February in St Louis was warmish but not dismayingly so. We could still pretend winter is a thing. Lots of good running weather. I beavered away at my various gigs. I probably saw some movies but now I can’t remember. I should start writing those down. My review of Gabriele Tergit’s Effingers was published in The Wall Street Journal. Canada lost both gold medal Olympic hockey games, and that really hurt. I also read some books.

Qntm, There is no Antimemetics Division (2025)

We live in a world of memes. Internet jokes, catch phrases, bits of culture that spread with the persistence of an earworm. But what if there were such things as antimemes? Ideas, cultish beliefs, even malevolent forces that circulate with similar force except that they have the power of being forgotten, such that we are unable to recall their effect on us. And what if a governmental organization had been set up to protect us from these antimemes, which seek to crush us with their own dark virality?

That’s the premise of this brilliant novel, which broke my brain in all the best ways. The scientists and operatives in the Antimemtic Division routinely forget everything they’ve done, requiring elaborate protocols and dangerous actions to make sure that the world is kept safe from REDACTED and REDACTED. Author qntm, pronounced “quantum,” the pen name of British writer Sam Hughes, concludes that the human ability to forget anything is both what keeps us going and our greatest vulnerability.

Robert Jackson Bennett, A Drop of Corruption (2024)

Ana and Din are back! This time they venture into the most forbidding and dangerous place in the Empire: the Shroud. In this floating station off the coast (part oil derrick, part Pequod), a handful of Alchemists process leviathan corpses, harvesting the raw material from which all-powerful bodily modifications stem. In addition to avoiding the dreaded “middle volume sag” and offering another satisfying tale of detection, A Drop of Corruption picks up the hints in the first volume about stakes larger than this one case, which will presumably be developed in the third book in the series, due later this year.

Lea Ypi, Indignity: A Life Reimagined (2025)

It starts with a photo.

A young couple enjoy the snow and sunshine of the Italian Dolomites. They look at the camera with quite different expressions. He seems wary: eyes narrowed, perhaps against the glare, two furrows etched on his forehead; she, nestled in a fur, smiles broadly. It’s early 1941. These newlyweds are on their honeymoon. How could they be enjoying themselves while the war rages and the Balkans, including Albania, where they have made their home, has been plunged into factionalism? And why hadn’t Yea Lpi, professor of philosophy and the subjects’ granddaughter, ever seen this picture before? As the photo circulates online, people make all sorts of claims. Her grandmother was a communist spy; she was a fascist collaborator. Is any of this true?

The photo turns out to be a red herring—Ypi doesn’t even reproduce it in the book, save in highly cropped form on the (beautiful) cover of the US edition. (It’s easy to find online, though.) Instead, her book reconstructs her grandmother Leman’s life, from her childhood in an Albanian family long devoted to the Ottoman Empire in Greek Salonica, through her decision, as a young woman of 18, to move to Tirana, where she found a career and, briefly, a husband, a man recently returned from studying law in Paris where he knew, though did not particularly like, another expatriate, a young striver named Enver Hoxha. Ypi’s grandfather’s decency and reformist leftist tendencies put him at odds with the postwar Communist government. He was branded an enemy of the state and imprisoned for 15 years, during which time Leman and their young son (Ypi’s father) were forced to work at manual labour far from their home in the capital

Central to the story are the documents in Leman’s secret service file at the formidably named Authority for Information Concerning Documentation of the Former State Security Service. As always, documents turn out to be fundamentally inconclusive, especially when a late revelation prompts Ypi to wonder if anything in them is at all trustworthy. It doesn’t help that Ypi is researching her grandmother (as opposed to her grandfather or any other male relative). As a fellow scholar puts it, women and archives don’t go together: when woman appear at all, it is almost always with their husband’s name. Better, the man tells Ypi, to write a novel.

Which Ypi has done, sort of. Her treatment of Leman’s life is novelistic: filled with thoughts and feelings she could have had no access to, even though Leman was a beloved figure in her upbringing in Communist Albania in the 1980s and 90s. Most impressive is her glorious evocation of the multicultural world of early 20^th century Thrace, tragically destroyed by successive waves of ethnic cleansing, from forced population transfers between Greece and Turkey in the wake of WWI to the Nazi eradication of Jewish Salonica.

Beneath this personal and political history is a philosophical investigation. From its epigraphs, citing Kant and Schiller, to its closing pages, the book considers the idea of dignity and its titular opposite. Dignity is the drive to “rule over adversity with moral force,” a tendency that Ypi argues, following Schiller, is fundamentally human. Dignity is what allows a person to decide to suffer, rather than instinctively to seek to free themselves from pain. And people most suffer, Ypi concludes, when they want to acknowledge both that the meaning of their lives both incorporates and exceeds the larger identities of family and nation and gender and religion of which they are part. (Ypi is a modern day Kanitian.) In this way, Ypi has given us a way to think not just about her grandmother but all the ordinary people who live through history, as she puts it, the first time as tragedy and the second time as even greater tragedy.

Ray Nayler, Palaces of the Crows (2026)

After enjoying Where the Axe is Buried last month, I was excited to get my hands on an advanced copy of Nayler’s forthcoming novel. And when I learned it was set in the forests of Lithuania (or perhaps Belarus) in WWII I was even more intrigued. Why had the sff writer Nayler chosen to write historical fiction? The answer is that he has found another way to investigate the animating question of his fiction: what kinds of relationships can exist between human and non-human animal societies? His first book considered octopuses. His second, elephants and mastodons. Here it’s crows.

