Below is a list of books that I’ve read and fallen in love with, with links to places where you can find them, if you’d like to take the trip into their worlds too.

L.A.

Having now completed my reading of Oathbringer, I am able to integrate into a single impression what this book gave to me: a sense of the resolved. Resolved because, as many other reviewers have said, we finally understand what drove, as well as what continues to drive Dalinar. A secret he had held for so long is finally revealed to us, as well as to himself. Of course, his struggles are not ended for it, but he is perhaps a better person for the knowledge.

We also come to understand where Shallan is going, and what will be of her, split as she between all those alter egos. I would have liked to understand a little better the nature and the depth of her feelings for both Adolin and Kaladin, though. Hopefully in the next book.

Oathbringer also reveals quite a bit about Renarin, and I felt I became closer to him for it, even though only a small portion of the book dwells on him. The sense of resolution also comes from understanding what motivates Adolin, who–although good and passionate about many things–had always seemed a little aloof to me. I wish, too, that the book had spent more time on Kaladin, and on what makes him him, because he was one of the characters I learned to love from the very start. Finally, we also got to know Wit, and spend significant time with him, which was very enjoyable; Wit is, after all, one of the binding elements of Brandon’s Cosmere.

I will only note that I did not much enjoy discovering that Shadesmar is a place where humans can walk and travel, eat and drink. Somehow, I could not connect with such a conception of Sanderson’s cognitive realm. Some will say, rightly, that it is what it is. Therefore, I will revise my critique and say that I am simply disappointed by what Sanderson chose to reveal of Shadesmar. Aside from this, however, and because of all that it does give us, I loved Oathbringer; it is another great read in the Stormlight Archive series.

L.A.

This novel by Ursula LeGuin, a coming-of-age story about a young sorcerer by the name of Ged, pulled me in right in–from the very first lines–and it took me to a place unlike any other I had ever been taken to before. Le Guin’s language in this novel is so beautiful–so strange even–that I felt the need to reread it as soon as I was done, just so that I could hear the words again as I read them out-loud, and see them in my mind. Ged, the young sorcerer apprentice, is filled with self-doubt and uncertainty, which leads him to make regrettable and serious mistakes, with far-reaching consequences. But, thanks to some true friends and guides, as well as thanks to his own determination, he finds his way to his destination–a destination–and there makes peace with himself and with his magic, fixing his mistakes and taking the next steps in his evolution toward sorcery.

If you love beautiful prose, well-developed characters and a beautiful story, you will love A Wizard of Earthsea–a book which makes me want to write like Ursula Le Guin though I know I have not the skill.

L.A.

I loved A Gentleman in Moscow, and I recommend it to anyone who enjoys or is looking for a story who will carry them, as a breeze carries the leaf, to explore what a life full of loss and gentleness and resignation and wonder and hope may bring.

As you might imagine, this is not a fantasy or science-fiction novel, but a beautifully written fiction set in Russia’s history after the Bolshevik revolution. Amor Towles writes a story of survival, change, and uncertainty; the story of an aristocrat under house arrest in Moscow’s Hotel Metropol, stripped of his possessions and of his title, never allowed to walk the streets of Russia anymore. There, he sees the change in the nation through those who visit the hotel and pass through it. And as life changes around him, Count Rostov adapts so that he may survive.

But those years under house arrest are not bitter years; they are years of discovery, discovery brought about by a young girl named Nina who befriends him; and years of tremendous personal change when Nina returns to him as a young woman and asks him to take care of her daughter, Sofia, for a few months.

The months turn into years, and Count Rostov’s life changes in a way he had never expected, a life filled with the anxiety of a man who knows nothing of raising a child, but also filled with pride and love and hope as he becomes a father to Sofia. And the plans the Count makes to give Sofia the freedom she deserves when she becomes a wonderful young woman, will also lead to his own escape and liberation, thirty-two years after his arrest.

If you haven’t been convinced to get this book, check out the excerpt for A Gentleman in Moscow on Amazon. I am certain you will love it too.

L.A.

I loved the Eleven Nations Trilogy, though some may find it predictable, or even cliché. The novel hooked me from the start with its well-developed characters, and thoroughly-examined conflicts. I read these some seven years ago (in 2011), and I still remember the protagonists’ names; the twins’ struggle in the icy, snow-covered mountains; their love triangle, and the sad ending of the life-long conflict between them and their father.

I remember these details because in various ways, I identified with the characters, their inner conflicts, their wants and desires. Perhaps, you will too.

L.A.

I had never read a book from Kazuo Ishiguro before, and I have not yet read any other novels from him. However, I loved Klara and the Sun, and I now wish to read more of his works.

