A very interesting read, don't get me wrong! It's just... maybe this is one of those "better in theory" kind of ideas. There are many interesting moments and ideas, but the novel seems like one that would have worked better as a collection of much condensed short stories, with its weaker sections cut entirely.

Shikasta especially drags in the middle, although to explain why, it's necessary to discuss the central conceit and themes of the novel. If you want to avoid all spoilers and go in blind, skip the rest of this review. Just know that I found this interesting, but not enough to recommend it unless you're really curious about Doris Lessing's Strange Science Fiction Experiment, and won't be put off by poor execution.

Let the essay begin! Major spoilers will still be tagged. Since the novel can be quite naturally divided into three major parts, that's how I'll structure this review.

Shikasta is a fictional planet which—it quickly becomes apparent—is simply one of the names given to Earth by the aliens that colonise it and oversee its development. In this first part, we're given a brief history of Shikasta, and an introduction to the setting. One thing that's also clear very quickly is that this first part is essentially a reinterpretation of several  Old Testament stories: the Fall of Man, the Flood, etc. All are reimagined with benevolent, paternalistic aliens—the Canopeans—taking on the roles of God, angels, prophets, and so on.

This puts an interesting spin on the stories. The Canopeans are powerful and intelligent, but not  all-powerful. The Flood in Shikasta is not deliberate, but an ecological accident which they cannot prevent. Similarly, the utopian version of Shikasta that substitutes for Eden collapses because of a quirk of planetary mis-alignment, not because humanity is cast out of the Garden for its sins.

The Canopeans are not the only aliens to colonise Shikasta. Another group, the Sirians, perform ecological experiments in the Southern hemisphere of the planet (apparently detailed in a sequel). Then there's the Shammat, who essentially play Satan, devils, evil influence, and so on in opposition to the influence of the Canopeans.

This first part of the novel is interesting. I enjoyed exploring its religious themes and inspirations through Lessing's somewhat mystical science-fiction lens. But it does start to feel a little... arbitrary after a time. No one in the novel really seems to be in control of their actions. The people of Shikasta behave as the alignment of the heavens dictates. The Canopeans, while they have a sort of strict, paternalistic idea of how things should operate on Shikasta, don't seem to have much free will either. It is unclear to what degree they can affect the world, and to what degree they are passive observers just like the Shikastans. But this is at least an interesting approach to role as deity/deities in the novel.

This is where the paternalistic, omniscient overlord vibes really become irritating. The second part of the novel is essentially several characters sketches set on 20th century Earth. It is mostly setup for the final part, but Lessing also uses this part to comment on human nature, colonisation, racism, class, and global politics in the 20th century (less insightfully, in my opinion, than she does in the final part).

Throughout this section, the Canopean narrator constantly looks down upon Shikasta. He essentially says, in many more words, "Look at these poor, confused people squabbling over their petty politics, messy emotions, and self-imposed divisions." There is some cutting and well-directed criticism of humanity, but for the most part it is written from such a condescending, detached point of view that it loses what impact it should have.

Often, Lessing will make jabs at the stubborn ideological divisions of Cold War politics, which start out well but end in a kind of milquetoast "No one is right, though we enlightened Canopeans can see clearly the true way of things, which are obvious to anyone not as simple as these humans". But what use is that to a reader? It doesn't suggest solutions to social or political issues, just a kind of blanket pity for humanity. Humanity which—in the setting of Shikasta—is guided by the motion of the heavens more so than individual moral choices or beliefs.

The first two parts of the novel are almost in direct thematic opposition to one another. In the first, it is the character of the Canopeans which holds the most interest. After all, humanity seems practically incapable of directing itself, and while  Canopean interference seems to have some impact on the course of events on Shikasta, it sits in tension with the fallibility and limitations of the Canopeans. In the second part, the Canopeans are simultaneously all-knowing but distant observers with nothing insightful to say about events on Shikasta, or (sent to the planet as envoys in the form of humans) subject to the same lack of free will, moral failings, and corruption as the rest of Shikasta. They are omniscient beings with no specific moral philosophy looking down on short-sighted humans with no apparent capability for ethical decision-making.

Part three is only able to regain interest by abandoning the omniscience of the Canopeans that has been present throughout the first two parts.

In the final part of the novel, the Canopean narrator is sent to Shikasta with a plan to direct the planet back onto its proper moral course. He is born into the body of a normal human being, and the events of his life are narrated by several other people who encounter him.

