Last night I finished book #18 from the “Women in Translation” rec list, which was Pink Slime by Fernanda Trias, translated from Spanish by Heather Cleary. Pink Slime is a dreamy nightmare of a novel set in the aftershocks of an ecological disaster as one woman struggles to hold onto her life.

Nothing is as it once was: society has been upended by the “red wind” that kills anyone caught in it; the narrator is divorced from the husband she first met in childhood; and she has left her job in journalism to work as a caretaker for a disabled young boy.

This is a reflective book; there is very little plot. It drifts between the narrator’s present, her memories of the past, and in some cases, a future-tense look at the next few minutes. She observes the ways the government tries to cover for the damage the red wind continues to do, and the way society continues to fracture. She continues to visit her ex-husband in the hospital, although his condition never changes. She continues to fight with her mother.

In some ways, Pink Slime is a story about someone trying to hold onto a life that is already gone. The narrator clings to the past, for obvious reasons—it was better than her present. And yet, nothing new can be made until she releases that hold.

The thing that will stick with me most about this book is the birds. In the narrator’s world, the birds have gone. Where, no one knows. It is a topic of frequent discussion among the townsfolk. Will the birds come back? It reminds of a line from a Florence + The Machine Song: “What if one day there’s no such thing as snow?” Ecological disaster brings with it a poignant grief. How do you explain birds to a child who’s never seen them but in picture books? What is lost for each of us when an animal or plant or phenomenon is destroyed?

I enjoyed the morose, grief-stricken mood of the book, but it does feel directionless at times in a way that’s not wholly captivating. I can’t say what I take away from it on the whole. I would be curious to read more from this author.

Yesterday, with hours to go until my library hold expired, with another hold not on the horizon before 3 weeks, I finished A Drop of Corruption, the second book in the In the Shadow of the Leviathan series by Robert Jackson Bennett.

Ana and Din are back with another grody and baffling murder. I think the consistency between the first book and the second is very good; if you liked one, you’ll like the other. Bennett maintains the same quality mystery narrative here, dropping believable misleads while feeding out enough information that when Ana makes her breakthrough realizations you can look back and see the path she took.

Bennett’s fantasy world is coming into its own as well. We pick up many months after the end of the last book, so Ana and Din have developed a stronger rapport and working relationship. We are fed more information about the world itself—with some outside perspective, as this book takes place entirely in the nation of Yarrow, which is essentially a satellite state of Khanum, pending full annexation once negotiations with Yarrow’s king complete.

I enjoy how the women are written in these books. Ana and our new, local connection, Malo, are wholly unmoored from concerns about what others think of them. Ana is brash, loud, demanding, and arrogant—except that she’s almost always right. She has a masterful understanding of her own capabilities and weaknesses and she’s not afraid to openly discuss either. She’s also crass, gluttonous, and does not have great personal hygiene habits. And yet, everyone simple handles it, because she’s so good at what she does. I feel it’s rare to see a female character like this.

When it comes to the other women in service to the empire, like Thelenai and the female members of Uhad’s crew from the last book, there is little distinction between them and their male colleagues. A number of fantasy stories have posited that their worlds are gender-equal, but many fall utterly short of showing that beyond having women around. In Bennett’s world, in Khanum, I believe it, in part because the women lack the self-consciousness that comes of being raised in a sexist society.

However, this book is politically confused. It is obvious, even before the author’s note, that Bennett thinks very little of monarchy, and its destructive power is hammered over and over throughout the book. In that closing author’s note, Bennett is highly critical both of real-world leaders behaving like kings, and the glorification of monarchy in fantasy literature. However, the glaring hole in this, to me, is that no commentary is made on the empire. Ana and Din hail from what is nothing more than an elevated monarchy—one where their centuries-old emperor has chosen to extend his power well beyond his initial borders. Now, it makes perfect sense that Ana and Din believe in the good of Khanum. They serve it, they are members of its government. However, Khanum’s pending annexation of Yarrow is posited as almost universally a good thing for Yarrow—indeed, the only character we see strongly opposed to it is easily the most loathsome character in the book. There is criticism also of Yarrow’s practice of slavery, but when Din protests that a potential Khanum retreat from the annexation would leave the slaves of Yarrow to their fate, Ana warns him it is not Khanum’s place to legislate the morality of other places. And yet, over and over and over again for all of human history, empires have believed it was their place to do just that—and violently (Hello, White Man’s Burden).

