Leave it to TJ Klune to teach the world about true humanity by writing a story about robots. All while making it a Pinocchio retelling and giving it aLeave it to TJ Klune to teach the world about true humanity by writing a story about robots. All while making it a Pinocchio retelling and giving it a splash of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, to boot.
In the Lives of Puppets is about a family. A family that lives deep in the woods, hidden away from prying eyes. There’s Gio, a fatherly inventor droid, Nurse Ratched and Rambo, a sociopathic nurse machine and a lovable robot vacuum (respectively), and Victor, a human. Together, they spend their days inventing and salvaging machinery.
Until one day, Victor repairs an android named Hap, and Gio is captured and taken to the City of Electric Dreams, forcing Victor and the robots to embark on a dangerous journey to save Gio. But not only is the journey about rescuing Gio – Victor must also learn to love and forgive, even when there are strings attached.
My heart. My soul. My humanity. Klune has done it again. He has written a story that has touched my very core.
And I’ll just go ahead and throw this out there: In the Lives of Puppets is better than Under the Whispering Door and as good as (if not a teensy bit better than) The House in the Cerulean Sea.
Higher praise won’t come from me. But Puppets delivers and deserves it. The story is so well told and features an unforgettable cast of characters, with the robots being hilarious in their robotic-ness and far more human than a lot of humans I know. And the story does all the things that only the best stories do – you’ll smile, cry, laugh, get goosebumps, and feel your heart flip-flop.
I loved it. I loved it. I loved it.
I’ve said enough, I think.
My sincerest appreciation to TJ Klune and Tor Books for the physical advanced reading copy. All opinions included herein are my own....more
I’m not much of a gamer. I’ve played different games off and on over the years – first, with my brother back when the Atari and original Nintendo wereI’m not much of a gamer. I’ve played different games off and on over the years – first, with my brother back when the Atari and original Nintendo were all the rage, and, more recently, with my two boys whenever they need Mom’s help to clear a level or beat a boss. My greatest claim to fame, though, is that I’ve even gone so far as to conquer both Paper Mario: Color Splash and Super Mario Odyssey. Impressive, huh?
Hardcore gamers would probably say: not so much.
I, however, am quite proud of my modest video game accomplishments. But aside from playing a game from time to time, this is where my interest in the subject ends. Video game design – the process and technicalities of it – is not what I want to read about in a novel.
Enter Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, Gabrielle Zevin’s beloved 2022 release. It’s been on my shelf since before it even published, but I’ve put off reading it because it’s about video games. Sadie and Sam, Zevin’s two protagonists, are game designers, and Tomorrow is the story of their 30-year friendship, forged as children by their mutual desire to play and create games together.
What a mistake I made by putting off this spectacular novel. Tomorrow is a special sort of read, one that doesn’t come around often. The story, the characters, and Zevin’s brilliant writing is a big, beautiful gut punch to the soul. You feel the book in your bones.
I fell in love with Sadie and Sam. (Marx, too. And I suppose Dov, but only a little bit.) I fell in love with the games they created. And I fell in love with their friendship, the highs and the lows of it.
Sadie and Sam may very well be one of the greatest love stories ever told. Do not miss it.
My sincerest appreciation to Gabrielle Zevin, Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, and NetGalley for the Advance Review Copy. All opinions included herein are my own....more
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“… what she found at that moment, as the lights of yet another ambulance flickered overBe sure to visit Bantering Books to read all my latest reviews.
“… what she found at that moment, as the lights of yet another ambulance flickered over the ceiling, was that it was possible to smile back. This is the strange lesson of living in a pandemic: life can be tranquil in the face of death.”
Emily St. John Mandel brought me out of a writing slump. This is the first book review I’ve written in months, and not only do I want to share my thoughts regarding her latest novel, Sea of Tranquility, but I feel compelled. Leave it to her to be the one to breathe life back into my words.
Because I’m a huge fan. Station Eleven and The Glass Hotel sit high upon my favorites shelf, and now I will be placing Sea of Tranquility beside them. My very own St. John Mandel literary trifecta.
