“We live in a world where deliberately dimming the fucking sun might be less risky than not doing it.”
This concise and cogent book offers clear and accessible guidance on what it means to do tech work in the public sector.
Robinson writes science fiction that aspires to be a New Yorker essay. This is not entirely bad.
I am rather enamored with this book from Verlyn Klinkenborg, which presumes that most writing instruction is bullshit.
The titles of the two parts of this selected edition of Le Guin’s stories are Where on Earth and Outer Space, Inner Lands—Le Guin leaves it to the reader to decide which of these is real and which unreal.
First published in 1973, this pamphlet outlines the ways in which the medical establishment created generations of women ignorant of the workings of their bodies and disempowered from their own care.
“Bro!” begins Headley’s delightful new translation of Beowulf, and from there unravels a tale of heroism and machismo and masculinity that honors the origins of the epic poem while also carrying it forward.
As he travels to Olondria to sell the family harvest, Jevick meets a young woman on the verge of death.
Mahit Dzmare is abruptly ordered to report for duty as the new ambassador to the Teixcalaan empire—with no word as to what might have happened to her predecessor.
When young Jonathan Strange sets it upon himself to become a magician, he ends up as Mr. Norrell’s only pupil—but it’s a dry sort of magic Norrell preaches, absent any of the mystery or terror of the old days.
Kate Manne’s core premise is this: sexism is a set of beliefs that positions women as inferior to men, while misogyny is the system that enforces and polices women’s subordination.
Cass Neary needs to get home, but a string of suspicious deaths has accumulated behind her, and she isn’t sure where is safe.
“I was in a house with many rooms. The sea sweeps through the house. Sometimes it swept over me, but always I was saved.”
“Staying with the trouble does not require such a relationship to times called the future,” declares Donna Haraway in the opening paragraph of this astonishing book.
Among the core premises of this provocative and deeply humane book is this: disability is in part a product of the intersection of a body and the built world, where the latter often presumes there is only one way a body can be.
In 1934, Richard Byrd—famous for a previous expedition to the Antarctic—decided to over winter on the ice near the South Pole, alone.
The titular essay in this collection concerns the flight of swifts: twice a day, at twilight, they fly high up into the sky, a movement Macdonald describes as both a devotion and a kind of planning.
Objects are disappearing: not the things themselves, although that is soon to follow, but the memory of them, the recognition and understanding of what they are and have been.
In this sequel to the completely badass Gideon the Ninth, Harrow has become an immortal lyctor by consuming Gideon’s soul. Or has she?
Arriving on a distant planet in search of a sister ship that has disappeared, the crew of The Invincible discover a new form of life: tiny, autonomous robots that seem to have evolved into expert killing machines.