Asking the Wrong Questions

It's been a long time since I read a novel by Ian McEwan. Some combination of his dwindling reputation among readers in my general vicinity, and plot descriptions that I found unappetizing kept me away from an author who was once one of my gateways to literary fiction. What We Can Know , the 2025 novel through which I've chosen to become reacquainted with McEwan, is a potent reminder of the skill and artistry that once made him a must-read. It is also extremely strange. Its first half is one of the most exciting pieces of writing I've read in months, but the novel only works with its second half, which completely changes what it is and what it's about. The first half of What We Can Know is narrated by Tom, an academic in the early 22nd century. Tom's specialty is literature published between 1990 and 2030, a period known as The Derangement, when runaway technological innovation overshadowed looming climate catastrophe. In the novel's opening chapters, we follow...

Readers of this blog will know how much I admire the writing the of Aliya Whiteley, not least because of how varied it is. She has written fungal horror ( The Beauty ), satire ( Greensmith ), planetary romance ( Skyward Inn ) and much else. And even within those genres, her writing is often hard to pin down, taking strange and unexpected turns and refusing an easy summation. I reviewed Whiteley's latest novel, The Misheard World , in last month's issue of Locus, which also gave me an opportunity to tease out a common thread that is becoming apparent in much of her writing. It's common, in the genres of science fiction and fantasy, to say that a certain work is about the power of storytelling. Often what's meant by this is something rather misty-eyed: the power of stories to inspire, to give meaning, to imbue the world with magic and wonder. In a career that has spanned some ten novels and novellas in a range of genres and styles, Aliya Whiteley has returned often to th...

"The Barrow Wight" by Michael Herring, 1981 'No!' said Frodo; but he did not run away. His knees gave, and he fell on the ground. Nothing happened, and there was no sound. Trembling he looked up, in time to see a tall dark figure like a shadow against the stars. It leaned over him. He thought there were two eyes, very cold though lit with a pale light that seemed to come from some remote distance. Then a grip stronger and colder than iron seized him. The icy touch froze his bones, and he remembered no more. Having had their fill of songs, folksy rhymes, and the charms of Goldberry , the hobbits continue on their journey in this chapter. And basically instantly run into more mortal peril. This time, what should (again) have been a straight shot to the East Road instead finds them trapped by a barrow-wight, a creature who has infested one of the many burial mounds scattered across this part of the countryside, and who ropes them into its plans for ritualized murder. The...

[This review was published in the September 2025 issue of Locus. After some back and forth exchanges, I was informed that the editors of Locus's website had decided not to run the review online. I am reprinting it here, both for my own records, and because I think this is one of the most intriguing science fiction novels published last year, one that is worthy of more public discussion.] Looking out at the Tokyo skyline in an early scene in Rie Qudan's Sympathy Tower Tokyo , architect Sara Machina considers Zaha Hadid's iconic Olympic stadium, designed for the 2020 games. The expensive, controversial design, Sara tells us, was nearly abandoned and replaced by a more conventional structure. To Sara, however, the stadium feels inevitable: "only [Hadid's] stadium could supply Tokyo with the beauty it desperately needed. If it went unbuilt, the city would never be content. The stadium would be built because it had to be built; it would exist because it had to exist....

Tom Bombadil by Dan Wolff 'Good morning, merry friends!' cried Tom, opening the eastern window wide. A cool air flowed in; it had a rainy smell. 'Sun won't show her face much today, I'm thinking. I have been walking wide, leaping on the hill-tops, since the grey dawn began, nosing wind and weather, wet grass underfoot, wet sky above me. I wakened Goldberry singing under window; but nought wakes hobbit-folk in the early morning. In the night little folk wake up in the darkness, and sleep after light has come! Ring a ding dillo! Wake now, my merry friends! Forget the nightly noises! Ring a ding dillo del! derry del, my hearties! If you come soon you'll find breakfast on the table. If you come late you'll get grass and rain-water!' Fucking Tom Bombadil. Look, I try. Every time I reread The Lord of the Rings , I tell myself that I'll give "In the House of Tom Bombadil" a fair shake, and maybe this time I'll find myself appreciating it. Afte...

"Old Man Willow is Tamed" by Ted Nasmith At length they made up their minds to go on again. The path that had brought them to the hill reappeared on the northward side; but they had not followed it far before they became aware that it was bending steadily to the right. Soon it began to descend rapidly and they guessed that it must actually be heading towards the Withywindle valley: not at all the direction they wished to take. After some discussion they decided to leave this misleading path and strike northward; for although they had not been able to see it from the hill-top, the Road must lie that way, and it could not be many miles off. Also northward, and to the left of the path, the land seemed to be drier and more open, climbing up to the slopes where the trees were thinner, and pines and firs replaced the oaks and ashes and other strange and nameless trees of the denser wood. There's a gag that appears several times in Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels: a chara...