Nicola Griffith

These three short stories are all as brilliant, sharp and gripping as I expected. Somehow Nicola Griffith manages to do one thing so well that it could as well be magic: She writes things that hit a random german woman in her late 20s like a brick because they are the exact composition of words she needed to read in that very moment. It already happened with Ammonite and now again with the second short story of this book: Song of bullfrogs, cry of geese.

It's about a woman living in a time show more on earth when a syndrome that resembles (or is) the chronic fatigue syndrome becomes deadly, contagious and takes over the world, driving humanity closer and closer to extinction. I know that Nicola Griffith has MS so her perspective on something like this is always so painfully on point. Despite my immense love for her work I couldn't yet bring myself to read "so lucky" (where the main character is diagnosed with MS) and this short story was almost too much to bear. I am not yet diagnosed with any cause, my life is just crumbling away under extreme fatigue, horrid stomach issues, brain fog and endless tiring pain. The newest addition to this nightmare being some conditions that require surgery after surgery. A simple cold can take me out for several weeks. Ironically, this short book took me extremely long to read because either my hands couldn't hold it anymore or I just blacked out from exhaustion. Doctors are moving way too slow while my body breaks down bit by bit because despite my coutries praised general health insurance system, not having a private insurance means doctors can't afford to give a fuck. This story made me cry for this reason and also many others. Grief for a partner, grief for humanity. For some this story might be a reminder to what we all lived through the past three years during the pandemic, even though Griffith in the 90s painted a kinder picture of humanity here than what I perceived of it during our pandemic. For me, this was mainly some kind of crude catharsis in seeing the entirety of humanity crumbling under what feels like such a lonely and personal struggle to me. There is some odd kind of peace in this story and a question I do not really dare to answer. Would it be easier for me to deal with my body/life breaking down when I would share this struggle with everyone in the world? When our pandemic hit and the first lockdowns happened I felt lonely and scared like the majority of humanity but I could adapt quicker than most because I knew what it meant to be careful, to avoid infection and to isolate myself. But now that the world around me is "normal" again it feels like everyone took a space ship to another planet while I'm still here where I was before, where I was during the pandemic and where I will stay for the rest of my life. On the other hand, sharing a struggle like this also means sharing it with loved ones. Losing them, seeing them in pain. I'd rather continue this struggle alone I think. But the thought and the question won't leave me alone.

"I imagined making my pain as impersonal as nature's night face, putting it in a pouch at the small of my back, zipping the pouch shut."
When I can, despite the fatigue and pain, I watch birds, dig through dirt in my parents garden or try a short hike through bogs or forests. Looking at life and rot and smell decay or woods. Everything is so unaware of my pain, my fear and the future. If you stop and watch there is so much going on. Things die and kill and rest and enjoy the sun just as much as I do. But nothing cares. I've talked to people who found the indifference of nature towards humans (and a hypothetical dying humanity) unnerving. I don't, quite the opposite. But I get what they mean.

I can not yet fully understand what it is like to grieve for another person like the protagonist grieves. Someday I will and maybe I will have the courage to let this story be my companion again. But until then I can't properly describe how much it means to me to read about so much love from one woman to her female partner. How it moves me and touches me in a way I didn't know I needed. There is also another kind of grief and how connection to other people (past, present and future. As individuals and as a species) is an important way to deal with it.

"I blinked. I'd been asleep: the moon was up" I read, as I had just picked the book up again after blinking and having been asleep.

This story felt deeply sad, encouraging in a not-so-gentle way and deeply soothing to me. Like someone holding me a little bit too tight while I cry in the ugliest way. It made me reflect on so much and it made me feel a lot I can't put it into words. There is so so much going on on these few pages (just a little over 20) and I can't yet express all of it. I left out a lot that probably should be said about this story. My heart and my head feel full and I could endlessly talk about what this story means to me. It hasn't exactly healed something but it has awoken some thoughts, ideas, perspectives and feelings I needed right now.

The book promised "feminist sci fi conversation pieces" and oh I would love to have a conversation about this one. And I would probably marry the woman who has that conversation with me.

And I haven't even talked about the other stories yet! Let's say they are wonderful, exceptionally well written and touched me in different ways (quite erotic sometimes too). I haven't found an author who writes same sex attracted women like she does: in a way that feels familiar, like home without getting too cozy to feel unreal.

I am also always surprised at how modern and relevant to the current Zeitgeist her earlier work (even pre-2000s) feels. Like she has some gift of foresight or just a very deep understanding of humans. Read these well over 20 year old stories and you will know what I mean.

I think this book confirms Nicola Griffith as my favourite author, even though I (luckily) have yet to read some of her other work (there is also a new book coming up as far as I know!). Maybe I will read "so lucky" when I finally get a diagnosis show less

I had to go back and re-read Hild before this and I'm glad I did that. I'm not surprised that this book is heartbreaking, because how could it not be? But it's also a fierce and glorious book, one where Hild breaks and is mended and carries on and comes to a new chapter. Long, immersive, obsessively good, and the vivid world inside keeps turning as fate goes ever as it must. Devastating in all the best and worst meanings of that word. Absolutely beautiful.

advanced readers copy provided by show more Edelweiss show less

Comparisons with Ursula Le Guin are justified, but this queer retelling of one of the Arthur myths is very much its own thing, gorgeous, achingly heroic, filled with magic and wildness and touching on ancient mythths from Britain, Wales and Ireland. I normally think of short books as tight, but this manages to full so much into its length that it overflows like the cup at the centre of the story of a young girl raised by her mother in a cave in a hidden valley who dons armour and is show more determined to become one of the Companions of the King, and how she acheives this, and so much more. A classic. show less

This is a compact, polished narrative of world exploration. It’s enjoyable but maybe a little too compact at times. Griffith has envisioned a big world on Jeep that full of new fauna and flora and, apparently, rich in its varied peoples, folkways, and traditions. But so much of this background is compressed into such a tight space that it seems to lack dimensionality. I suppose I would have enjoyed more world building, but I’m not sure the plot would have been big enough to fill the show more space.

I won’t say anything that gives away the story, but there is a lot in here that subverts many sci-fi tropes, about the aims of exploration and discovery, the construction of “alien” and “other,” heck even the aims and assumptions of science. In that way, the novel really lives up to the label of feminist science fiction. I find that perspective so refreshing, and it is reason enough to recommend this novel. show less