This is why I don’t write book reviews.

I don’t write book reviews because of authors like N.K. Jemisin.

Because, you see, about the only semi-coherent thought my brain can come up with, upon reading The Killing Moon, is HOLY FUCKBALLS THIS BOOK IS MAGICAL.

I could write about the author’s stunning insight into economic class and the way it shapes the human condition – our responses to events, our social landscapes, our fears.

I could declare my awe over sentences such as this one: “He could taste the city’s three thousand years on his tongue, rich and thick as an elder’s dreams.”

I could express my wonder about the story’s magic – on the skillfulness with which narcomancy is embedded in the outer world of the landscape, the inner worlds of the characters.

But try to put all those things together in a logical fashion and the thought loop progresses and closes, once again, on Mother of Morpheus, this book is fucking transcendent.

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