I dug up my old copy of this book at my Father's house where it has been moldering in the basement for the last 20 years. Out of curiosity, I brought it back with me to Holland because I had the notion that I remembered it.

Funny how *well* I remembered it. As I turned the pages, I could clearly remember what I was reading and had a sense of what was coming next. Rifkind is a loner in a tribe of loners-- outcast from her desert tribe, she turns to her goddess to help her find her destiny.

I'm not sure how well it holds up over time (my real review is something more like 3.5 stars) but there was a fair amount to hold an adult's interest, just like there was enough to hold that of a teenager. Some of the aspects feel visionary in light of the fiction that came after this book and other simply fall flat.

Worth reading if you can find it.

Hobb really knows how to hit my sweet spot for escapist fantasy. I've been consistently impressed with her Six Duchies novels and I find myself seeking her books out more aggressively than other writers. I meant to take my time over this one, but I read it compulsively-- staying awake long past the point where I should have in order to finish it.

I *roundly* dislike emotional manipulation in novels, but I'm happy to let my tears be jerked by these books. They play *shamelessly* on poor liddle animal sentiment and somehow it doesn't bother me. They're interesting, mysterious, sad, and compelling-- nearly perfect escapist fantasy.

This new series begins with FitzChivalry being forced to take a renewed role in the affairs of the Six Duchies. Not only is there a new threat, there's also the need to face up to his responsibilities and begin to heal from his self-imposed isolation.

Great stuff!

I liked the main characters and I really did want to like the book as well, but I found the plotting choppy and uneven with skips and jumps all over the place. I kept having to back track to see who was who and what was going on-- too much effort for what's supposed to be cozy diversion and no other redeeming value to make it worth the time.

Too bad.

Wells is one of the freshest and most talented fantasy writers working today, and I enjoyed _Wheel of the Infinite_ immensely. The City is loosely based on Angor Wat and you'll catch whispers of Asian and Southeast Asian mythology throughout the book.

Maskelle is a refreshing character in the fantasy genre-- an assertive older woman who's come into power and knows her own mind. The other characters are equally well-fleshed out with many deft and light touches that keep the tone from getting too dark.

I wasn't completely willing to buy the ending-- a little bit too much Deus ex Machina, and that weakened the book for me a bit. But still, it was a more than servicable read and a commendable stand-alone fantasy novel.

Interesting about the mixed results that Sarton achieved when she began this journal, which was intended as a journal of happiness and a kind of counterweight to her book A Journal of a Solitude which was clearly, well, *not* about happiness.

I can see why some people find it irritating to read, although I never do. She contradicts herself frequently-- complains of how she never gets time to herself and then runs around the Eastern seaboard like a bandersnatch. She's often pray to muddled thinking and faulty logic and sounds as though she'd be a real pain to be around much of the time.

But still, it's inspirational to read as someone who wants to keep a journal. It's not a constantly ecstatic experience in the way that Annie Dillard can be or an idea journal in the vein of Walden, it's more like reading somebody fumbling through towards bigger ideas and willing to expose the joints and creaky bits in the process. There are moments of vision and transcendence, but also a lot of the petty crap that gets people down from day to day.

I like reading Sarton because she is so human. I feel like I miss her even though I never knew her, and reading her is like getting to know her-- in all her fulness as a flawed and talented human being.

I'd probably begin with A Journal of a Solitude, as I think it's the more complete work, but I wouldn't hesitate to recommend this as a follow-up.

Someone said elsewhere that this felt like an exercise for Wolfe, and I know what they mean-- using a Memento-like plot (a main character who loses his memory at the end of every day) Wolfe sketches the world of ancient Greece through the eyes of a soldier named Latro.

The details are compelling-- I was uninterested in the real historical value (people shouldn't be trying to derive history lessons from fantasy novels anyhow) but Wolfe does a good job, as usual, of creating a realistic and detailed world for Latro to move in.

The plot is somewhat less compelling. It is nearly a necessity of the trope that he chose that the plot should get confusing (particularly in times when Latro couldn't write his journal) and I'm sad to say that I often didn't feel any kind of guiding line that was coherent enough to motivate me through the confusion.

Interesting for Wolfe completists or real fans of historical fiction, not a place to begin with his work otherwise.

The potential reader should have already gathered from the other reviews that this is not the book for you if you want some feel-good escapist fiction.

In case you haven't, let me repeat the point. _Starfish_ is a lot of things, but uplifting isn't one of them. It's a disturbing realistic look that plays on the notion of what we reap when we create survivors. Someone said here that the book features a world where criminals are sent to the bottom of the sea to work-- but the criminality of the people is incidental. The conceit of the book is that all of these people are survivors of horrific abuse, and as such have developed the ability to live in environments that are less than nurturing. In the end, that ability to survive is exactly what works against the government that can no longer control its project.

