lightreads: a partial image of a etymology tree for the Indo-European word 'leuk done in white neon on black'; in the lower left is (Default)
A Taste of Honey

4/5. A nonlinear fantasy novella. Young royal cousin falls into a scandalous queer romance with a soldier. The ten day story of their affair is told with its end at its beginning, interspersed with the rest of the protagonist's life after – his marriage to a princess of the court, his daughter, and this whole subplot with math and the gods and stuff.

Ha, okay. I thought this was the exact same things I thought the other Wilson novella I read was: strange, beautiful, frustrating. No one does language like Wilson does language. No one does dialect like he does, specifically. But I didn't think much more than that because this seemed, for all its structural fancy footwork, like a queer tragedy I've read a hundred times. Complete with requisite older brother who turns violent when he finds out and everything.

But then the end twists and sidesteps and oh, okay. The taste of honey was never the affair at all. And the whole thing is taking the feet out from under the standard tragic queer love story. I'm not sure it's doing much else (can he just! Write! The novel! That gets into all the science fantasy worldbuilding!) but it's worth reading for the trick of it and for his language, which is magic by itself.
lightreads: a partial image of a etymology tree for the Indo-European word 'leuk done in white neon on black'; in the lower left is (Default)
The Sorcerer of the Wildeeps

4/5. A strange, rather inexplicable short short novel about a trade caravan passing through a jungle where, if you leave the path, you could end up in another time or another universe.

Which is only the palest description of this weird, frustrating book. It's a queer love story whose queerness is part in gender, part in the alienness of the protagonists with their "godlike" heritage. It's an exercise in code-switching from the trappings of epic fantasy to a very specific kind of scientific discourse to a range of equally specific dialects, most particularly African-American slang. It's playful and deliberately dislocating – there's this great joke that Wilson plays where the reader is caught out with all of their startled attention on the word "nigga" in a sentence, while the narrative lays attention on a completely different word. It plays games like that with language and the code-switching, and it is beautiful and playful and interesting.

Reviewers have said this is a novella questioning the underpinnings of traditional fantasy – its whiteness in a linguistic and cultural sense. I think that's right, but I also think there's a broader genre playfulness going on here. If you go off the path, who knows where you could end up, and this book goes way off the path.

And it ends ambiguously in exactly the way that I hate, but I'll let it go this time because this was otherwise such a unique trip.

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