interests, particularly censorship (she has a couple of great lectures on YouTube about the subject, explaining what censorship regimes really do, how they work, how universally slipshod they are, etc.)

I also like the book's key ideas. My social milieu DOES matter more to me than the country on my birth certificate, and that SHOULD count for something. But I couldn't grok her writing style. It's baroque. Too wordy, too 'mannered'. The framing device she employs is original (a history of events, about which extraneous details are included, like editorial decisions and commentary on people) but I can't help but feel it got in the way of the story. Pacing is weird: I read practically half the book and it felt like only a couple of things had happened.

The extensive cast doesn't help things either. Then add in alternate names for certain characters, used in the same paragraph. Then add unconvential punctuation. The book has an obsession with names and titles.

I might pick up the book and the series again later on and discover a favorite. But I know it didn't hold me on the maiden read. A pity.

Excellent overview of the subject. A highly readable, down to earth, unpretentious prose style. It avoids the trend in a lot of popular history writing of gradiose puffery of the topic (10 page forewords, hysterical framing, etc). I read it in about four sittings. Available from your shadow library of choice.

It covers the whole year of 1066 and starts from the perspective of the peasantry, describing key social institutions such as the villlage, the thanes, the forums for dispute resolution called 'hundreds' and so on. I didn't know that English monarchs were elected by a sort of proto-parliament, and that heredity was a secondary factor in determing kingship.

It illustrates the key figures involved. You get a keen sense of their psychological states and the political hands they were dealt: Edward the Confessor's frustration with his duties and never feeling truly at home with his own people, in part due to his sanctimonious faith; Harald Hardrada's Klingonlike thirst for violent skirmish and conquest (a shameless war tourist whose lifestyle could quite accurately be described as jihadist); William's blind self-confidence and almost lunatic trust in fate, regardless of how stacked against him the odds were of his campaign succeeding.

One of the key takeaways about the conquest itself: the unwitting use of psychological warfare (against the English monarch Harold) thanks to the indirect involvement of the Catholic church, and how effective it was in sowing FUD.

The sections on how ill-equipped the Normans were for seafaring were also fascinating. Indeed in the 11th century boats were about getting armies from one landmass to another and nothing else; the concept of a fighting maratime force such as a navy really wasn't a thing.

Marek a god-fearing shepherd's boy does his pious best to make sense of grim life circumstances until one day he makes an impulsive decision during an excursion with the landlord's son. The book reads like The Life of Brian crossed with Caligula or something directed by Branden Cronenburg.

It's a pithy study of resentment in all its flavors. Ludicrous and depraved yet readable. The characters are often preoccupied with wrongs, slights, past mistakes and post facto justifications of behaviour. Most of them are either idiots or scoundrels. Ina, a longlived wet-nurse, and Grigor, an elderly man turned Cynic (the original Diogenean sense of cynic) were my favorites.

The setting is never stated but my guess is circa 5th century Anatolia or Armenia. The early book refers 'fair northeners' who are 'amoral' and 'well suited to servile tasks', which I read as slavs of some description. A key scene indicates the place is mountainous, and nearby place names bear some resemblance to real locales such as Pripyat, Ukraine and Istria, Croatia.

A minor gripe from a non-American reader: on a few occasions I got taken out of the setting due to Moshfegh using Americanisms, such as 'moseying'. The author is American so it's kind of understandable, but it still struck me as a weird word choice given the subect matter.

A novel from the 1970s (unwittingly) about the 2010s. Our titular character attempts an escape from the camera of the TV show chronicling her life. Low plot and high concept. Took me several sittings go get through, not due to length or writing style, but rather how sparse the plot is. I love the way Compton doles out information to the reader; it never feels rushed or overbearing.

Compton alternates the perspective between Katherine and the show producer, Roddie. We get separate takes on a lot of the same events, in immediate succession, and it becomes a great device for Compton to explore the impact of events on the producer. It's no accident that Roddie has to undergo an irreversible, shocking change in order to properly 'see' his subject.

Impostorhood is a huge motif - being one, the realization of such, and its rationalization. The leads adopt disguises to be mistaken for an underclass. They gatecrash a private gathering. There's an unholy alliance between the media apparatus and the state that's regularly implied throughout - in almost all cases in the novel, you cannot help but be aware that police business is effectively aligned with the interests of the TV network behind the program. Even the medical field winds up playing handmaiden to the network's interests.

