The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison

read by Kyle McCarley

Maia is the exiled, motherless, abused, and neglected youngest son of the emperor of the Elflands. He’s also a half-goblin in a society where stone-cold racism is the norm. When his father and all of his older brothers are killed in an airship crash, suddenly *he’s* the emperor—a job he has no training or desire for. 

But he does have the desire to make a good job of it. And he gradually learns he’s got the disposition for it; his childhood, miserable and deliberately neglectful as it was, prepared him for the imperial throne in some unexpected ways. Still, learning whom to trust and how best to navigate the bewildering and seemingly constant intrigues of a hostile court is far from easy. 

And then it turns out that the disaster that killed his father was no accident—and whoever is responsible for it is still out there somewhere. Or maybe somewhere in his own palace. Maia knows in his head, and soon learns in his gut, that an emperor can’t truly have friends; and his relations are either distant, dead, or have so many agendas, secret or otherwise, that it would take someone as idiotic as his former guardian always told him he was to trust them.

He can’t act alone, though. There’s only one of him, and he doesn’t know enough to be effective. And the potential consequences of failure to unearth the perpetrators of this plot won’t just affect him; thousands of his subjects could suffer if he makes a wrong move. He needs reliable advice and confederates, not honeyed words from sycophants. He’ll have to trust someone. But who?

This is a truly charming coming-of-age tale/political thriller/murder mystery set in a delightfully detailed and creditably believable world somewhere between elfpunk and steampunk (elfsteam? Punkpunk?). The cultures, political system, and details like court fashions are all three-dimensional and fascinating. We follow Maia's point of view closely throughout, to a degree that’s almost old school by today’s standards. 

Mostly this works beautifully, because Maia is such a good sort and a sympathetic character on multiple levels. His ignorance of court life is nearly as deep as our own ignorance of the world it’s set in, which makes him a good stand-in for the reader, and his awkwardness and occasional spitefulness are believable and save him from seeming too good to be true (or too good to be palatable, anyhow). 

The only drawback to this following-super-closely-over-Maia’s-shoulder business, and it’s the only real flaw I see in the writing, is that the scope of the story is much broader than our narrow view of it. Lots of things that one might like and expect to see happening, one only hears about afterward, which can feel a little anticlimactic at times.

But that’s a quibble. This is a really engrossing story that I couldn’t make myself stay away from for any length of time. Highly recommend.

Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates

Ta-Nehisi Coates wrote this book—part love letter, part polemic—for his 14-year-old son, Samori. He wrote in an outpouring of protectiveness and anguish, trying to explain to him a world—well, a country, a society—that is a constant danger to them both, in a way that his son might understand.

So that his son might, maybe, be a little safer? I don’t think Mr. Coates believes that there’s much his son, or any African American, can do to keep himself safe in this society, steeped as it is in institutional racism. So that his son can at least avoid the trap of self-hatred or internalized racism, maybe. So that his son can see the world around him more clearly than Ta-Nehisi did at his age, certainly.

And so that his son knows, now and forever, how precious and loved he is. And that there is, if not hope, at least beauty and meaning in this world—not only outside of America, though traveling to France was life-changing for Mr. Coates and his family, but also, and most importantly, within his own culture. This book is, among other things, a love letter: not just to his son, but also to his fellow black Americans, survivors all.

I am not the intended audience of this book. Nonetheless I felt it was important to read it, if only in order to bear witness to Mr. Coates’ reality. And one brings oneself to one's reading, just as I bring my point of view to this review; one can't help it. I read it as someone who hasn’t had to deal with racism on top of all the other -isms I face, but I also read it as the parent of a 14-year-old who will face -isms I never foresaw when I first became a parent. And my point of view has expanded: my eyes are clearer. I'm grateful for that.

It may be an odd comparison, but in a way, this book reminds me of Allen Ginsburg’s famous poem, Howl: it’s an intellectual torrent, beautiful and hideous and brave, simultaneously difficult to read and impossible to put down. Unlike Ginsburg's poetry, though, Mr. Coates’ prose is diamond-hard, relentless, and pitiless—as it must be. It’s also insightful and lush and lyrical and heartbreakingly full of love.

Don't let the difficulty of the subject matter put you off reading this book. It requires much of the reader, but it gives back in kind. It’s required reading for our generation.