thevampiremars's reviews
200 reviews

Memoir or novel? It seems to be semi-autobiographical. Tracy is a self-insert (or maybe the opposite of a self-insert; a device to remove oneself from the narrative). The author avoids difficult introspection. She tries to be raw and honest but from a safe distance and with the defence of this being a work of fiction. Not that novels can’t be raw and honest, but this particular book has detachment baked in.

What makes this particularly frustrating is the spotlighting of art; artworks presented and deconstructed, songwriting demonstrated with the intention behind lyrics explained. It sets the reader up to analyse and interpret this novel. But I really don’t know what to make of it. Maybe that detachment I mentioned is entirely intentional on the author’s part; Tracy drifts aimlessly until she finds an inspiring grownup to imprint upon, she goes along with what they want, then there’s a timeskip and she’s out, she’s making music, she’s having lots of sex, but none of it feels real (maybe because she’s not real, she’s a fictional version of something real), and this could be a meta commentary on the nature of autobiography and storytelling more broadly, with direct comparison drawn with the dissociation that so many trans people experience as they reflect upon their lives and transitions, as well as the disruption brought on by trauma. Or maybe not. Was it the author’s intention to make me think about intention? Or am I trying to project meaning onto something that is ultimately shallow and only gesturing at depth and substance?

I really did want to like this book but every time I thought it might be doing something interesting, something annoying would happen (eg: everyone clapped). I’ve been left with lots of questions that I don’t feel compelled to seek answers for. It is what it is.

I really liked the first short story in this collection, titled “The Repairer of Reputations”. It’s a surprising mix of sci-fi, fantasy, and weird fiction, with evocative imagery made dubious by the unreliable narrator. It’s infused with dark humour, and these tumbling contradictions and twisted truths make for some good political satire, for example the decriminalisation of suicide being seized upon by the government, warped from a declaration of bodily autonomy into a warrant to execute those deemed undesirable. I would gladly read a novella or novel following this story’s protagonist, Hildred, and his delusional perception of the world. Good prose.

Unfortunately, the rest of this book doesn’t meet the expectations set by that first story. There are a few fairly run-of-the-mill gothic tales; decent, but nothing spectacular. The last two or three stories abandon the supernatural elements altogether, instead detailing the romantic exploits of some American artists in Paris. I have to admit I skimmed those (they were quite boring). They feel very out of place and weaken the collection as a whole. 

Sci-fi fairytales. Whimsical and absurd. Refreshing after being bogged down by Dune.

These stories were taken from a collection called Mortal Engines. I want to read that full collection at some point.

I struggled with this book. The narrative meanders a lot as various factions try to assert their influence. I found their scheming too abstract; it was unclear what any of these factions wanted or planned to do. Mysterious machinations are fine if anchored by compelling characters, ideally a single compelling protagonist who propels the plot forwards in such a way that the factions are forced to respond. Maybe that’s the point? Humanity is on the Golden Path but has no Tyrant to guide them now. Maybe the lack of momentum is a deliberate contrast to the narrative thrust implemented by Paul and Leto; their stories are over and this is the aftermath.

Authoritarian structures are collapsing, or at least being complicated. Where the adult-child dynamic was used to exemplify authoritarianism in the previous book, here we have a child commanding priests (and worms) as well as a millennia-old adult mind in an adolescent body.

There’s a gear shift in the final quarter and it becomes overtly sexual, I think because the balance of power is shifting in favour of women (again, the complicated gender politics of the Dune franchise; a matriarchy informed by patriarchal ideas of what women are capable of). A new form of manipulation replaces the action and violence we’d seen previously. That said,

Rakis does get blown up at the end.

Heretics of Dune was supposed to be the start of a new trilogy, but only the first two books were written before Frank Herbert’s death. I will read Chapterhouse Dune but I doubt I’ll read Brian Herbert’s contributions to the franchise (I hear they’re not great). Like many readers, I feel obligated to finish the main series of six novels due to the sunk cost fallacy if nothing else. The fandom consensus that each subsequent Dune novel is weaker than the last is holding true.

I liked “The Love That Whirls” by Joe Koch and “Therianthrope” by Briar Ripley Page. I also enjoyed “Heliogabalus Fabulous” by Belle Tolls but that wasn’t a horror story in the slightest. Ironically it might be the collection’s best example of “Queer Saints” (as promised by the title of the book) – I had expected more religious/spiritual imagery. Christianity does inform this anthology, though; in the introduction the editor talks about being “a queer person who grew up in the repressive Bible Belt” which maybe explains why some of these stories felt a bit lacklustre to me personally – I don’t think vaguely sapphic witches are particularly shocking or revolutionary, but maybe they would be in Arkansas or whatever. idk... This book came out in 2022 but you wouldn’t know it.

Better than Tongues of Fire; more varied. The poems here are broken off and unresolved, lending them a ghostly and dreamlike quality. It can be a little frustrating sometimes, and I was left wanting more from some of these poems, but I suppose that’s the nature of dreams, isn’t it? I think it works well. It’s hard to pick out favourites because this broken-off format kind of weaves the poems together into a single disjointed work, but I was particularly fond of “Like a feather,” “Sleepwalk,” “Mistletoe,” and “Immram.”

Earthy. Consistent quality but samey. In the end, it started to get on my nerves. Maybe I would have liked the titular poem if I’d encountered it by itself, but its placement at the end of this anthology reduces it to yet another tree metaphor. Beautiful imagery loses its lustre eventually.

Everyone sucks and everyone deserves better.

Not quite a story, not quite a manifesto. But why am I trying to categorise it?

Middle class white man discovers direct action.