All my Antics, Mostly Reviews

Author: Chwiggy Page 1 of 5

Carl standing on a New York street corner with a corner store

Humanity is Beautiful

A Review of Hank Green’s An Absolutely Remarkable Thing

Cover of An Absolutely Remarkable Thing by Hank Green

It’s been a while since this book came out and I only started reading An Absolutely Remarkable Thing now. I had bought it right away on the first day when a copy was available in my local book store in Freiburg. I’ve moved since, but now that its sequel, A Beautifully Foolish Endeavor (- curse you American English spelling), I really had to give this one a go.

You might have gathered from this blog already if you were attentive to it, that I follow Hank Green’s work in more than his books. I’ve been a subscriber to his YouTube channel Vlogbrothers, he runs together with his brother John Green, for more than 7 years by now. And I derive a tremendous amount of enjoyment from his work and the work of his production company Complexly, so I would be lying if this enjoyment wouldn’t colour my views on this book, Hank Green’s debut novel.

My life over the past weeks has been wild. It has been a while since I finished this book, now that I come to writing this review. I’m heavily relying on my notes that I made while reading.

But let’s get to it without much further ado.

April May sleeping on the floor with Carl's Arm

An Absolutely Remarkable Thing is an interesting novel, exploring themes mostly around the concept of fame. It’s protagonist April is a young bisexual woman thrust into fame by the appearance of a mysterious robot or sculpture, that appeared in cities all around the world. Somewhere between social media, and cable news punditry, April takes on the task to advocate for the mysterious visitors all the while her personal relationships are thrown into turmoil by her fame, but also her inability to have honest and open conversations with her loved ones.

This book was the first book with open LGBTQIA+ representation since I read Ann Leckie’s The Raven Tower in January of this year (2020) and I was glad for it. While passages of this book, namely this sequences about closing closet doors on boobs, made it onto r/menwritingwomen, it nevertheless managed to write characters that made me as a woman with ADHD feel represented.

Hank Green has talked about the fact that he might have ADHD in the past here. And to me, April felt like an honest representation of a young adult with ADHD, even if other reviewers have noted that April just very much feels like an extension of Hank Green himself, which honestly is a fair description, even if I might add that living with ADHD and feeling like Hank Green aren’t exactly opposite ends of the scale, even if Hank Green had a huge amount of privilege in his life.

Carl the Robot standing with his left arm missing over a city-scape

The appearance of the Carls, as the robot statues are lovingly called, brings up the main conflict of this book around a line of xenophobia versus open-mindedness. This conflict gets addressed in a media war. While humanity collectively is tasked to solve puzzles that appear in synchronised dreams.

My biggest problems with the book I had were honestly the discomfort I experienced from confronting my own interpersonal relationship problems mirrored in how April deals with her girlfriend Maya, and the focus on fame and punditry. I just cared too little about the televised interactions between April May and Peter Petrawicki. The same is true for the veneration the fictional US President of this near-future sci-fi story receives. This is especially true considering the shenanigans of current US politics.

Nevertheless, this was a very quick and enjoyable read, even if I cringed at the inconsiderate behaviour of its protagonist all too often.


The abrupt limit of the city, grass to the right, and a lonely plane in the sky

This book is a joyously crafted and thrilling sci-fi story imbued with the media conflict of our own time. I would definitely recommend this book to anyone interested in young adult sci-fi stories that value good representation. Even if of course that representation isn’t flawless.

This book definitely isn’t flawless, but it has enough charm and enough will to try to be as good as it can be, that it remains enjoyable throughout despite some cringe-worthy moments, that are honestly as much about myself as they are about the book. I look forward to reading its sequel A Beautifully Foolish Endeavor soon.

My last book review was about the enthralling The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat by Oliver Sacks. My last review of a fiction book was about the wonderful Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi Up next is probably Heinrich Steinfest’s Gewitter über Pluto or East of Eden by John Steinbeck.

If you liked my review, you can, as always, support me on ko-fi. Or you can get prints, stickers and other items with some of my designs on redbubble, at

Sunset over river, in trans pride flag colours

Two Queer Stories

I wrote the following two short excerpts in the last week at the time of writing. I’ve rarely felt as much need to put down something essential about the queer experience as this.

The first part, Uselessly Queer, is my own attempt to describe a queer person, whom I find attractive without employing anything that felt to me like cishet male gaze.

The second part, Small Town Boy Inside, fights with the loneliness inherent to the queer experience and heavily leans on associations to Bronski Beat’s single Small Town Boy.

Uselessly Queer

She wasn’t particularly short, nor was she exceptionally tall. She was just of average height. Her hair was short, interrupted by streaks of blue. Her hair would have been gay enough to light gaydars on fire even without the glowing accents, but they seemed very fun to her. She liked her hair short, and she had kept it that way ever since she had left home for university.

Now, she was wearing a comfy hoodie and a black pair of shorts. It had been warm in the afternoon – hence the pants that only covered half of her thighs -, but as it was September already, the evenings started to cool down. Soon it would be too cold for her favourite pair of shorts. They were light and kind of baggy, and her absolute favourites even if they had without a doubt seen better days. She didn’t look forward to eventually replacing them, but unfortunately, that was an inevitability; the fabric was already running a bit thin.