Sea of Tranquility takes us on a trip through time and space. In typical St. John Mandel fashion, the narrative leaps back and forth across centuries, from Earth to colonies on the moon, and the story touches on the always mind-bending topics of time travel and metaphysics. Your head will not hurt, though, not in her hands, as she never allows the science to overwhelm the story.
Pandemics also run rife throughout the narrative, and it, surprisingly, feels incredibly validating. St. John Mandel really gets it and is able to put onto the page what the whole of humanity has experienced these last few COVID-filled years with great acuity. It’s comforting, even.
To be honest, however, the novel was *only* a four-star read up until the very end. The ingenious final act is what did it. The way St. John Mandel finally threads all the pieces of the story together is not only shocking but, in hindsight, brilliantly inevitable.
I cannot recommend Sea of Tranquility highly enough. Or Station Eleven and The Glass Hotel, for that matter. Just go ahead, read all three, and be done with it.
My sincerest appreciation to Emily St. John Mandel and Knopf for the physical Advance Review Copy. All opinions included herein are my own.
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Stephen Graham Jones is pretty proud of himself. As he should be.
If you take the time tBe sure to visit Bantering Books to read all my latest reviews.
Stephen Graham Jones is pretty proud of himself. As he should be.
If you take the time to read his Acknowledgements at the end of his latest slasher novel, My Heart Is a Chainsaw, you will learn how hard he worked to create this story. You will sense how proud he is of it and how deeply within his heart he carries his diehard-slasher-fan protagonist, Jade Daniels. I think he drafted the novel at least three times from the ground up, over a span of about seven years. He struggled with the prose and to find the right characters about which to write. He just couldn’t get the novel to work.
But Chainsaw works now. Amazingly well. Every ounce of Jones’s authorial pride is deserved.
Because it’s bloody. It’s gory. It’s a slasher fan’s dream. And the writing in it is extraordinary.
Though not everyone is gonna like it. The writing, I mean. (And the novel itself. Slasher tales will never appeal to all.) The story, as it follows Jade in her warped delight when a slasher comes to town, is densely written and filled with references to classic horror films. Jones’s prose has a strikingly distinctive style, too, with unique, obscure phrasing and long sentences.
It’s like you’re reading, reading, reading, and you’re not quite sure what exactly he’s trying to say, yet you get it, deep down inside you know what he’s getting at, but if you tried to put it into words, you wouldn’t find the right ones, so you just keep reading, reading, reading, totally not getting it but getting it.
Yeah. It’s kinda like that.
Chainsaw takes focus, reading stamina, and brain power. Along with a fair amount of patience because the first 60% of the story is tediously slow.
But I assure you, the novel’s payoff is huge. The ending is horrifically slasher-y and spectacular, and it goes on for pages and pages (much like Jones’s sentences), making all that comes before it more than worth your while.
And the best part of the payoff is you will come to know Jade. Yes, she’s a senior in high school. Yes, she can be a bit grating. I promise you, though, that girl will break you while showing the true meaning of strength.
She has the heart of a chainsaw, after all. Loud, roaring, relentless.
My Heart Is a Chainsaw is an unforgettable read, and this is one of the easiest five stars I’ve given.
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A month has passed since I turned the final page of Chris Whitaker’s glorious novel, WeBe sure to visit Bantering Books to read all my latest reviews.
A month has passed since I turned the final page of Chris Whitaker’s glorious novel, We Begin at the End, and I can’t shake the memory of it. It’s a monkey on my back, ever present in my mind, refusing to leave me be.
And I don’t want it to leave me be.
Because the novel changed me. It reshaped me. Whitaker’s tragic story of thirteen-year-old Duchess and her five-year-old brother, Robin, caused me to reshuffle my priorities and be more present in my own life. And for this, I will be forever grateful.
I know the novel is not flawless. It certainly has its critics. Duchess is a bit overwritten, and the depiction of both children is not always age appropriate. The supporting characterization feels a bit flat. I also found it difficult to immerse myself in the California setting, and I would lose my sense of place when the story shifted back to the West Coast from Montana.
But my quibbles are insignificant in comparison to the novel’s beauty. We Begin at the End is masterfully written with stunning, literary prose. The mystery at its core is complex and surprising, and the story, while emotionally devastating, has moments of warm humor and hope.