It makes a great comparison work to The Truman Show (dir. Peter Weir), and a good companion to Neil Postman's ideas on television.

This novel has no plot, virtually no dialogue and centers on a single character, Des Esseintes, an ailing French aristocrat who has exiled himself to a villa outside Paris in pursuit of a life of decadent fixation on his favourite possessions.

Whether it's the classics of antiquity, the merits of French Catholic authors or the supremacy of plainsong in sacred music, Esseintes' musings go on page after page. You needn't be familiar with the subject matter to get something out of the novel, but you must be curious by nature, otherwise it will quickly infuriate you. The labor of his musings is the point - the book revels in a kind of excruciating indulgence, portraying a listless mind which has made for itself a labyrinth from objets d'art. Three pages might be spent on the changes in Latin vernacular across a range of writers from classical antiquity (much of the book feels like heading down a Wikipedia rabbithole where all the articles are highly opinionated). To borrow from Kipling, Esseintes is someone who has made thoughts his aim.

So why read this at all? Because it's fiercely strange, incredibly silly its own way, and Huysman's prose is beautiful and routinely surprising. The Penguin translation comes packed with supplements including notes, intro, a retrospective essay on the novel by Huysmans, and contemporary receptions from Zola et al.

Well done Tor for kicking DRM to the gutter.

But this is two-and-a-half star affair. All the male characters are one-dimensionally unpleasant save for the love interest. The protagonist, while a bit a of girlboss, does have your sympathy for much of the story, but that goodwill gets drawn way down in the last 60-odd pages, once her background is further detailed. Some of the similes struck me as juvenile; there's a lot of things I'd call the Milky Way before calling it a cum stain.

I like the parallel Ashby draws between the abusive relationship between for-profit vendor and end user, and the abusiveness in relationships, but it doesn't get used to much effect. The company, Wuv, is such a vile vision I have no doubt capital will have it ready to inflict on people by the 2030s. So I enjoyed some of its themes but plot- and content-wise it felt somewhat thin. I would read another Ashby novel but it's going to have come with rave reviews.

This is a quasi-DNF, because I've got the last fifth of the novel to go but it's starting to drag, and the protagonist is worthless. It has the feeling of something quickly edited and put to market (perhaps the author needed to fufil a contractual requirement?). Who knows, it's ancient history now.

It's main point of interest is Vinge's take on the proliferation of augmented reality and mesh network technology, and sadly I find his observations pretty plausible - namely that the infrastructure becomes a theatre of war for state actors, which leads to network balkanization and the subordination of all private ownership of technology to the demands of state (the novel has a tinkerer character who has managed to assemble a PC whose CPU isn't 'in thrall' to the Department of Homeland Security). It's sobering to compare the world in the novel to our current-day situation of nation-states hoarding (and protecting) software vulnerabilities for exploitation, zero-click malware vendors like Pegasus, automated-decision defense systems, etc.

‘When I am taking a walk through the fields and get one of my feet deeper than usual into the mud, I always endeavour to bear it as well as I may before the eyes of those who meet me rather than make futile efforts to get rid of the dirt and look as though nothing had happened. The dirt, when it is rubbed and smudged and scraped, is more palpably dirt than the honest mud.’ ‘I will not admit that I am dirty at all,’ said the Doctor. ‘Nor do I, in the case which I describe. I admit nothing; but I let those who see me form their own opinion. If any one asks me about my boot I tell him that it is a matter of no consequence. I advise you to do the same. You will only make the smudges more palpable[...]'

My first Trollope. It's a focused narrative coming in at about 200 pages, concerning a scandal around the private life of Wortle's best employee. I loved the matter-of-fact Puddicombe, a fellow rector of the Doctor's who is used as a sounding board, and hope to see him again in another novel. Trollope's a good observer of contradition, namely stated preference versus revealed preference. The book isn't about the nature of the scandal, which involves bigamy - Trollope intentionally spoils it in the beginning - but rather how the characters deal with revelations, and pinpointing exactly what wider society really finds objectionable about it.