Her hoodie was newer, but she had picked it for utility’s sake. She was wearing a white crew-neck t-shirt with black stripes and short sleeves, but it remained hidden underneath her hoodie now, as she was sitting on the banks of the river Neckar now.

She was discussing queer theory with her friends, in her left hand a cup that might have been filled with wine for any other university student, but in her cup, there was just juice. Her legs were unshaven, because who really cares. Her sneakers that once had been brilliant white were sitting off to the side of the picnic rug she was sitting on. Now that the sneakers’ soles were wearing thin, they exhibited their age with a curiously grey patina.

The short socks covering her small feet were grey and stained by the grass and goose shit around her. They had a small rainbow ornament near the hem. Had she been wearing her sneakers it would have barely stuck up above her shoes.

She was proud to be queer, and she liked to be visibly queer. She didn’t call herself a lesbian; being queer was enough in her head. Her gender was a puzzle to her. She liked to be called by traditionally femme pronouns, but she didn’t mind if you switched up which pronouns you used for them.

They looked out over the Neckar at the setting evening sun that was making the water look like a giant sheet of glass. Their eyes always seemed a bit dreamy. Someone once had compared them to Patrick Dempsey’s in Grey’s Anatomy, but as much as they liked to play with presenting butch, they didn’t like to be read as a man.

They weren’t wearing much makeup today, only the bright blue eyeliner, a friend had given to them for their birthday only a few days ago, and a bit of concealer and mascara. Sometimes they liked to go all out on makeup. Bold looks were fun, but tonight was a lazy evening with friends, that all were too lazy to hit the clubs that would have been waiting for them downtown.

They scratched their left knee. The healing wound  they had sustained in a stupid skateboarding accident was itching. They really should have worn those nifty knee guards, but they kinda were too cool for that. They frowned a bit. Their eyebrows were bold, had a small piercing on one side and a deliberate gap on the other.

Suddenly they slapped their slightly hairy forearm. “I hate those pesky bloodsuckers.” She left her hand on her forearm for a bit. It looked small and her fingers looked stubby. Her nails were kept shortish. Her black nail polish was starting to chip a bit, but this certainly wasn’t the worst she would let her nails come too.

She was sitting cross-legged on the rug. Her left hand was now resting on her ankle and with her right, she was taking a sip from her cup. She couldn’t imagine a nicer place to be tonight, and I couldn’t have imagined one either. 

Instead of jewellery, she was wearing cheap bracelets on her wrists. A few of them had come from music festivals she had been to, but one was a rainbow bracelet from her uni’s LGBTQIA+ association. 

One of her friends pushed a kiss onto her cheek, that had acquired a rosy glow from the evening cold that was drafting over the river. Now, the kiss left a slight lipstick mark. She didn’t care to remove it. She cherished having her queer friends and her girlfriend.

Small Town Boy Inside

There is a particular loneliness that comes with being queer. It might even be there while you’re amongst your closest of peers.

You leave in the morning. You go to work, you go to school, and deep down you know, you aren’t understood. 

Everything you own is in a little black case, and with it, are your thoughts. You know who you are, and yet you can’t leave.

Alone on a platform, the wind and the rain on a lonely face, you stare into the world, and it stares back, not like it knows you, more like it doesn’t, more like you are an “other”.

You know they are out there — the people who feel the same. You know, they write music and poems. You heard their songs, but your parents never understood what they meant to you, and neither did your friends, your peers. They know you from childhood, and yet they don’t understand.

You know they are out there, ready to be your friends, but now you’re just a sad and lonely face. You’ve been wearing a mask all your life, and the rain drips off. It will need stronger things than rain to wash this mask away.

Run away!
    Turn away!

That’s what you want to do: run away from those who never understood to those who’ll understand you, but where are they?

Not in this small town. Wouldn’t 20000 people be enough? But no! This loneliness is pernicious. The people, who came before you, have been driven away just like you. 

Run away!
    Turn away!

They were just as lonely, they stood on this platform just like you, waiting for the train to take them out of this small town.

You aren’t a boy, and yet this old song echos through your head.

Run away!
    Turn away!
    Run away!
    Turn away!

Sometimes, you wish you could hide, but you’ve tried hiding all your life. Even when you came out of the closet, you hid away. You dressed like them; you talked like them. You made your existence palatable. You hid your lonely face.

But you can’t anymore; you’ll have to live, you’ll have to leave. 

You were the one they’d talk about around town, as they put you down.

And again this song is in your head, pushing you to go on. Pushing you, yes, you know, there are people like you out there, but how to find them? They are not here; you’ll have to leave. You’ll find them, you are sure. You’ll find the people who accept you. You’ll find the people to whom you won’t have to justify your queerness, your existence.

It will be like they already know you. They’ll know your struggle before you’ll even talk to them. Because, just like you, they were searching for someone like you. 

It might not be easy to find them. They might not be safe where you are, but what can you do but try? A sad and lonely face still. You can do it! You can find them, and you’ll never have to run away.

They’ll already know you.