I sobbed. I laughed. I sobbed some more.
And then I hugged my two boys. Tightly. (To their grumbling dismay.)
Because Duchess and Robin – these two kids broke my heart. Even now, my eyes burn for them as I write this.
For the unfairness of their lives. For their pain. For their resilience and strength of spirit.
For Robin’s undying optimism and willingness to try, try again. For Duchess’s selfless, protective love for her brother.
Mr. Whitaker, thank you. I have been touched, profoundly, by your words and your story.
“'I scorn your idea of love,' I could not help saying, as I rose up and stood before him, leaning my back against the rock. 'I scorn the counterfei“'I scorn your idea of love,' I could not help saying, as I rose up and stood before him, leaning my back against the rock. 'I scorn the counterfeit sentiment you offer: yes, St. John, and I scorn you when you offer it.'"
Ah, my dear Jane Eyre. Such fire, such passion she has. A young woman cut from my own cloth and my own heart.
I waited far too long to read Charlotte Bronte’s masterwork of gothic fiction. Jane Eyre is brilliant – really, truly it is. It’s groundbreaking, too, in that it’s one of our earliest works of feminist fiction, what with Jane fighting the patriarchy and social hierarchy in order to achieve equality and independence. And with the book being first published back in 1847, Bronte was clearly writing ahead of her time.
I’m well aware there isn’t much I can say about the novel that hasn’t been said before. It’s a classic for a reason, and it’s been analyzed forwards and backwards, sideways and upside down. So I’ll instead share a few thoughts on why I adore Jane as a character and why she is now on my shortlist of favorite fictional feminists.
For a woman who never knew love as a child to have the fortitude to walk away from the man she loves because of principle, because he lied to and manipulated her; to instead choose homelessness and starvation over a pleasurable life with him – that’s strength. To later refuse a loveless marriage of duty and security, even when her Christian faith and the guilt of God is hung over her head – that’s strength. And though she does return to Mr. Rochester, as we all know, it’s on her terms and of her own doing, and only after he admits his wrongs.
For refusing to accept less in life, in love, and in the pursuit of happiness, that is why I love Jane....more
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I’ve been fortunate to have read many beautifully written books over the years. But I cBe sure to visit Bantering Books to read all my latest reviews.
I’ve been fortunate to have read many beautifully written books over the years. But I can think of none more stunning than Charlotte McConaghy’s Migrations.
For this reason, I’ve put off writing my review. Partly out of fear – I’ve been afraid I’d be unable to adequately convey the depth of my connection to this novel. And partly out of sorrow, because I know that once my review is written I will begin to let Migrations go. The memory of it will fade, regardless of how tightly I cling to it.
The novel tells the story of Franny Stone, an Irish woman living in a future world where all the wild animals are gone. There are no bears, no wolves, no lions – they’ve died off. And she has made it her mission to follow the last Arctic terns as they make their final migration from Greenland to Antarctica.
Migrations is haunting. Intoxicating. Chilling. I didn’t just read it – I experienced it. Surrounded by McConaghy’s hypnotic and atmospheric writing, I heard the melodic churning of the Irish Sea and tasted its saltiness. My skin burned from the icy Arctic air. And the exquisite sparseness of the prose rendered me breathless, the sharp words deeply cutting to my core.
As did Franny’s story. For it is not a happy one. Born with an itch to wander, Franny has never been able to stay in one place. She always leaves those she loves, wounding them, no matter her longing to remain. And sadly, she has been left, too, and knows loss and tragedy intimately. Hers is a heartbreaking life.
Migrations is a love song to our natural world. It’s a boundless, passionate romance between a woman and a man. And it’s a hopeful tale of a broken soul in desperate need of redemption.
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So, total shocker – I loved The Glass Hotel more than I loved Station Eleven.
Emily St. Be sure to visit Bantering Books to read all my latest reviews.
So, total shocker – I loved The Glass Hotel more than I loved Station Eleven.
Emily St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven sits high upon my favorites shelf. I sing its praises tirelessly to all who will listen, knowing the novel will one day be viewed as a dystopian, post-apocalyptic classic.