Finally, with no idea of how the Canopeans think events on Shikasta should unfold, the actions and moral choices of the characters have some kind of weight to them. The narrator takes the name George Sherban

and quickly becomes an influential figure in global politics

. Because the reader no longer knows his thought process, it is unclear whether he is carrying out his mission as intended, or being led astray.

After all, other Canopean emissaries, described in part two, have been corrupted by the environment of Shikasta, or failed in their missions. George's siblings—themselves reincarnated Shikastans—seem to have no awareness of the lives they lived before being born into their current bodies, and it is suggested that Canopean emissaries are similarly limited to their human experience and at most a subconscious awareness of their mission.

This part extends well into what was, for Lessing, the future. She imagines ecological, economic, and political catastrophe. And the combination of this speculative future with a focus on the thoughts and motivations of individual people (made  more complex by the lack of an omniscient narrator) makes the novel much more engaging. I found this final part engrossing and it really flew by.

Actions and events are no longer reduced to either "A good thing which happens thanks to the successful influence of Canopus" or "A bad thing caused by planetary alignment/Shammat's influence/Shikastan short-sightedness". Does the climax of the novel represent some moral triumph brought on by the successful efforts of Canopus, or is is an example of their efforts being corrupted by human politicking? Has George Sherban carried out his mission as intended, or has he brought about undue emotional and physical distress in the process? Because there's no omniscient beings to answer these questions for us, finally you the reader get to have some of your own thoughts about the novel.

Personally, I liked this ethical mess for its own sake. I thought that the Trial in particular was excellently written because it devolved into uncertainty, doubt, and dozens of smaller, more personal discussions. Lessing's refusal to settle on simple, final answers to complex problems (although she did stray too close to "I guess everyone's just a little racist") was ultimately extremely satisfying. It may be clear from the rest of this review, but I wish this kind of moral complexity had been present more often.

At the end of it all, I was glad to have read Shikasta, and I'm even tempted by the sequels. But I don't think I'm tempted enough. The book just went on too long and said too little to be really worth the time (and I wrote this review! I will put up with a really unforgivable degree of waffling!) It is interesting to read unusual and experimental science fiction, especially from an author known for her literary fiction, but I can get the same thing elsewhere, with greater thematic depth and more satisfying results.

I read this a couple of months ago now and I'm still thinking about it so let's get into why. Le Guin is a genius. If you just want a simple recommendation: Absolutely just go read this novella, and all her other writing while you're at it. Can't recommend her highly enough. There are certainly criticisms to be made of the novella, although its flaws don't make it  less worthy of discussion or interest. The rest of this is just my thoughts on the book in more detail.

I have thought a lot about this novel in the context of two other works:

I think these make interesting (if not worthwhile, in the case of Avatar) companion pieces to the novella.

The Avatar connection is an easy one: both those films and this story are essentially sci-fi metaphors for real-world colonialism. Both revolve around far future humans who colonise a distant planet to strip it of a rare resource, which is essentially important only as a MacGuffin to drive the story. In the process, the indigenous people of the world are violently subjugated, their cultural values threatened, and eventually (minor spoiler)

both fight back the incursion by humans

. There's even a human sympathetic to the indigenous people who comes to understand some of their culture, and assists them in their fight. However, the two stories treat their subject matter very differently, and that comes across in the telling of the stories.

The Word for World is Forest (which I'll call Forest) focuses on the psychological and social impacts of colonisation. A central focus of the book is how the Athsheans, the story's indigenous people, are changed not just by the acts committed by the colonising humans, but by their acts of resistance. The actual fighting is almost entirely glossed over in favour of this focus on its impact. Le Guin is interested in exploring the lasting societal violence of colonisation, the damage that remains long after bodies have been buried and forests regrown.

She was thinking of the US war in Vietnam as she wrote Forest, and the parallels are clear. Some of the events in the story are clearly inspired by atrocities such as the My Lai massacre,  and the environmental destruction in the novella mirrors the deliberate razing of forests by the US during that war. Even the reaction of humans on Earth who find out about events on Athshe after light-years of delay has parallels to the response to events in Vietnam from Americans an ocean away. Decades later, Le Guin's questions are still pertinent. Unexploded ordinance[1] still litters Vietnam, Cambodia, and neighbouring countries. The tonnes of napalm, agent orange, and other chemicals which the US dumped on South East Asia still have lingering impacts on the people and the environment still there. And that's to say nothing of the societal impact that lingers after the war. Even the United States is still reeling from the impact of a war it fought entirely on foreign soil.