Closeup of an eye in greens and turqoises

From Excess to Transport

A Review of Oliver Sacks’ The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat

Cover of The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat by Oliver Sacks

I first read The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat around January 2016, more than 4 years ago. I, recently, had started listening to the backlog of the podcast Radiolab and had learned to love the voice and insight of neurologist and author Oliver Sacks. I read this book on my commute to university and back and loved the various case stories and how much they told me about my brain.

So when 2020 hit with its CoViD-19-related lockdowns, I first picked it for readings to dispel the quarantine boredom and loneliness. Its separate chapters lent themselves well to being read aloud in a voice call. And so, for a few weeks, I took an hour each evening to read one or two chapters of The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat. However, this didn’t continue indefinitely, and with the ongoing pandemic, demand and energy to continue these almost daily readings to my friends fizzled out.

This left me with around a quarter of the book unread. Only now, months later, I picked it up again to finish the last chapters on my own. I have to admit I forgot a lot of details about the first half of these accounts. But I remember it fondly, just like Sack’s other books I read, like On the Move, or Gratitude.

Now, I am in a very stressful time in my life. I’m working on my transition. I’m trying to cope with the fact, that I have ADHD which took more than 22 years to diagnose, and I’m dealing with the shit show that is higher education while being disabled and trans. All that is culminating at the moment, with me starting HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy) just last week, so please bear with me, if this is becoming a review a lot less extensive than usual.

A Mental Landscape, green hills, a giant calendar sticking up, weather symbols streaking across the sky, musical notes as trees

The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat has brought me a lot of joy and wonder in my world. I love the voice Oliver Sacks finds to tell the world about medicine and neurology, and I’m enthralled by the way he manages to lift up mere case studies int0 human stories with real connections.

I don’t have the experience to examine the influences on his case study writing, Sacks lists — among them Russian neuro-psychologist Alexander R. Luria — but I am content with appreciating this little blue paperback with its broad pages for what it is, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

drawing inspired by medieval illustrations in the manuscripts of Hildegard von Bingen

The only thing that mucked up the waters for me is my general discomfort around medical language, especially around cognitive disabilities. And while Oliver Sacks argues to view these disabilities not as mere lists of defects, but as part of a whole person with their own will, and thoughts, and ideas, I can’t separate that from the usage of words that are so intrinsically linked with medical and cognitive ableism.

First published in 1985, of course, this book carries the signs of its time, especially in the field of neurology and psychiatry, where changes in activism have moved a lot once immovable truths of life.

As a whole, this book just remains very enjoyable, informative and moving. And if you, like me, have an intense interest in how our brains work and interpret the world I could not recommend this book more highly, though you definitely have to be prepared to live with the medical ableism this book contains by virtue of its origins and time.

This book isn’t a systemic review or a case and argument for a certain method or clinical praxis, it is mostly just a view into the weird world of the brain. And so as it moves from the man who mistook his wife for a hat, to the autistic young adult who lights up at the chance to draw, you might catch the sense of wonder I did, even if that was again and again tarnished by the disregard for autonomy that is so inherent in mental health care.

Other books by Oliver Sacks I have reviewed so far:

My last book review was about the way less wonderous Prisoners of Geography by Tim Marshall. My last fiction review was about the wonderful Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi. Up next is Hank Green’s An Absolutely Remarkable Thing.

If you liked my review, you can, as always, support me on ko-fi. Or you can get prints, stickers and other items with some of my designs on redbubble, at

An Icebreaker moving through the edges of an iceshield

Where are the Maps?

A Review of Tim Marshall’s Prisoners of Geography

This book was infuriating. And I’m glad I bought it only for half price at London Heathrow Airport. A sticker on its front cover still reminds me of that with the somewhat cryptic Buy 1 get 1 Half Price. The subtitle of this book, Ten Maps that Tell You Everything You Need to Know About Global Politics, promised greatness and so the thought, of what I’ll have to write about its maps in this review saddens me before I’ve even started to put pen to paper.

I also wanted this review to be a bit different than usual. I’ve been feeling a bit stifled by the strict format of my reviews lately. Multiple sections and subheadings are probably helpful if you want to see if you’d like a book, but to me, they also seemed like an obstruction to improving my writing. I wanted to try more wandering approaches to writing. I wanted to explore my thoughts around a book and its topics more than to be a straight-up guide if you should buy a book or not. Of course, this isn’t going to mean, that I won’t give my recommendation, but I don’t think I want to break down my opinions into clear bullet points, I check off with every review, anymore.

Let us go back to that day in early 2019 at Heathrow waiting for my flight back home. I had held the German translation of this book in my hands many times when I was perusing the local bookstore in Freiburg. I had always been fascinated by its cover, the striking colours, the map, and well the title too. It promised a fascinating look into how geography, history and politics interacted, but in the end, I always opted to lay it back down, and pick another book or 10.

But there at Heathrow, I was in the mood for non-fiction, and since it was a “buy two, get one free”-type of deal, I picked this right after Yuval Noah Harari’s Sapiens. I don’t think, I had even flipped through its pages. Nevertheless, I had convinced myself that this book would make for a few interesting hours of map-nerdery. After all, at that time, I was studying History and Geography at the University of Freiburg. This should have been right up my alley.

Topological Map of Germany
This was never meant as more than a nerdy joke.