But The Glass Hotel is even better. And I say this as a reader who didn’t really want to read it, seeing as the story revolves around, of all things, a collapsing Ponzi scheme. Not the most interesting topic, is it?
I should’ve held tighter to my faith in St. John Mandel, though. Because the novel is, in fact, very interesting, and about so much more than a financial scam. It’s about greed and corruption, selfishness and dishonesty, alternate realities and ghosts. And how remorse for our actions can wear away the soul.
To read The Glass Hotel is to feel as if you’ve slipped into a dream. The story has this surreal, otherworldly aura, and St. John Mandel’s writing is hypnotic, lulling, and uniquely beautiful.
Though, a fair warning to those who do plan to read this extraordinary novel – its structure is rather scattered and formless. Much like Station Eleven, the narrative flits from character to character, back and forth in time, with the characters’ lives crisscrossing and diverging. Some may find the intentional chaos messy and confusing. I, however, found it to be brilliant.
The Glass Hotel is haunting. Gripping. Utterly unforgettable. And it has earned a place on my favorites shelf, where it will forever remain.
Scoot over, Station Eleven. Let’s make some room for The Glass Hotel.
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“There are things in jars.”
(Note: For optimal effect, the above quote should be read inBe sure to visit Bantering Books to read all my latest reviews.
“There are things in jars.”
(Note: For optimal effect, the above quote should be read in a whispery, quivery, British-accented voice.)
Oh yes. There are many, many things in jars between the pages of Jess Kidd’s aptly titled novel -- and they are all so brilliantly and twistedly delightful.
Bridie Devine, “pipe-smoking detective extraordinaire,” has just accepted quite the unusual case. Christabel Berwick, the secret daughter of Sir Edmund Athelstan Berwick, has been kidnapped right out from under the Baronet’s nose. Rumored to possess extraordinary mythical powers, it appears that Christabel may have attracted the unfortunate attention of those who specialize in the collection of peculiarities.
Urged on by the fatherly desperation of Sir Berwick, Bridie takes to the streets of Victorian London, determined to locate the young girl. Fortunately, Bridie has help from two unusual allies – Cora, Bridie’s seven-foot-tall giantess housemaid, and Ruby, a tattooed ghost from Bridie’s past. Together, the eccentric threesome must race against time to save Christabel from the clutches of those who wish to add one more prized possession to their cabinets of curiosities.
Earlier this year, I had the profound pleasure of reading Kidd’s debut novel, Himself, and I fell utterly in love with her writing. I adored the lovely mix of mystery and magical realism of the story; I was amazed by how skillfully the narrative was weaved. I discovered that Kidd’s writing is breathtakingly beautiful.
Since then, I have eagerly awaited my opportunity to read Things in Jars. My excitement and anticipation for this book have been difficult to contain. I have known without doubt that Kidd would not disappoint. I have known I would love every magnificent word of it.
And correct, I was.
Things in Jars is captivating. It is a clever, wonderfully creative, and mesmerizing gothic mystery. Masterfully blending magical realism and Irish folklore with the paranormal, Kidd tells a tale that is both unique and fantastical. I found myself completely under Kidd’s spell, wholly immersed in the enchantment of the story.
Kidd’s writing has a very whimsical air to it. (In my review of Himself, I even went so far as to compare her to Neil Gaiman – and I still fully stand behind that assessment.) Her prose is gorgeously lyrical and elegantly readable. All major and minor characters are fully developed, likable, and memorable. (I dare you to not love Bridie, Cora, and Ruby. I double dare you, even.)
Kidd establishes setting like no other – you can literally see, hear, feel, taste, and smell Victorian London, in all its dreary, dirty glory. (Although, I do think at times she gets a bit overly descriptive of certain scenes, to the point where the reader is dropped out of the story for a short period due to the large influx of information. But a minor complaint.) She sets a very wry, witty tone to the narrative, and she has such a knack for infusing warmth and humor into what is, indeed, an extremely dark story.