Compare this to Avatar. Cameron seems less interested in the impacts of colonisation, and more in the cool sci-fi battles he gets to orchestrate between humans in mech suits and aliens with spears. Between the first Avatar film and its sequel, the planet of Pandora has essentially been reset to the state it was in when everything kicked off. Sure, good old American boy, and white-saviour protagonist Jake Sully is now considered a member of the indigenous Na'avi, but aside from his presence (and a few ruined mechs rusting in the forest) the Na'avi have gone back to their way of life as though the horrors of the first film were nothing more than a bad dream. The perfect backdrop for another CGI-fuelled action blockbuster!

Cameron has been (rightly) criticised online[2] for saying around the time of the first Avatar's release[3] that the Lakota Sioux may have "fought a lot harder" against their own colonisation if they could have seen their own future (in a particularly offensive aside he  referred to the Lakota Sioux as "a dead-end society"). These comments (and his films)  suggest that Cameron thinks the impacts of colonisation could be erased, prevented, or undone if colonised peoples had simply fought hard enough against them. Nowhere is Le Guin's acknowledgement of how even a successful anti-colonial struggle will not undo the violence that is inherent in colonisation.

It's in these differing presentations that "The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction" can be found. It's an essay in which Le Guin discusses storytelling, gender, and human society. The eponymous "carrier bag" is a reference to her distinction between stories of early human societies surviving by the strength of the hunter who returns with the flesh of the mammoth to feed his tribe, and the untold but much more realistic story of the carrier bag filled one at a time with foraged mushrooms. Le Guin sees the focus in fiction on heroic battles, masculine warriors, and heart-pounding excitement as an omission of the real foundations of human society, and the work which keeps societies alive. She urges storytellers to shift their focus to the carrier bag, the overlooked (often feminine) labour which underpin human societies.

In case it's unclear, Cameron seems to embody exactly the kind of storytelling that "The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction" opposes. He is an uncurious sensationalist, interested only in the spectacle and drama of whatever action he's able to fit onscreen. His sci-fi colonisation story is really little more than a pretty backdrop for this spectacle. Le Guin, on the other hand is interested in the personal and the social consequences of the violence she depicts. Forest is science-fiction at its best: it uses it explores the history and politics of the world it was written in by mirroring and exaggerating that world in fiction.

The novella has its flaws. I think that her treatment of her indigenous protagonists in particular is imperfect. Le Guin may not be James Cameron, whose films are almost laughable for their repetition of white saviour and noble savage tropes; she is even relatively ahead of her time as a white author writing in the 1970s. But there is a certain simplicity to the society she has created which does it a disservice. It's nothing egregious, and perhaps it's a side-effect of this being a relatively short story, but I imagine indigenous readers might find  her depiction of the Athsheans  too shallow. Her explorations of gender are also not as interesting as those found in, for example, The Left Hand of Darkness or her Earthsea novels. But there are aspects of ideas found in those novels and "Carrier Bag" to be seen here.

This hasn't really been a review so much as a comparative essay. Sorry I guess, but I needed to get these thoughts out somehow. If these ideas interested you then I promise this novella is interesting for much more than its comparisons to Avatar. Le Guin's writing is rich with thematic content, and thought-provoking questions. I adore writing which challenges and provokes, and Le Guin (as always) delivers in spades. It's not perfect, but this novella expands the bounds of literature, in worthwhile and fascinating ways.

[1]: https://www.newyorker.com/news/news-desk/the-vietnam-war-is-still-killing-people
[2]: https://www.reddit.com/r/Indigenous/comments/znivxa/so_avatars_james_cameron_referred_to_the_lakota/
[3]: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2010/apr/18/avatar-james-cameron-brazil-dam

It's hard to express what I liked so much about this book. At times, I found it very difficult to read. Typically not because of the unusual style, the single train of thought. It's actually surprisingly easy to just drift along, letting the words flow over you and through you. But because the novel consists so heavily of the fears and worries and everyday stresses of another ordinary person, it can be very difficult to read when you'd like to get away from your own fears and worries and everyday stresses.