Prisoner of Geography ticks a few boxes for me. Its style is gripping and direct. Its knowledgeable tone reminded me of reading Henry Kissinger’s On China when I was about 14 years old. But the air of knowledge this book surrounds itself with is more of a veil. Behind it, there are a lot of easy explanations for complicated problems and unchecked biases.

A historian would probably call this book’s approach to history teleological and therefore flawed. When they say teleological, they mean nothing else than putting the cart before the horse, i.e. explaining history by its result. There are good arguments for why Tibet is strategically important for China. But were Tibet not de-facto part of China, many of the geographic arguments, especially around Tibet’s inaccessibility, could run the exact opposite way.

And that’s at least one of the aspects that make this book disappointing. It fails to question the authors and the reader’s assumptions. It tells you nothing that keeping up with the news couldn’t have told you. And its point about resource distribution and the value of natural borders isn’t exactly a new or groundbreaking idea. Nevertheless, the book promises to break the ground for you while it fails to question why empire, why war, or how a certain government comes to power even.

Especially in its chapters on China and the US, Prisoners of Geography fails to consider path-dependencies and interdependencies in government beyond the geopolitical and well manages an inexplicable weird leap in characterising Mexico/US-Relations as solely defined by a notion of the illicit drug trade that foregoes any examination of why things come to be illegal or not.

A bear head, in front of a floating map of russia

And I get it. This book devotes a chapter to one continent or giant country at a time. There’s not much room to bring out the nuances; as such Marshall’s arguments remain a description of what is, without the imagination to think through the consequences of that weirdly gripping argumentation.

Frankly, I didn’t expect groundbreaking arguments from this book. That’s not what it sets out to do. It sets out to illustrate the world of geopolitics with eye-opening maps. That’s what the book’s subtitle promises, and something I’m willing to indulge in a lot. I spent hours watching the short weekly show Le Dessous des Cartes on the Franco-German television channel Arte when I was a kid. It always was a delightfully interesting view into maps and politics, just detailed enough to fill a 10 min tv show. Prisoners of Geography, however, misses that mark by leagues.

The maps in this book are disappointing. They are bog-standard political maps in black and white. Bearing only hints at topography and one detail each, that genuinely fails to impress. Drawing arrows to illustrate the Greenland-Iceland-UK-gap is just not even close to mapmaking that could open eyes.

Marshall didn’t even integrate these bare-bones maps into the text. There is no reference to them in writing. And it seems like this book was written with the maps as an afterthought, preserving the possibility to read it on text-only e-readers without trouble.


Potala Palace underneath a blue sky with scattered clouds.

In the end, this book fails to impress me. While Marshall manages to find a style that’s gripping to read and authoritative at once, this book falls down on multiple levels of actual content. The promised maps are bland and next to useless, and the argumentation contains little more nuance than the writing of a foreign-policy hawk who sees a military threat in anything. At least to some degree, I wish this book had kept the old idiom in mind: “If all you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail”.

Would I recommend this book? I don’t think so. There are better ways to spend your time reading or learning about geopolitics. This book serves just enough information to satisfy those who agree with its political assumptions and don’t already know a lot about geography.

My last book review about the beautiful Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi. The Blue of Distance was my last non-fiction review, and up next is Oliver Sacks’ The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat.

If you liked my review, you can as always support me on ko-fi. Or you can get prints, stickers and other items with some of my designs on redbubble, at

a landscape and sunset, three trees in the foreground, 2 mountain ranges in the background

Two Strands

A Review of Yaa Gyasi’s Homegoing

Cover of Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi

When I picked up this book, I wasn’t aware of the journey this book would take me. Now almost two years later, now that I’ve read it from start to finish, I’m saddened I hadn’t picked this up earlier. I started reading Homegoing by Ghanaian-American author Yaa Gyasi, last month at the height of Black Lives Matter Protests against police brutality in the US and around the world. I couldn’t bear to use my usual random method to select books to read next from my to-be-read list, and so I deliberately picked a book by a woman of colour from my bookshelf.

Not that it should need an explicit occasion to do so, but sometimes it needs a jolt to recognise the privilege and exclusion that is prevalent in publishing. I’m aware that as a white reader, especially in Germany, I will encounter books predominantly written by white authors in any book shop I patronise. And it takes conscious effort to break simple habits and to seek out the voices of authors with less privilege.

That said, there’s no point in putting up with bad books. So this review will serve as a recommendation for an enthralling novel written by a woman of colour.

The Physical Book

a wooden stool

I own the 2016 Vintage paperback edition of this book, and it’s a very floppy book. Holding it out horizontally by its spine, the far edge of the book drops down to a 45°-angle. The cover is soft and somewhat coarse, and the same extends to the paper it’s printed on. The only high-gloss page is an insert of blurbs that juts out as a yellow stripe behind the shortened front cover at the right edge of the book.

And while the physical qualities of my edition don’t leave a particularly solid impression, the cover art is just something I fell in love with. The colour choices are impeccable, and I regularly strive but fail to recreate this kind of texture in my own art.

The Setting

Cape Coast Castle with a sunset

Homegoing is set in our world. The plot sets out in the late 18th or early 19th century in what we, nowadays, would call Ghana around the city of Cape Coast. But with history and slavery, one plotline at least moves to the US and there with historical events through different parts of the country.