Aah yes . . . the darkness. Be forewarned -- Things in Jars is not for the faint of heart. It is brutal and gruesome. It is bloody and gritty. There are scenes of disturbing animal cruelty and graphic surgical procedures. There is violence against women. (One violent scene against a female character, I found particularly bothersome because it seemed a bit gratuitous and unnecessary to the story. I could’ve done without it.)
To be certain, Things in Jars is not without its horrors. And know that these horrors make for squeamish moments of reading.
But to Kidd’s credit, she somehow manages to deftly offset all that darkness with light. Again, her writing is so charming and funny, and she brings such whimsy to the story, that it’s almost as if she masks, or cloaks, the gruesomeness. Or sort of smudges the edges of the blackness to where it all becomes a bit fuzzy. Or gently nudges the reader’s focus more towards the light, rather than the dark. It’s quite remarkable, the perfect balancing act she achieves between such a stark dichotomy.
And that melding of dark and light is part of what makes Things in Jars such a special read.
Mystery lovers, magical realism lovers, just plain ol’ good fiction lovers – do not miss this one. I wholeheartedly recommend it . . . and hope that this will not be our first and only adventure with Bridie Devine.
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“His thoughts were all cerulean.”
Mine, too. My thoughts are all cerulean, now thatBe sure to visit Bantering Books to read all my latest reviews.
“His thoughts were all cerulean.”
Mine, too. My thoughts are all cerulean, now that I have read TJ Klune’s wonderful novel, The House in the Cerulean Sea. And never have they been tinted such a brilliant, exquisite shade of blue.
Linus Baker lives routinely by the rules. He is a dedicated caseworker for the Department in Charge of Magical Youth; he knows every word of its RULES AND REGULATIONS by heart. At the end of each workday, he returns home to an empty house, comforted only by his classic record collection and his cantankerous (but lovable) cat, Calliope.
Then unexpectedly, Linus is given a top-secret assignment by Extremely Upper Management. His mission? To travel to a clandestine orphanage on Marsyas Island, where six highly magical, highly dangerous children live. While there, Linus is expected to observe both the children and the master of the orphanage, Arthur Parnassus, report his findings to Extremely Upper Management, and ultimately determine whether the orphanage should be closed.
But as in all good tales, Linus soon finds there is much more to Arthur and the children than meets the eye. And much to his astonishment, he also discovers a quiet yearning within his own heart for a life he never even knew he wanted.
Prepare yourselves. I am about to gush. Profusely.
The House in the Cerulean Sea is an absolute treasure. It is a pot of gold found at the end of a rainbow. It is a priceless jewel cupped protectively in one’s hands. It is a perfectly delicious sundae with a cherry on top. It is a golden ray of sunlight shining through the blackest of clouds. It is a stunningly spectacular summer sunset.
And bar none, it is the kindest, gentlest, most loving story I have ever read. Ever. Love and kindness virtually radiate from Klune’s words and ever so tenderly spiral around you like a soft, warm blanket. The entire reading experience is incredibly comforting and calming.
Like Linus, the novel is one that I never even knew I needed. Or wanted. I am grateful to have found it.
Klune’s tale is, for sure, a fantastical one, filled with lovable magical children and endearing magical creatures. It has charm, whimsy, and a touch of romance. It has gorgeously simple writing.
It also has impeccable humor. The novel is truly hysterical, in a cleverly dry and witty sort of way. It may very well be the most amusing story I have ever read.
But do you know what I love most about The House in the Cerulean Sea?
Its gently powerful messages. Because not only is the novel about kindness – it’s about prejudice and how its roots burrow in fear and misunderstanding. It’s about encouraging people to be who they are and accepting and loving them for it. It’s about the freedom to love whomever you want to love, wholly and freely.
It’s beautiful. Klune has written a beautiful, beautiful book.
Indeed, the story does feel slightly preachy and a bit syrupy at times. The narrative is also quite predictable and crammed with many common literary tropes. But really, none of it matters.
Why? Because the The House in the Cerulean Sea is special. Books as unforgettable as this are few and far between. And even though it may feel like you’ve previously read this story, there is an exceptionally good chance you will adore it more than all the others that have come before.