Perhaps these inconsistencies would be less sharp if we understood more about Khanum and its role in the world. In A Drop of Corruption, we are told the empire no longer conquers with strength of arms—ergo the protracted negotiations with Yarrow. However, that means it did, and even in the last book we saw how the empire treats its cantons, with the utter destruction of Oypat accepted as a reasonable price to maintain the wealth of various noble families. Even if the emperor is only a figurehead, we know that Khanum is tightly bound by the whims and desires of its nobility. It was baffling to me why this is never raised in the political discussions of Yarrow and the annexation.

Moving on, we get new backstory on both Ana and Din here, which bulks their characters out (although Din’s apparent lifelong yearning to join the Legion feels a bit out of left field) and leaves us in a very interesting place for the third book. Ana continues to be a vicious delight and without spoilers, we are finally learning what makes her so unique.

I also had to appreciate the importance the narrative places on civil servants. One of Din’s gripes about life in the Iudex is, essentially, that it is unglamorous and frequently bureaucratic. Yet the narrative champions those who do the day-to-day drudgery of running a country, frequently for no thanks. It takes the garbage men and the post office workers and the teachers and the Social Security Administration clerks to run things, and A Drop of Corruption says these people are important, and the work they do is important, even if it is rarely recognized.

Bennett has hit his stride with this series and I’m curious to see where it goes next.

The other book I finished during my voyage through the southwest was How to Love Your Daughter by Hila Blum, translated from Hebrew by Daniella Zamir. This was book [checks notes] #17 from the “Women in Translation” rec list. It’s about an estranged mother and daughter; as the mother peers through the windows of her adult daughter’s house from across the street, she ponders what went wrong in their formerly loving relationship.

How to Love Your Daughter is a cerebral kind of novel that swims back and forth between Yoella’s present, desperately reaching after the daughter who’s walked out of her life, and Yoella’s recollections of raising Leah.

The twists and turns of their relationship are subtle, almost too subtle. Both characters come off slightly neurotic, fussing about every minor interaction and seeming, to me, to invent problems where none really existed. In the end, it’s not so much a long-deteriorating relationship, which is what I expected, as it is Yoella making one decision that forever alters Leah’s perception of her.

“No one warned me my love could destroy her,” Yoella says about Leah at one point and that’s the core of it. Yoella adores her daughter, almost beyond reason. And it’s that very willingness to put Leah above everyone and everything else that eventually pushes Leah away from her, which is such a perfect tragedy.

I saw another review that said this book was both too long and too short, and I think there’s some truth to that. There are drawn out middle sections which don’t necessarily add much, but the ultimate break and subsequent efforts at reconciliation by Yoella don’t get as much room to breathe as might have benefitted them.

However, the ending is an exquisite microcosm of the tension of the whole novel, leaving you wondering about unreliable narrators and perceptions. Some people felt that Yoella gets off too easy—I would recommend rereading the section where Leah talks to Yoella about her reality/fantasy of Dennis writing her a letter.

I don’t know that either Yoella or Leah comes off as really sympathetic here, but they do come off very human, full of flaws and self-justifications and irrational reactions. And maybe sometimes it’s just human nature to create a tragedy where there didn’t have to be one.

It seems timely to read about America’s past experience with unjust detention of people based on perceived threats to national security, so last night I finished Together in Manzanar by Tracy Slater, a true story about one of the families in a Japanese internment camp during WWII. The situation of the Yonedas was somewhat unusual as they were a mixed-race family—Karl Yoneda was a Japanese-American citizen and his wife Elaine was white and Jewish.

The Yonedas make for a very interesting case study in what happened in the camps because a) their mixed-race family status (including their 3-year-old son, Tommy) made it clear how little the American military had really thought about this plan, given how thrown-off they were by the mere existence of mixed-raced families; and b) Karl and Elaine had been vocal social activists well before they were imprisoned in the Manzanar camp, speaking up for labor rights, racial justice, and participating in Communist advocacy. They had the language, tools, and knowledge to speak up and speak out, and they did.

Slater has done her research and provides a thorough list of sources at the end of the book, which include interviews with the Yonedas’ grandchildren as well as their own diaries and news clippings.