Gyasi manages to describe, notably the Ghanaian settings, with enough care to make them feel lively and lived in. I think, for places in the US, she is more reliant on a shared understanding, of what these places look like. Nevertheless, these descriptions feel vivid enough for me to supply the right backdrop to the characters of this novel.

The Characters

Intergenerational as it is, Homegoing follows two Asante lineages, starting with two half-sisters, Effia and Esi, the daughters of a woman called Maame. Effia and Esi grow up in separate families. Their paths cross without their knowledge when Effia marries the new commander of Cape Coast Castle and Esi is held in that very same castle for transport to the Americas as a slave. From there, two separate family histories develop.

Portrait of an Unnamed Woman

Every main character gets their chapter in chronological order, alternating between one side of the family tree and the other. Since they are all part of family history, one of the side characters in each chapter becomes the point-of-view character in a subsequent chapter. This allows each point-of-view character an exceptional depth and roundedness. We learn about their whole life, not only what they did during their adulthood. We get to know them during their formative age, and we learn how they imprinted on the next generation in their old age.

To me, this emotional depth to each character makes this novel solid. You rarely get this many different people in one novel without losing depth to each of them. In some regard, this feels as if every character got their own short story, but each short story provides the context for the next. Even if especially the American chapters, make their characters into the messengers of a history lesson a bit too often.

And these characters, surely, are varied in their outlook in life and their emotional struggles. We find women and men who hold together families, but also women and men who pull them apart. On top of that, there’s something hidden in James’ chapter, that made me happy or at least look up in curiosity. James seems to feel love for his best friend, that goes beyond platonic love. And I’m definitely up for covert homoromantic representation.

The Plot

Stone necklace and chained shackles

Considering this is a debut novel, bringing the format, the characters and the plot together into one book, seems like a gargantuan task. And I’m quite sure a more distinguished reader than me, would find more fault with it than I do. Nevertheless, I think a more experienced writer could have given this book a more consistent throughline overall.

For me, much of the tension of this novel came from the spoiling glance at the family tree, printed in front of the first chapter, and my anticipation that the youngest family members with chapters of their own, Marcus and Majorie, would meet eventually.

As such, this novel is held together by a pull of symbolism that caries through the generations on the African side of the story. And a particular current of demographics and history, especially on the American side of the story, where characters exist somewhat driven only by historical events and not by their independent plotline.

For the Ghanaian characters, that is much less true. Their struggle and is guilt and blame more than anything else, in the words of Laura Miller:

“Homegoing”—the title is taken from an old African-American belief that death allowed an enslaved person’s spirit to travel back to Africa—is rooted, like the Bible, in original sin. Unlike the Biblical transgression, however, the source of the curse that dogs an Asante woman’s descendants through seven generations defies pinpointing and straightforward assessments of blame; you might as well shun your own hand. 

Laura Miller (2016): Descendants, in The New Yorker

The Writing

To me, the writing was mostly unremarkable. A better writer could have maybe pulled the plotline together more coherently or elevated the story with more elaborate prose. But after all, this was Yaa Gyasi’s debut novel with considerable scope, so I can forgive non-remarkable writing without much trouble. Especially, as I think there is much potential in Gyasi’s writing, that will and could improve with more experience and maybe a less sprawling topic.


For me, this debut novel is without a doubt worth a recommendation. While its sprawling nature and largely unremarkable writing might make it fall flat for some readers, it presented an interesting, captivating story for me. Of course, this book isn’t worthy of a Nobel prize in literature, but that is an overly pretentious expectation for a writer. This book has its special pull for me, even if that didn’t come from the plot itself, but from my expectations and a collection of great characters.

As a whole, I enjoyed the depth, the unique structure of this book gave its characters, especially the strand of the family that remained in Ghana. And I enjoyed the look into Ghanaian history, that gave me the appetite to look into it more. The same unfortunately can’t be said for the view into US history. Though it certainly offers a unique perspective of slavery founded in the loss of family history, that is stark in contrast to the other strand of the family.

My last book review was Where the Terrors Keep. My next review is probably going to touch on Tim Marshall’s Prisoners of Geography.

If you liked my review, you can as always support me on ko-fi. Or you can get prints, stickers and other items with some of my designs on redbubble, at

Where the Terrors Keep

A Review of Edgar Wallace’s Terror Keep

John Flack – Book Cover, 1982, Goldmann

Crime stories have been a staple of my childhood, long before I picked up any science fiction or fantasy books, I was most likely engrossed in some thriller. My reading started with a lot of German books that combined crime with humorous story-telling. When I started to read English language books, I had moved on from my obsession with crime stories. Now I return to one with fresh eyes in this Review of a German translation of Edgar Wallace’s Terror Keep, which is the first entry in the series of books about the detective J.G. Reeder. The German title is John Flack.

Really in light of current events, I feel it is even more necessary to point out, that this work should at least be read with the idea of “copaganda” in mind. Terror Keep neither accurately reflects current or historic police work, nor does it offer any worthwhile views into mental health. Any story about fighting crime in the traditional sense centres a view of crime that ignores any socio-economic factors, and makes police officers into heroes as they fight “real evil”. This book offers no different perspective. It at best entertains, but you can’t escape the ideas that fiction of its kind normalises. Crime in the real world is rarely as devoid of social context as it is here.

