Adrian Tchaikovsky continues his prolific streak— it feels like every six months there’s something new from him. This time, it’s The Hungry Gods, set in yet another post-apocalyptic world filled with talking animals and birds.
Was it as good as Shroud? For me, the answer is no. But with Tchaikovsky, there’s always something fresh to latch onto—some concept, twist, or creature that keeps the reading experience worthwhile. Still, I can’t help but feel like he’s becoming a sort of story factory. I’m not sure that’s what we want from the author of Children of Time, a book that still feels singular and grand.
In between, he released Bee Speaker (June, I think), which I skipped because I haven’t even finished Dogs of War, the first book in that series. There’s also another title due later this year in the Tyrant Philosophers series—Lives of Bitter Rain. The man doesn’t rest.
Jo Nesbø has a new thriller coming soon- Wolf Hour. His last couple of books didn’t quite land for me, but still—there’s something exciting about seeing your favorite writers still pushing, trying to make each year just a little more bearable with new stories.
I’ve also returned to Death’s End, the final volume of Liu Cixin’s Remembrance of Earth’s Past trilogy—easily one of the most ambitious and thrilling modern sci-fi series. It’s hardcore stuff. I’d never quite gotten around to finishing it; the book’s a monster in size and scope.
In one storyline, Earth prepares to strike the Trisolarans with a weapon that will take centuries to reach its target. The only suitable payload? A brain, cryogenically preserved. To get one, the authorities pull strings, pass a new euthanasia law, and find a volunteer—ironically, a man who was in love with the lead scientist. She now regrets what she’s done and volunteers to freeze herself as well, hoping to be there if and when the Trisolarans regenerate his body. But fate had other plans.
Cixin writes like a machine—utterly devoid of sentiment when it comes to his characters. Critics often accuse him of crafting cardboard figures, but moments like these reveal otherwise. In these rare narrative detours, the cold grandeur of the cosmos is pierced by unexpected, fragile humanity.
Meanwhile, I’ve finished the third volume of Proust and have moved on to the infamous Sodom and Gomorrah. So far, to me, it feels like the weakest entry in the series—and honestly, I don’t see what the controversy was all about.
But one thing is undeniable: the immersive detail Proust brings to every corner of his world. It’s addictive, especially for a writer. Yes, some of it may feel dated now, but Karl Ove Knausgård used this very technique to great effect in his own books—and I can’t recall anyone else who attempted it with the same commitment before him.
According to Edmund White’s biography, Proust borrowed this observational intensity from John Ruskin. I think I’ll have to give Ruskin a try sometime soon.