It took me months to read, not because of the length or the density of the writing (although it is a very long book), but because I so often found myself unable to pick it up and worry alongside the narrator. Worry about gun culture and colonialism in the United States, about whether the windows of her house need re-varnishing, about ongoing environmental catastrophe,  about whether a person can ever recover from the death of a parent, about what her daughter thinks of her favourite musicals, about the cruelties of industrial poultry farming, and so on for 1000 pages.... It was just difficult to read sometimes.

Despite this, I really would encourage anyone to try the book. Although I was often intimidated by it, I found it to be an immensely rewarding experience. It is an experiment that may not accomplish all it set out to do and may be a lot to take in, but which is exceptionally illuminating for the questions it forces you to ask while reading. I think that anyone who teaches say, an honours-level English literature course, could teach this novel on its own for a semester course, and have new discussions about it with their students for years on end. There is so much in the book to provoke thought and interest and exploration.

Even the most basic aspects of the book provoke interesting questions. There is a glossary of acronyms at the back of the book. I doubt that all of them are used in the book itself, and there isn't a practical reason for the glossary to be there, but it fascinates me! Why is it so important that I, the reader, be able to flip to the back of the book and check the two included definitions of "CGI"? Why have the definitions been "sanitized for your comfort" (for example "POS", is defined "piece of [scat]", square brackets in the original)? Why, since we're asking about the choices made in the book, is it called "Ducks, Newburyport" in the first place? It's a regularly-repeated phrase in the book, but not one that would feel defining or even especially noteworthy if it weren't the title.

There's more to the book than intellectual curiosity. At times I was enthralled, overcome with emotion, or wrapped up in the story (I was actually surprised to discover how much of a narrative there is in the book, because like the everyday stories we tell ourselves, it's a narrative that only really comes together in hindsight). Just the fact that the setting of the novel is so mundane, makes for a unique and charming read. But so much thought has gone into this novel, which elevates it from  charming and unusual, to something that I'd urge people to seek out and try.

A decade from now, Ducks, Newburyport might not be remembered as a ground-breaking work of experimental  literature. It might not even be a book that I remember or think of often. But right now, I can't stop thinking about how it made me feel, and how it made me think. I really do believe that the most anyone can ask of any book is that it provoke them, at least a little, that it change something about how they think, or make them feel something that they wouldn't have otherwise. In my case, this book has done all that and more.

To use a coffee metaphor, Legends & Lattes is like a  cortado. It's light, simple, warm, goes down quickly, and doesn't have the bite or bitterness that you might find in another drink. I really blazed through it, and enjoyed myself the whole time. My edition even had a delightful short story in the back which, in this analogy, could be thought of as the complimentary biscuit that came with the drink (and that's as far as I'll be stretching that metaphor).

The book really delivers on the cosy coffee shop fantasy that it advertises. The stakes are low, the characters are charming, and everything works out just as you'd hope by the end. It has the feel of a fluffy, lighthearted one-shot your dungeon master threw together to give the party a break between more weighty, involved campaign arcs.

Which is all fantastic. But there's not much more to the book than it appears at first glance. The plot beats are all very conventional and while it's very thematically cohesive, there isn't much depth to that thematic content. From very early in the novel, its clear that this is a book about being able to change, or be something other than what is expected of you. Some very light (and very early) spoilers to give some examples:

The main character is a muscular orc brawler, but she's intelligent and caring and dreams of settling down to open a coffee shop. When she does, she builds the cosy, picturesque café in a building converted from a filthy, run down livery. The first employee is an academic, driven succubus who actively fights against an in-universe perception that all succubi are deceitful nymphomaniacs.

This pattern crops up so often that the book begins to feel a little one-note, but at least it's a pleasant note to listen to.

In fact, I rather appreciated the winking in-fiction explanation for why this was the case (this one's a real big spoiler for the end of the book):

They were magically drawn together because of a kind of empathetic connection with the feeling of being more than what's expected of them. I thought this was cute, especially the way that it frames empathy and community as a kind of magic or good-fortune. Although it's only one step removed from "The real treasure was the friends we made along the way."

All-in-all, this is a good book, and I'm looking forward to the sequel, but don't go in expecting it to surprise you. Ironically, considering its themes, this book is pretty much exactly what it seems to be.

I think pretty much everyone should read this book. Its one limiting factor is a focus on the UK, but it is an informative and extremely well-written exploration of the modern political landscape and its approach to trans rights. It's also a concisely-written argument for trans liberation being a necessary component of all modern social justice movements.