Sincerely, I cannot recommend this novel highly enough. I will never be able to gather the proper words to accurately express how I marvel at the magic of this story.
I know, deep within my soul, that it should not be missed by anyone, as it is so lovingly written for everyone.
Anyone and everyone with a beating heart, that is.
And if, regrettably, you have misplaced your heart somewhere on this treacherous road known as life. . . The House in the Cerulean Sea may be just the story you need to find it once again.
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How I wish I could visit the Starless Sea.
I wish I had my own magical door; one that woBe sure to visit Bantering Books to read all my latest reviews.
How I wish I could visit the Starless Sea.
I wish I had my own magical door; one that would allow entrance to the labyrinthine libraries of this magical underground world that Erin Morgenstern has created, where I could wander aimlessly for a time and be surrounded by books, secret rooms, riddles, and CATS. Lots and lots of cats.
It would be such a wonderful escape. And then once satiated, I could return to my beloved normal life and carry on . . . anxiously awaiting my next visit to the Starless Sea.
Oh, how I wish.
This wish of mine, fellow readers, is a testament to my love for this novel.
The Starless Sea is exquisite. It is literary perfection. I have not felt such a deeply personal connection to a novel in quite some time, and I am now saddled with this inexplicable urge to climb to the top of the highest mountain I can find and loudly declare to the world the depth of my love for this book.
Yes -- I love it THAT much.
The Starless Sea is, quite simply, a book for book lovers. It's a beautifully written ode to fairy tales that is unlike anything I have ever read. Within its pages, there are stories within stories within stories. There are pirates, owls, magical doorways, a keeper of keys, a sculptor of stories, Fate and Time, the sun and the moon . . . and video games, of all things . . .
( . . . and cats . . . don't forget the cats . . . )
. . . and there is also Zachary Ezra Rawlins, who, over the course of the novel, you will come to know and to love as you follow him on his journey to the Starless Sea.
I will stop here and refrain from revealing any further details about the story. To do so, I think, would only serve to diminish the reading experience.
Before diving into the book, however, you should know that The Starless Sea requires patience. It is not a novel to be read quickly, as every sentence is important and laced with meaning. Morgenstern takes her time and slowly unfurls the plot to the reader, chapter by chapter . . . page by page.
And many readers struggle with the novel because of this. Very little of the story is revealed in the beginning, and Morganstern doesn't communicate the end goal or the purpose of the story AT ALL. You don't understand what Zachary is trying to accomplish in the Starless Sea, why he is on this journey, what he needs to do. It's all a mystery. You are left in the dark. And I believe this is why so many readers are unable to enjoy the book.
But the mystery of the story is purposeful. It's intentional. Morgenstern even tells us as much within the first 100 pages of the book. (Page 66, to be exact.) And for all of the gamers out there, this is where video games come into play --
"[Zachary] doesn't always wish that real life were more like video games, but in certain situations it would be helpful. Go here. Talk to this person. Feel like you're making progress even though you don't know what it is you're trying to do, exactly."
Ding! Ding! Ding! Morgenstern wrote The Starless Sea to be read as one would play a video game --you read it, progress your way through it, and know that you will not have any idea of what Zachary is trying to accomplish. Understanding this is the key to unlocking the magic of the novel.
And I will admit -- the story is confusing. It is so intricately plotted and so tightly written that it can feel overwhelming to mentally process it all.
Plus, in between every chapter of Zachary's story is a separate, gorgeously written fairy tale, of sorts. And you're reading all of these short little tales and wondering whether they are important and how it all fits together and -- yeah, it's a lot.
BUT.
If you can sit back, lose yourself in the beauty of the words, not worry about what outcome you're supposed to be reading towards, and have faith that it all will come together in the end (which it so masterfully does!), then I fully believe you will love The Starless Sea as much as I do.
If you are unable to do all of the above, however, then unfortunately, it will not be the book for you. And that breaks my heart.
Because The Starless Sea is a novel that should not be missed. It's so, SO wonderful. It's a fantastical masterpiece with seeping pages of magic -- pages that are patiently awaiting their chance to whisk you away to another world.
A world that I plan to revisit again and again . . . as I now have a new, most favorite novel