Together in Manzanar provides an in-depth look at the politics within the Japanese-American community at this time, both leading up to the camps and within. It ably tackles the question of “Why did they go? Why wasn’t there resistance?” (There was.) For the Yonedas in particular, the importance of an Axis defeat was difficult to overstate: as horror stories of German atrocities in Europe began to trickle out, they knew that a German or Japanese take-over of the United States would almost undoubtedly lead to Elaine and their son Tommy going into a death camp.

It provides a three-dimensional look at the discussions on the ground at the time, as well as following up with details from interviews Karl and Elaine gave many years later reflecting back on their statements and advocacy at the time.

I wasn’t a huge fan of the writing style, but this is one of those books you read for content, not style. It jumps around from perspectives in a way that’s occasionally confusing, but I also appreciated getting some more background information on some of those in the camp who opposed the Yonedas’ view on cooperating with the US government. Slater does a good job showing how each person highlighted got to their perspective and why the tension both within the camps and in the world generally at the time put everyone so on edge.

The book is also helpful for reminding us of the names of the hateful racists (architect Karl Bendetsen) who propagated this plan and then later tried to lie about why it was implemented or how bad it was. It’s also a useful reminder that when these people were released, they didn’t get to just waltz back into the lives they had been living before being imprisoned. Many of them were forcibly resettled further into the US, away from the coastal cities where they had lived, and forced to restart their lives from scratch, away from their communities and businesses.

It just seemed like a particularly relevant time to remember this.

Wrapped up yet another horror novel last night, Gretchen Felker-Martin’s Cuckoo. This book is about a group of kids in 1995 who are sent to a conversion camp, experience The Horrors, and then reunite many years later to have another crack at taking The Horrors down.

First, I have to say the decision to set a horror novel in a conversion camp is kind of galaxy-brained, because it is a place that by design is traumatizing and horrifying. This book will make your skin crawl and your eyes tear up well before the monster enters the scene. There are seven protagonists and they come from all walks of life—gay kids, trans kids, kids from Christian families, kids from Jewish families, white kids, Asian kids, Latino kids, fat kids, mentally ill kids—but they all come from families who were willing to stuff them, sobbing and kicking and begging, into the back of a van and ship them off with a bunch of strangers to be “cured.”

And then there’s the monsters.

Generally I’m not a fan of “body snatcher” kind of horror stories, in the same way I’m not a fan of conspiracy theory stories, but I think it largely works here, because this is what the families want isn’t it? For their problem child to go away for a while and come back a new person, without all those icky traits mom and dad didn’t want. For the teens, watching the queer kids around them succumb to “curing” would feel like a kind of body-snatching—who are you and what have you done with the queer person I knew?

The book is also very gross, and I mean that not pejoratively, but factually. If you have a low tolerance for grossness, this one may not be for you. The monster and its ilk are nasty galore (see minor complaint below) and Felker-Martin does not pull punches about the grossness of human existence, particularly as an angry, horny, repressed teenager in a desperate situation. The characters here puke, piss, make out in public bathrooms, masturbate amidst their sleeping peers, eat pussy during menstruation, and are generally grody in the way teenagers are grody. I think grounding the book in these bodily realities works well given the nature of the horror, which is incredibly personal and physical.

I liked the teens themselves and I felt like they represented a decent spread of attitudes and behaviors from people in circumstances both similar and diverse. They exhibit many of the kinds of irritating and off-putting behaviors you’d expect from a group of young people who’ve already learned they must hide their true selves or be punished for it.

There were a couple of things that didn’t totally land for me though. First, I think the descriptions of the monster(s) are overdone sometimes. Not because it grossed me out too much but because yes okay, we get it, the thing is nasty, it’s ugly, it smells bad, it’s inchoate; can we move on? Also, I never felt like I had a real idea of what the thing(s) looked like, despite all the descriptions.

Second, the book jacket description makes it sound like the majority of the book will be the teens as adults, returning to the horrors they faced when they were young, but two thirds or more of the book is the actual events of the conversion camp. It makes the final third in their adulthood feel somewhat rushed.

However, on the whole, I liked this book and I’d be open to reading more from Felker-Martin. There are so many moments here where you want to hug these kids and take them somewhere safe, and I enjoyed the book’s balance of the power of love with the grim reality of the cost of life.

Wednesday night I plowed through most of The Unworthy by Augustina Baztericca, translated from Spanish by Sarah Moses. This is a horror novel about a woman living in an isolated cult after climate change has ravaged most of the planet.

