Orson Scott Card, Seventh Son

Orson Scott Card, Seventh Son. In a north American frontier where superstition and magic work and persist, an unimaginably powerful young boy only survives because more powerful forces are protecting him than trying to kill him. Eh. The first of Card's I've read and probably the last. It was fine, but not great in any way.

Marilynne Robinson, Gilead

Marilynne Robinson, Gilead. So lovely that I read it with my heart in my mouth, afraid to breathe. Exactly how I feel about the beauty of this world.

Paul Harding, Tinkers

Paul Harding, Tinkers. A intricate and beautiful book, nearly a poem written to the richness of the world and the wonder of stopping in it. How much of self is memory and how much we live in a remembered world of our senses - all our loves and the beauty we encounter in some phantom connection of our neurons, ready to replay at the encounter of a lost trigger or to escape into entropy.

Nick Hornby, How to Be Good

Nick Hornby, How to Be Good. Funny. And surprisingly it actually was about how to be good. Or at least how a middle class middle-aged middling unhappy family attempts to be good. But I hated it at the end and I thought they were all horrible people.