Every now and then a novel takes my breath away, utterly and unexpectedly. Tonight I am undone by the greatness and sadness of Mary Doria Russell's The Sparrow. Science fiction can be an awesome platform to handle some of the more trivial issues, such as whether God exists and does life have meaning. Shame on anyone who still thinks of sf as just escapism for geeks.
The meaning or otherwise of life has been a bit of an unintended theme lately. Anne Donovan's Buddha Da (customer advisory: in Glaswegian, not English) and Mimi Thebo's The Saint Who Loved Me were brilliant finds, but the best of this lot is the one that M took with him for the weekend. Can't remember the author or the name, but it is about suicide and its cover is blue. At least in the paperback version.
No sleep for me, but the sequel to The Sparrow.
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