The Physical Book

Back to the book at hand. My copy is a 1982 paperback edition hand-me-down published by Goldmann. Of course, this book has seen better times, the paper has browned with age and feels coarse, and the jacket is showing signs of wear and tear as well, but it’s holding up reasonably well for the time it’s spent being read and being stored on various bookshelves and in numerous storage boxes. It isn’t particularly long, and about 30 pages are devoted to informing the reader of various other books in the publisher’s catalogue.

The Setting

Now, Terror Keep is set in 1920s UK, predominantly in London and an imaginary town called Siltbury on the cliffed coast of southern England. Both places are treated as backdrops that only need description where it figures into the plot. Siltbury is left to the reader’s imagination and familiarity with southern English towns, and London stars as the world-famous city it is with a handful of recognisable places.

More important than Siltbury itself, however, is the mansion in which much if the second and third act of this book takes place: Lamar’s Keep. It’s a cliffside manor, with a horrifying dungeon and curious inhabitants and visitors.

The Characters

Cliffed Coast, with a wall atop and white clouds drawing over a clear sky

Most of the characters show up at Lamar’s Keep and its surroundings over time, but that’s not the interesting thing about them. Well, the interesting thing about them is that they are not interesting in and of themselves. They are pretty flat, maybe some of them are more well rounded over the entire length of the series, but they stick closely to archetypal versions of a detective story.

We have in order of appearance the mentally insane, empathyless and driven villain, who happens to be a criminal mastermind. He, fundamentally, is just an ableist trope. We have the well-experienced investigator, who doesn’t shy away from a fight. We have a love interest for the investigator, who becomes a damsel in distress. We have multiple other policemen, who are either characterised by incompetence or as mere cannon-fodder and, finally, we have multiple henchmen of the villain, who all get a weird name pointing to earlier wrongdoings.

The most striking departure from this character template has to be Miss Bellman, ostensibly the damsel in distress and love interest, who at least for first half of this book seems to hold out pretty competently and well for herself, but the realities of 1920s ideas of womanhood will get to her soon enough.

The Plot

JG Reeder fighting his way up the rigged stairs

The characters aren’t, what makes this book a gripping read though. The thing that kept me riveted to the book was the ease of how different elements of the plot flowed into each other, how the characters, setting, and plot intertwined. And lead from one page to the other.

There’s not much to be said about the plot that wouldn’t spoil it, but it’s constructed with clear intent, keeping the reader guessing without alienating them with too contrived plot-twists. Some explanations and crimes mentioned within this story fall onto the gimmicky side of plots, but they were not gimmicky enough to rip me out of the flow of reading this book. There’s a well-crafted tension that was pulling me along throughout the entirety of the book.

The Writing

Edgar Wallace wrote many of his books by way of dictation, and the casualness of his writing certainly shows, the point is not to tell a story in its most beautiful manifestation, but a good thrill and a gripping story. In this vein, the writing is mostly unremarkable.

There were a few moments and passages in this book where certain word choices pulled me out of the book, but I think I have to pin those down on the translation, which certainly seemed somewhat clunky at times. Often maybe through no fault of the translator. After all, there’s at least one passage of basically untranslatable wordplay around the suites of playing cards, which the translator solved by annotating explanations of these jokes. But there might have been more passages where the translator was considering such annotations but eventually decided against them to avoid interrupting the flow of the book.


This book certainly is a gripping read and a fun one at that, but it isn’t a book that makes a good point about life or anything. It’s not meant to be. It’s just a fun story meant to entertain a reader, sitting in bed on a stormy night, or watching the waves on a sunny beach.

There are, without a doubt, problematic parts in this book, that suggest ideas about our world that might not be worth repeating because they’re demonstrably untrue. And these parts make me question if this book is worth reading in 2020. I’m not saying you’re not allowed to enjoy it. Far from it, I enjoyed it myself, but I don’t want to recommend this book. It’s a well-crafted thriller from almost 100 years ago. It’s showing its age. That doesn’t make it a bad book per se, but there are also better books to search out. It’s probably a guilty pleasure for me.

My last book review was about Terry Pratchett’s The Long War: The Long Wait. My next review will be about the wonderful Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi: Two Strands.

If you liked my review, you can as always support me on ko-fi. Or you can get prints, stickers and other items with some of my designs on redbubble, at

The Long Wait

A Review of Terry Pratchett & Stephen Baxter’s The Long War

It took me quite a while to get to this book, maybe a bit too long. I remember loving the first book of The Long Earth series, but it’s now nearly 4 years since I finished The Long Earth. And maybe my love for the first book of this series needs an update because The Long War, the second book of this series, definitely didn’t conjure up feelings of love from me. A fit of anger every 50 pages seems to be a better description of the feelings I hold for this book. Nevertheless, I managed to soldier through even if it took me unusually long between reviews. That’s not the fault of the book alone, a global pandemic certainly didn’t help my focus, but the book certainly had its part. So, without further ado, I’ll bring to you my explanation of why I am so angry with this book and why I still kept reading it to the bitter end.

