Breathing Just a Little

It's been another low-reading (by my standards) month so far in March, and not likely to pick up a lot of pace, although I do have some hopes for the next two weekends, which are uncharacteristically free of too many commitments. However, I have got through three new-to-me books, one of which (although I enjoyed it) doesn't really warrant a review, but the other two, I think, do. One is a literary fic with a central theme of disability, and the other is a Lovecraftian-coded horror dystopia SFF, so extremely not the same kind of book (and I would recommend them for very divergent audiences!), but I enjoyed both of them. This is the story of two Hong Kong sisters - Marlowe, 27, who is a graduate student of entomology in England where she lives with her boyfriend Olly, and Harper, 20, who has Down Syndrome and lives in Hong Kong with the sisters' English father and Chinese grandmother, working part time in a library and enjoying her relationship with her boyfriend Louis (who a...

Christie re-reads have been happening! I find them relaxing in between new books - gives my brain a rest of sorts, while still engaging me enough to be enjoyable. I'm no longer even pretending to follow any kind of order, I'm just reading to mood now :-) I'm almost at the halfway point now (27 read from a target 57), and overall, my feeling is that the books hold up very well as mysteries, somewhat well as entertainment, and are a very mixed bag in terms of cultural and social expectations and norms (some having some truly awful moments).  That said, I am feeling confirmed in my view that Christie is the Grande Dame of the Golden Age for a reason. Her vivid, clever and original plots jump off the page, and are just as twisty and fun in 2025 as they were in the 30s, 40s, 50s etc.  I am really enjoying the process, and the deep comfort it brings me to slide into old favourites when I'm tired, stressed, or otherwise over myself. It's also been great fun to discover som...

across the world bombs are falling fire is raining down in Persia, and who knows what ends will come of it the plain truth, now: no one ever knows or can know where war will lead, to what destruction to what crush of empires and of women and men  stories swallowed whole in the sunlight, only the bones spat out to grow dry in the unshielded sun falling into dark like the Incas did, and also the Picts like the Etruscans when Rome rose bloody and teeming like the Hittites, and the Phillistines like the great city of Carthage, tamped out as a candle flame razed and sown in salt  and here is our age: sliding towards disaster, run by billionaires and idiots and, here, tucked up against the tailbone of the earth fretting against civility, is a country that does not seem to know its fortune so far from bombs and battle and, still, fractious, chafing, and the sky looks heavy, today grey and gloom-soaked, with rain in its face and, here, the pigeons croon to the burdened light still, an...

This book could have been great, but was actually just kind of OK. I didn't hate it at all, but it was solidly meh for me. I think my reaction to it may be a function of me misunderstanding what it was going to be based on the premise. I thought it was going to do something potentially really interesting with the conceptualisation of octopus intelligence / sentience, but, spoiler alert , it does not. Marcellus the octopus, while certainly the most engaging of the three characters that share the POV (sadly, he has the least page time), is just an anthropomorphised smart guy in a tentacle suit, with really nothing alien or other about his mind at all. The plot itself was a protracted converging-stories farrago that has been done better (and in less pages!) by others. Set in the town of Sowell Bay, Washington, the action centres around the local aquarium, its staff, and their friends within the town. The arrival of a newcomer from California, ne'er-do-well Cameron Cassmore, leads ...

My secondborn daughter moved out of home to a rental flat yesterday - the first of my chicks to leave the nest. I have so many feelings about this, and, as always, poetry is my access point to emotion and reflection. This poem is an English Madrigal. Moving Day When you were small (which feels like yesterday) you used to curl against me as I read your green eyes soft with wonders in your head. The movers came and took your things away your room left blank, with just your bare-stripped bed. Once all we five lived here, til yesterday; now the page turns, to stories yet unread. The days will pass, and we will find our way and learn how, at remove, to hold the thread to draw from what's behind for what's ahead. Forever lit with stars, our yesterday: the greatest story my life ever read the lines in which I read the true godhead.

This book is enlightening and depressing, but also suffers from an excess of repetition, which contributes to it feeling over-long, and is less compelling in its conclusions that I think the author intended it to be. That said, I think it is an important text, and perhaps will become even more so in the coming years. Doctorow knows what he's talking about, and paints a compelling picture of why everything feels a little to a lot shittier than it used to do - the Internet, of course, but not just that, all the tech we use and have to use in all aspects of our lives.  He provides a forensically detailed and meticulous analysis of the stages of how all things with a tech component (which these days is many to most things) get worse as competition is degraded - first user interests are deprecated, then business customers are also victimised, and finally the only real winners in the game are the mega-middlemen that can, and do, monetise frantically at the expense of all of our privacy, ...