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.
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?
Five principles for embracing uncertainty.
Where to give all your precious fucks.
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subscribeOn Virtue Hoarders and The Other Side of Empathy
On The Language of the Night and The Real World of Technology
On The Tombs of Atuan
On Two Cheers for Anarchism
Reading is the art of attention.
by Catherine Liu
by Geoff Ryman
by Ursula K. Le Guin
by China Miéville
by Ursula K. Le Guin