The Physical Book

My 2014 Corgi Edition of this book, is a pretty standard paperback book. After a month of reading and at times abusing this book, the soft touch foil lamination started to fray off the cover’s paper at the bottom edges, but this is definitely not a remarkable book in this regard. A younger me would have probably destroyed the cover by peeling the lamination of completely at this point though.

As for the cover art, I think it continues the trend of being unremarkable. It’s not bad, it’s not great, but from the struggle I myself had with the art for this review, I know this book isn’t easy to translate into art, it’s to inconsistent to develop objects or scenes that would be striking or lastin in memory.

The World-Building

I think the world-building is truly the strongest suit of this book and the entire Long Earth series. The series is set on Earth around the 2040s, but in The Long Earth humanity at large learns to step into stepwise adjacent worlds, worlds that are similar to so-called datum earth, but took a different path in the probability tree that characterises earth’s geological history. And there are plenty of these worlds, to both the so-called East of the datum and to the so-called West of the Datum. Not all of these worlds are habitable, some are pretty lush places to settle.

These worlds are only shown in vignettes or broad descriptions, only certain places in the vastness of the Long Earth are visited or described. The singular places that are described feel real enough, but also don’t show much character necessarily.

The Characters

This lack of character that plagues some of the worldbuilding, is even more rampant in the actual characters. As a sequel, this book, naturally, doesn’t have to put much effort into setting up new characters, but at few new characters are set up nevertheless making this book pretty large in scope of characters. This, of course, is an opportunity to represent a certain diversity of characters, but it also makes some of these new characters quite shallow or into mere plot-devices.

Spoilers for Specific Characters

Roberta Golding, for example, is set up as a young girl that just knows everything but has an absolute lack of empathy. She feels to me like she is coded as autistic, and her framing as the smart kid made me viscerally angry quite a few times. For most of the book, she’s accompanied by a group of minor characters that seem solely characterised by their Chinese nationality, which seems questionable to me to say the least. Not that any of her actions would matter for the plot of this book. Roberta isn’t even mentioned as a character in the list of characters for this book on its Wikipedia article.

The best addition to the cast of characters in this book is probably the priest Nelson Azikiwe, who represents a refreshingly unique perspective, even if his plotline also ends abruptly and without any character growth.

End of Character Spoilers

And this is probably the main problem with the characters. There are too many of them to give them all at least small but satisfying character arcs, and the structural issues of the plot, make even the character arcs of those lucky few, that are supposed to have development, end too abruptly.

The Plot

And the plot is where the real issues lie. The plot is what made me hit myself with this book multiple times and once even made me throw it away in anger mostly for not resolving plot lines properly, what follows in the next few paragraphs contains spoilers, so be warned, but I can’t explain the structural issues properly without referencing how they end.


The main problem I see is that this book continually hints at something larger, some epic fight to come, some epic exploits to follow, but every time, the plot builds to the point where the reader is hooked, the plot isn’t resolved, but either you are sent into an unrelated chapter, things are fixed by the AI Lobsang in a Deus ex Machina fashion or, the plot is just resolved post facto, by a garden party where you get to know that everyone is alive and maybe a few hints as to what happened between the height of suspense and the narrative now.

As stated before this wrecks a lot of potential for character arcs. And while I understand that not every story necessarily needs characters that grow, there isn’t any big overarching mystery set up, except maybe the expectation of a war to come, that never arrives, and ends in a complete fake-out.

End of Plot- Spoilers

I think the amount of characters doesn’t make this easier, but I even struggle to summarise the plot without making obvious spoilers, because for the most part this book has characters in search of a plot, and if they find a piece of plot they are almost always robbed of concluding that plotline satisfactorily.

The Writing

As for the writing style, this book again is pretty unremarkable, it’s reasonably well written but that just doesn’t overcome the structural issues with the plot or the assortment of characters to bring under one roof.


Now, would I recommend this book? Hell no! I know a few people who really were engrossed by the world-building and who really enjoy the whole series of books, but to me with hindsight even the first book had some of the issues of this book.

If you really like world-building this book might be a pretty enjoyable and rompy read, but don’t expect a good story. I think you can read it for the vignettes of worlds, but the book is absolutely bereft of growth. For the most part it’s characters in vague search of a plot and the titular long war that never comes.

My last book review was The Blue of Distance about Rebecca Solnit’s A Field Guide to Getting Lost. My last review of a fiction book was Who Let the Dogs out! about Wolfgang Schorlau’s Der Freie Hund. My next review is about the gripping Terror Keep by Edgar Wallace.

If you liked my review, you can as always support me on ko-fi. Or you can get prints, stickers and other items with some of my designs on redbubble, at

Critters of Light: A Message

It’s been a while since I published anything like a story on here, but this just came to my mind this morning, and as much as it’s an unfinished vignette, I wanted to share it with you. So I hope you’ll enjoy it, and if so, maybe I’ll manage to write more in this universe.

A Message

She stepped back into the shadow. Here it was dark. Here the night didn’t even see a ray of moonlight. This was nice. She felt at home in the dark. That’s where she grew up. That’s where she decided to stay. Now she was hiding and again the darkness felt homely. This was a good place to stop and rest. Here, where the eyes of the critters of light were useless. She detested those little beasts, like cockroaches, warm, quick, small and plentiful. Here in the darkness, she was safe.