What's good about the book?
The diction is crisp and the writing style is clean and biting. The characters and politics underwater are well-formed and believable. It avoids unnecessary drama while still keeping the reader's interest.

Whý not five stars, then?
The plotting (particularly around Behemoth) feels a little bit like a first novel. I was much less interested in the Great Threat To Humanity than I was in the lesser issues. I'd also argue that it is hard to keep unrelenting bleakness from feeling a bit flat at times-- a little bit of sweetness by way of contrast now and again would have gone a long way.

Despite any reservations, I'll definitely read the next book in the series & will look forward to doing so.

I wanted to write that it was my *first* Simak novel, but on reflection I don't think that's true. I believe that _Project Pope_ was my first, but this has been over the years unarguably my favorite, and that from one of my favorite Science Fiction writers.

Simak's books are gentle and philosophical, and perhaps a little bit dated by today's lights. If someone today were writing about an intergalactic union, they'd probably delve into the politics more deeply and bring complex shadings to bear on the characters and explain much more about how things got to be the way that they are in the book.

Simak does none of that-- I find it a virtue of his that while he acknowledges that shadings exist (particularly when it comes to evil, which he usually portrays as misguided bumbling) he at the same time asserts that there is good in the world and that the good can be found.

Enoch Wallace, the keeper of the Way Station, is a simple man. The politics of his situation are largely beyond him and though he tries to grasp all the intricacies of alien culture, he does not and is stopped by the gaps in his own learning. He acts and wonders at all the strangeness in the world and makes mistakes too. Like most of Simak's characters, he's a marvel of basic humanity, a tribute to the strength of the everyman.

This was one of the books that first got me reading science fiction. I can still remember my vivid imaginings when I read his descriptions of the alien gadgets and worlds. And I'm delighted to report that on re-reading it holds up very well indeed.

_Victory_ is the first Conrad that I've read since reading _Heart of Darkness_ and _The Secret Sharer_ in high school and I was unsure what to expect before I picked up the book. In any case, I didn't expect it to be what it was-- so contemplative and so concerned with the rather abstract notions of isolation and the ability to act.

This shouldn't make the book sound unreadable or slow, because it isn't. There's an adventure story that wraps the whole thing up: A recluse on a deserted island breaks his solitude and rescues a girl from a life with a semi-shady gang. This act of kindness starts a chain of events that brings violence and change to his lonely island.

The story moves things along nicely, and you can read for the plot even if you're uninterested in the bigger issues the book raises. I found that I was interested in them. Heyst (the main character) has been infected by his father's skepticism and analytical view and never manages to find a way after that to engage with the world or other people in it. His few attempts at engagement are awkward and almost unwilling. Conrad uses a great line to describe his approach to other people's emotion:

"Consummate politeness is not the right tonic for an emotional collapse."

Everybody in the book is to some degree isolated. Wang removes himself from Chinese society to go native. Mrs. Schomberg is locked behind her mask of fear. Mr. Jones and Ricardo are set apart because of the Gentleman's obsessive fear of women. Alma/Magdalena/Lena is set apart by her past. Everybody is trying to connect, but (with the exception of Lena) always on their own terms and always within limits.

It's tempting to read Conrad's own background and separations into the mix, but I'll leave that to the Conrad scholars.

Worth reading & worth thinking about once you've read it.

An enjoyable book-- it's well-written and apparently well-researched, if occasionally a little snarky in tone.

Robb has a rare talent (Mitford-esque, if I dare say so) for injecting his point of view in a way that is visible but not overly intrusive. I was glad to have him as a narrative presence throughout the book.

I haven't thought about Rimbaud in years. I read _A Season in Hell_ as a high school student, as you do, but wasn't converted. I never really made a serious effort to engage his poetry or his life. I was motivated to pick this book up after reading a review, and I can say that I'm glad I did.

What interested me in reading the biography is how much Rimbaud myth I'd unintentionally absorbed over the years. As I was reading I naturally picked out the little bits I thought I knew and nearly all of them fell under the category of the creative myth-making around him that Robb discusses in the book. He spends a lot of time on the subject of the Rimbaud myth and unwraps the layers for the reader, and the truth was actually a lot more interesting than the fiction in the end.

The book inspired me to go back to A Season in Hell and maybe pick up the collected letters. Rimbaud becomes a great deal more interesting if you look at his entire career and not just the period before he turned 19.

Generally: A good read & worth the time.