I was immediately fascinated by the first-person perspective of the narration, a being—initially undefined—inside some sort of a store. I then developed an uncanny attachment for the protagonist, Klara, whom we come to understand is a sentient “artificial friend” or robot—as some other characters refer to her here and there, and who is eventually purchased by a woman for her daughter, Josie. I found myself captivated not only by Klara’s view of the world around her, by her insights into human nature, but also by the way in which she discovered it all, understood it, and interpreted it. Ishiguro really puts the reader inside this other being, a being whose nature and rights are repeatedly questioned by humans right in front of her. He does it so well that in one scene, where Josie has her classmates over and some of them begin to toy with Klara, I felt outrage, anger. I felt disgust when I learned the mother’s plan to save her daughter’s likeness, if not her person, and I was glad and relieved when she abandoned her plans, which would have affected both Josie and Klara, though in different ways.

 Throughout the story, I remained intrigued by one element of the story or another, all the way to the end of the story. In fact, some questions are never answered by Ishiguro, and I was left perplexed. For sure, he does not reveal anything very quickly, and this frustrated me at times, especially when I still could not understand what Klara was trying to do to save her friend, Josie, or how she thought her actions would help the girl, until I realized that perhaps Klara was merely a victim of the same superstitions and beliefs that we, humans, fall prey to.

 I loved this novel, its approach to asking very important existential questions, which we are confronted with even now, and will certainly later have to ask ourselves; Klara’s own humanity; and Josie’s childhood friend Rick, who is the kindest person, kind even to Klara and trusting her completely, after the initial diffidence, even though he has no better idea than the reader what it is that Klara is planning to do to save their friend.

L.A.

This is the third of Kazuo Ishiguro’s books I’ve read, and it left me with a blank space, whereas Klara and the Sun as well as The Remains of the Day both troubled me and filled me with indescribable sensations that still linger in me and reignite, in a flash, just thinking of them. But this blank space still manages to disturb me.

Never Let Me Go is about a near future where children are grown to provide organs. The novel focuses on three friends who grow up in a sort of boarding school for donors. They and their peers grow in this idyllic environment, learning to be children, playing and studying and seeing very little of the external world, but always wondering about their teachers’ emphasis on their inability to have children as well as about the art they are asked to create by one of the school’s benefactors. When they become adults and leave the school to go into half-way houses for their kind, some become curious about their origins and their destiny, about the humans they were made from, as well as , the purpose of the art they created. The answers they do find leave them more perplexed than relieved, and the questions start to fade as they begin doing what they were brought into the world to do: giving organs. As the three friends begin to donate or to care for donors, the necessities of their condition cause them to drift somewhat apart, though they do finally reconnect to remember and understand their existence before they, too, must finally die (or “complete”).

The right or wrong of the practice of growing children only to serve as donors is given very little space in the novel, though the immorality of it is intimated here and there and discussed between a few of the main characters late in the story. But Ishiguro’s writing is so skillful that the question rattles the reader’s mind all on its own, it rattled me as I started to understand the reason for these children’s existence and as I continued to follow their lives, which they live mostly in ignorance of what they are destined for. In the end, I felt a strange emptiness, a blankness I could not explain, and I still feel it now.

L.A.

One Hundred Years of Solitude is more than just a novel; it opens the door to one of literature’s most magical worlds. Literary erudites call it a ‘cornerstone of postmodern Latin American literature’, but I do not know Latin American literature, nor do I know the meaning of ‘post-modern literature’. To me, this work by Gabriel Garcia Marquez is a purely transcendent piece of literature, for which he won the Nobel Prize in 1982. It is the first novel I’ve read in the magical realism genre, and I was absolutely and utterly captivated by it. Its dreamlike and fantastical elements are simply mesmerizing, and the novel’s skillful exploration and integration of such profound themes like history, love, and fate make it feel real, sometimes more real than reality itself. Some readers do find the repetition of names across the generations confusing. But Marquez intended it this way to emphasize the cyclical nature of history and fate. Fortunately, one does get used to it and is eventually able to distinguish the protagonists from one another given their differences in ages and character.

Having loved the book—in particular the version narrated by Jon Lee, which fascinated me like  no other book has ever done, not even the Left Hand of Darkness narrated by George Guidall, whose voice enthralls me—I was very excited to learn of the Netflix adaptation. And I was not disappointed. Apparently, Marquez was resistant to adaptations, but his sons decided a collaboration with Netflix was worthwhile, and I am glad they did. The Netflix version has skillfully translated Marquez’s masterpiece to the screen, capturing the lush settings, intricate character dynamics, and deep themes of the novel while allowing the story to unfold at its own pace.

And yet, despite the adaptation’s success, nothing compares to the novel itself, which I strongly recommend reading (and even more so, recommend listening to the narrated version). Garcia Marquez’s visionary work resonates with readers on a profound level. It will leave you with unexplainable feelings that will linger and linger and eventually cause you to want to reread or listen to the book again.

L.A.