Four teenagers—one Jewish, one Roma, one a Pole who has enlisted in the Red Army to help his family survive their forced exile in Siberia, and one a mute boy whose origins are uncertain—find each other in the chaos of the German advance into the Soviet Union in summer 1941. The Jewish girl, Neriya, whose family has always, in the years before he war, left their home in Vilnius each summer to vacation in a country village, and whose doctor parents have encouraged her to read Darwin and von Uexhüll, has over the years befriended a crow she names Buster. Buster is smart, even for a crow. He remembers Neriya from year to year, and masters the various games and puzzles she sets for him. He introduces her to other crows, each of whom has their own personalities. When she hides from the Germans in the forest, the birds appear at times of trouble, helping her and the other teens survive. For although the forest is vast, it is peopled with all sorts of threats: partisans, Germans, Russians who have gone AWOL, and others who, like our protagonists, are simply trying to survive. These other people are dangerous—though not as much as the terrible winters. The teens need all the help they can get.

The crows have created an avian city in the heart of the forest—more than a city, a real society, in which they look out for the most vulnerable members, much more than humans do. Chapters set during the war are interspersed with others from the 1970s, when the teens, now adults, each of whom has navigated life in the USSR in a different way, return to the forest. How can they protect the descendants of the crows who once protected them? Palace of the Crows might wrongfoot or disappoint some of Nayler’s earlier readers, especially those expecting a book a set in the future, but those who persist will see that this book, too, is about how we tell the stories of who we are, both within and between species. I hope Nayler keeps up his current writing pace!

Beryl Bainbridge, An Awfully Big Adventure (1989)

Stella Bradshaw is a working-class teenager in Liverpool in 1950. Her dream is to be in the theater, so she’s pleased in her closemouthed way when she is hired as an assistant stage manager in a regional playhouse. As the troupe prepares for a production of Peter Pan (the novel’s title comes from that play’s description of what death is sure to be), Stella becomes embroiled in its complicated relationships. She falls for the director, oblivious to what is obvious to readers: he’s gay. What at least this reader was oblivious to—surprising, because I’d seen the film, though admittedly not since it was in theaters in the late 90s—was the novel’s turn from comedy to tragedy. That ending! (And, yes, it’s all explained on the first page, Toni Morrison-style, but I’m slow.) Excellent stuff. Could have taken the Booker from A. S. Byatt if you ask me.

I’ll be reading this again soon: it’s the June title for the Leviathan book club. If you’re in St Louis, please join!

Miklós Bánffy, They Were Found Wanting [The Transylvanian Trilogy: Volume II] (1937) Trans. Patrick Thursfield and Katalin Bánffy-Jelen (2000)

See my thoughts on volume I. This continued to be excellent. Plenty of heartbreak, though. Things not going great for Laszlo.

Barbara Pym, The Sweet Dove Died (1977)

A moment ago, I mentioned a forthcoming meeting of the Leviathan book club. Pym’s late, great novel was our first selection. And what a terrific choice that turned out to be! I was thrilled to lead a discussion with such a smart and energetic group. I’d actually read this last August (one of those months I never got around to writing about) when NYRB released its beautiful edition. My first Pym, and from what I gather not the most representative, but absolutely terrific. I would say it even improved on re-reading. A woman coming up on 50—cool, elegant, manipulative, as Jacqui puts it in her review—meets an antique dealer and his 24-year-old nephew, who he’s training in the business. The antique dealer imagines a future with the woman, but she has designs (of what sort is never quite clear, even to herself) on the younger man. People behave badly—but, also, everyone has their reasons. The title, from Keats, is about the anguish—or is it the thrill?—of loving something to death. I would call The Sweet Dove Died Jamesian in the sense of being a study in cruelty. And an object lesson for any of us obsessed with the idea that the surroundings and events of our lives must be just so.

Isabel Cañas, Vampires of El Norte (2023)

Historical romance and vampire story set in the early part of the Mexican – American War (aka the US invasion of Mexico). As children, Nena and Néstor are inseparable, even though she’s the daughter of the patrón of a hacienda and he’s the son of a vaquero. Everything changes one night, when their expedition in search of buried Spanish silver coins goes terribly awry. Something, some creature, eyeless, all teeth and silent destruction, attacks Nena. The boy fights off the beast and carries the girl to the main house, but convinced he is responsible for her death he runs away never to be seen again. Until ten years later, that is, when he returns to join the forces the local ranchers are putting together to fight the Yanquis. When he sets eyes on Nena—who eventually recovered from her mysterious wounds—he freaks out. As does she, but for a different reason. She’s furious that he never wrote and can’t understand that he thought she was dead. This sets off an enemies-to-lovers story during a desperate mission in the wilds of northern Mexico: conveniently, the two become separated from the rest of the auxiliary cavalry during a battle. (Nena is there because in the intervening years and under the tutelage of Néstor’s grandmother she has become a curandera or healer.) Can the two overcome their differences to admit their love for each other? If so, what will happen when they return to the rigidly stratified world of the hacienda? And what are the terrible creatures the Yanquis have captured and forced to fight for them? You can probably guess the answers to all these questions. Vampires of El Norte doesn’t ever surprise, but it’s plenty satisfying. I do think Cańas needed to get a better handle on her allegory: those damn Yanquis are indeed vampiric but in the book’s most interesting moments the vampires are literal creatures, not just symbols. Just where did these vampires come from, anyway? It’s all a bit fast and loose. Still, I enjoyed this enough to seek out Cańas’s other books. Thanks to Hope for putting this on my radar.

March roundup coming soon!