Perhaps my favorite novel in recent years. Part noir, part old-school Bond thriller, part apocalyptic science fiction tale, and completely magnificent. The only thing better than the masterful storytelling is the equally skilled language, with sentences so lovely the book practically begs to be read aloud. (It took serious willpower not to underline every damn word.) Currently reading it for the second (and not the last) time.
A book takes place in time, not just in space. It is not information, but relation.
It is right that the murder of many people be mourned and lamented.
Even the best weapon is an unhappy tool.
What do they do, the singers, tale-writers, dancers, painters, shapers, makers?
Where to give all your precious fucks.
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