She opened her coat. This had been a wet night, even under her coat her wings had gotten wet. Now the clouds had made their way for moonlight, and now the critters were back at it again.

She spread her wings and violently shook her head to dry off a bit. The coat fell to the floor. She wouldn’t need it anymore tonight. There were more important things than a piece of now wet cloth. She shook her head again to get the last drops of cold autumn rain out of her feathers.

She was an owl, and she loved the darkness. The critters, however, abhorred it. They were repulsed by it. Like a disorganised army, they surged against the terminator and were repelled by the pain the darkness caused them. Still, again and again, they tried to take the line, as if they could move the darkness further back with every surge, but they couldn’t cross it, and for now, they couldn’t move it and they couldn’t survive the shadow.

She looked at them for a moment. She looked away, with her beak she pulled a piece of dirt out of her wing feathers. Here she was safe, but she here she couldn’t stay. The rain had stopped, but her message still needed to be delivered, even if the critters now were out. She still needed to cross the river into the capital city. And her message was important. These critters weren’t after her for no reason.

Sure, critters would attack people for no reason. That definitely wasn’t beneath them, or any of the creatures of light. The light was nasty like that. Nevertheless, these critters had a goal. They needed to stop her. Their future depended on it. The news she was bringing could have meant their end.

Kathlyn the Owl new she wouldn’t have much time left to bring her message to faer majesty the Queen of Thorma – what a beakful! She didn’t even have the time for a pit-stop at her girlfriend’s treehouse. That had to wait. First, she had to bring the news, that would change this war, and, well, she would have to deal with these inconvenient critters of light now. She probably would have to fly, not an easy undertaking with her dampened feathers, and a head full of sorrows.

If you like to, I would really appreciate your support on ko-fi. A few bucks help a long way and if you want to you can find some of my art on redbubble for sale as stickers and posters

The Blue of Distance

A Review of Rebecca Solnit’s A Field Guide to Getting Lost

I first read this collection of essays about a year ago. Then it was the book discussed in Life’s Library Book Club. Now I read it again, with different eyes, more discipline and a stressful world around me. With the COVID-19 epidemic going on around me this book got a whole other depth of meaning. Now it was not only the book I read to participate in fruitful discussions with friends but also the book that I needed to quench my thirst. My thirst for the far, my wanderlust, my “Fernweh” – as the Germans call it – had never been as pressing as now when the boundaries of my travels weren’t financial hurdles, but the need to save struggling healthcare systems.

When I first read this collection of essays, I remember not particularly liking it. It seemed verbose and I was getting lost in it, which to be fair would have been an apt accomplishment for a book titled A Field Guide to Getting Lost. Now on a second read, I have more thought about Solnit’s very personal stories all connected by the common theme of loss and getting lost.

Rebecca Solnit

On this second read, this became a deeply insightful collection. And it inspired me to a lot of artistic productivity, so much so that I struggled with placing it all in conjunction with this article. There’s a depth to Solnit’s writing, depth of references that not only makes you feel being lost, it lets you smell, and see and hear getting lost. What I had interpreted as verbosity on my first struggling read through this book, that took me months, I now saw as a deep richness. Certainly, that was helped by already knowing the gist of the stories Solnit was about to tell me, but it also helped to read faster, more precisely, not stopping in the middle of a thought but at the end of essays.

In a sense, the last time I read this book, I was getting lost in it, and now again I’m getting lost in it but in a very different way. Then I was getting lost by missing the point the direction to understand where I was; now I was getting lost in an experience.

Solnit’s writing still is dense like a thick forest. And I don’t fault anyone for finding it too dense. Especially on a first read, this book might really make one feel lost at reading it, but now after I read it a second time, I can only shake my head at what I missed.

Now I almost wish I had more to say about it. I wish I could give you a song to navigate this book, I wish I had taken more notes to talk about the intricate details of this book, but that possibly has to remain something for the future because I still was too lost to write plentiful annotations; still, this book was too dense for me to see outside the thick of bush. Still, it was too dense for me to not get lost in details, still too thick to give you an adequate overview.

There’s no argument to this book really. Unless, you accept “get lost and experience the world around you with new eyes” as an argument. This book is just an eye-opening journey of thought through the landscapes of North America. And that probably is the worst you could say about this book. It is at points very American. But then these are personal stories. The Author is American. An expectation of an un-american experience would to an extent be misguided.


I can only recommend you to get lost in this book, full well knowing that getting lost in this book might not be possible for every reader.

There’s a real chance you might get too lost at reading this book, and I won’t fault you for putting it down and never returning. This book isn’t for everyone. You need a tolerance for frustration for dense prose, for feelings of being lost and alone. But if you’re ready to accept these feelings, if you tolerate being frustrated, this book is a treasure. A wealth of nature to behold opens up before you if you manage to get lost in these experiences of home and of far away.

My last book review was about another essay collection. Gratitude by Oliver Sacks. And my next book review will very probably still be about Terry Pratchett and Stephen Baxter’s second entry in their Long Earth Series: The Long War.
If you like to, I would really appreciate your support on ko-fi. A few bucks help a long way and if you want to you can find some of my art on redbubble for sale as stickers and posters.

Energetic Balance

Energetic Balance of the Atmosphere in W/m²

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