This was one of those books that had me going “okay just one more section and I’ll put it down” and then it was five sections later and I was still there. It just hooked me. I wanted to know more about the cult, I wanted to know more about the narrator’s past, I was so eager to see what was going to come next.

This book goes heavy on gore, mutilation, and cult abuse, so if those are not for you, you may want to give this one a pass. I found it fascinating; the world of the narrator is so grim and tightly controlled, but it’s all that’s left (as far as they know). The book also leans hard on things unspoken: things the narrator knows are so taboo she crosses them out of her own (secret) writings (such as when she wonders if maybe the earth has begun to heal); things she has forcefully blocked from her memory because they hurt so much to think of; the deep current of attraction she feels towards various other women in the cult which is easier to express through violence than sexuality.

In the claustrophobic world of the cult, it becomes so easy for the leadership to pit the women against each other, and they have grown shockingly cruel and violent towards one another in their quest for dominance (each of the “unworthy” dreams of ascending to the holier status of a “Chosen” or “Enlightened”). With virtually no control over their day-to-day, they fantasize about opportunities to punish each other, their only ability to enact their will on the world.

The hints from the beginning that the narrator questions her role in the cult create a delicious tension in the work. Her mere act of writing her experiences down is a violation of cult rules and she frequently keeps her journal pages bound to her chest under her clothes so no one will find them.

The translation was excellent, the writing flows well and Moses captures the descriptions and the narrator’s backtracking on her wording without anything becoming awkward.

The book isn’t long, but I was riveted, and I would like to read more of Baztericca’s work in the future. This was also the second Argentinian horror novel that surprised me with queerness, so another win for Argentinian horror.

On Sunday I finished The Tainted Cup, the first book in the Shadow of the Leviathan series by Robert Jackson Bennett. This is a fantasy murder mystery with an element of political thriller.

The main character is Ana Dolabra, an eccentric but brilliant investigator, and I believe this is the first time I’ve ever seen a woman fill this role. The wacky but effective investigator is of course a very well-known stock character, but has always been, in my experience, a man. I found Ana delightful; strange but not off-putting, and without coming off like the author was working to hard to make her quirky.

However, our point-of-view protagonist is Din Kol, Ana’s put-upon assistant, on whose shoulders falls the managing of her many idiosyncrasies. They’re a fun team to watch work, and in this first book we get to see their working relationship unfold, as they’ve only recently teamed up at the start. Din is fine, but mostly I appreciated him as a lens for Ana.

Bennett’s fantasy world is characterized by fantastical use and manipulation of plants and the human body. Din, for instance, has been modified to be an “engraver”—someone with an eidetic memory. For obvious reasons, this serves him well as aid to an investigator.

I think Bennett does a good job of throwing you into the world and letting you use context to figure most of it out. I get bored with SFF novels that feel the need to hold your hand, as if you might be a first-time SFF reader who never encountered a magic system before, so I was relieved when Bennett just started telling the story and letting me figure the world out as it went along. I’d rather be a bit lost at times than be toddled along, but I never felt lost here.

The novel touches on some things that I feel are pretty keenly relevant, like the ability of the wealthy to avoid justice and their willingness to inflict suffering on the rest of society to better their own position (and then justify it to themselves).

I don’t read a ton of murder mysteries, so I may not be the best judge of this, but I also felt that Ana worked well. It’s a tough trick writing a character who’s meant to be much smarter than the rest of the cast (perhaps even than the author!), and it can fail a couple of ways: the supposed “brilliant” deductions are obvious to the average reader, making the rest of the cast look painfully dull for not seeing them; or the machinations are so obtuse with so little evidence the reader simply won’t believe the detective could have figured that out without an ass-pull from the author. I didn’t think Bennett fell into either of these traps and every detail Ana referred to in one of her deductions was something that had been mentioned before.

I only have one real criticism and that is about how unrealistic the sword fight scene was. I simply don't think it was necessary to showcase what the Bennett was trying to show us about Din, and <spoiler>having an untried swordsman defeat three--almost four--trained imperial soldiers on his own (partially because they do him the courtesy of attacking one at a time)</spoiler> was so unrealistic it jarred me right out of the scene. As Milgen points out later in the book--fighting is not just about memorizing the right moves.

I enjoyed this book and I plan to read the next one. Very interested to see where Ana’s adventures take her next!