Read this book. It is an antidote to simplistic, anti-intellectual discussions of the "debate" about trans rights, and a history and overview of the modern trans rights movement. It is extremely worthwhile.

Shon Faye is clearly a very good writer, and manages to interrogate her subjects with an efficiency and clarity that makes them seem immediately straightforward. I can't say how accessible the book would be to someone with no exposure to concepts like queer and feminist theory, but like I say, it is extremely approachable, and I feel that it would appeal to people with just about any degree of experience with the subject. Similarly, while Faye is clearly writing from and for the left wing, I think her arguments are clear enough that this would be a good book to someone interested in trans politics, but who doesn't consider themselves a leftist.

I loved this. It's very relevant to my work and interests, but I get the feeling just about anyone would enjoy it. If you like Forensic Architecture's investigations, then this will definitely appeal.

Fuller and Wiezman explore knowledge-making, investigation, and modern media in a unique and fascinating way. They argue for combining disciplines like theatre, computer science, biology, art, and more to change the way that we think about sensing and communicating information

If that piques your interest at all, then this book is definitely for you. I found that it widened my perspective, introduced me to plenty of new concepts, and I'm still thinking about it months later.

A damn good book! Shelldrake immediately joins the ranks of the very best science writers.

Fungi are fascinating, but the primary draw of this book isn't the incredible science. It's the writing, which seems to drive always towards changing a reader's perspective. You'll almost certainly look at the world differently and be sharing facts about fungi with the people around you until they're sick of hearing it.

Shelldrake also avoids the trap of anthropomorphising his subject. He's constantly reminding us not to use human metaphors for the ways that fungi behave, but to imagine a way of being that's radically different from any human behaviours or ways of thinking

What an unusual book. I'm still thinking about it weeks later, so it's certainly something I would recommend, but it's hard to say what I found appealing about it.

I saw one review describe it as a deconstruction of a "sad girl genre" that I suppose I really enjoy (Fleabag was one example). And I did enjoy the way that it used a kind of deliberate emotional detachment that's present in many other stories I like to very different effect.

I'd recommend it if you think you'd enjoy an unusual, morbid story about being fucked up by your toxic parents and your subsequent toxic relationships. Although I'd add the caveat (or the extra recommendation, depending on who you are) that it's also an unsettling book, to some degree throughout the book, and then very much so as something happens right at the end.

This book was fine, but it felt like it could have been a lot better if Ngamije had just been able to cut about a third of it out completely. I kept thinking to myself that there was enough content for an excellent novella, or a dozen amazing short stories hidden in a bland and overly long novel. There is a lot to like though, so let's give credit where it's due.

The characters are all wonderfully real. I'm sure anyone who's been to a South African university will feel like they've met exactly these people, or someone like them. It's as if they're all really out there somewhere in the real world, and given the right chance you could look up from the pages and see the cast standing in front of you. Ngamije even has an uncanny ability to make you feel like you're in a place, rather than just reading about it. All with a characteristic wry wit.

Unfortunately, that wit works against the novel. While it's the sort of writing that makes for an excellent short story, over nearly 500 pages, it begins to grate. As does the personality of protagonist Séraphin. Much of the tone of the novel mirrors his own ways of thinking and telling stories, and for most of it, Séraphin is an arrogant bastard whose wry humour is a deflection from having to deal with his insecurities. And while he grows and changes in time, there's only so many pages of that arrogant, sardonic humour that a reader can put up with before the book becomes a chore.

There are many shining, brilliantly-written vignettes, and you might still love the novel if a witty, casual, university coming-of-age story sounds like your thing. But I felt exhausted by the time I reached the end, and wished that Ngamije had killed a few more darlings.

The biggest obstacle to reading this book is its density. Butler writes as an academic, for academics. While it's short and not totally impenetrable, her writing is certainly complex enough that this would make a slow read for just about anyone, and a slog for many.

That said, the content is interesting. I wasn't totally satisfied by it. I found Butler frustratingly inconclusive on many points, but the arguments she raises are worthwhile simply in that they've kept me thinking about them long after putting the book down.

There isn't much more to say though. This wasn't a book that totally changed the way I think, and I couldn't recommend it to everyone, but it has had an impact on me. I find looking back on it that Butler's writing has influenced the way I think, and that I can't quite shake this book, or the arguments it makes. I keep returning to them as I read other things, and as I go about my daily life or read the news.