Author Archives: Reynard

The most important thing in the universe, it turns out, is a complex of subjective and individual approximations. Of tries and fails. Of ideals, and things we do to try to get close to those ideals. It’s who we are … Continue reading →

He. Does there have to be a he? It seems weak and unoriginal doesn’t it,  for stories told by girls to always have a he?” ― Rinsai Rossetti’s The Girl With Borrowed Wings Somewhere a chicken is roasting as I can … Continue reading →

Don’t be scared. All of this is new to you, and new can be scary. Now we all want answers. Stick with me — you might get some. — Thirteenth Doctor Yes it feels full Summer today despite being the last … Continue reading →

All civilisations might fall, but forfend one might disturb a cat.— Elizabeth Bear’s “A Blessing of Unicorns: A Sub-Inspector Ferron Mystery” It is finally Spring but still cold enough that an Icelandic supper of lamb tenderloin in licorice-sauce, and fish … Continue reading →

Fuck every cause that ends in murder and children crying. ― Iain Banks’ Against a Dark Background which may or may not be a Culture novel.  There is a sharp edge in the air that reminds you that the dark winter months are … Continue reading →

 Jerold took down a big, heavy book from the third shelf and read it for about an hour without quite making out the point of it … The man, the horse, the hounds, and the tree person were all part … Continue reading →

Such a quintessentially human thing, to express sorrow through apology. ― Becky Chambers’ The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet Ahhh, that heavenly smell is the fresh baked lussekatter, a Swedish traditional bun, that I’m having with cardamom spiced coffee for a snack on … Continue reading →

We think of forgiveness as a thing. An incident. A choice. But forgiveness is a process. A long, exhausting process. A series of choices that we have to make over, and over, and over again. ― Elizabeth Bear’s Ancestral Night: A White … Continue reading →

So much of who we are is what we remember and retell. Arkady Martine’s A Memory Called Empire Yes I’m covered with kibbles and bits of straw. It’s the time of year that we make new scarecrows, bodach ròcais in Scots Gaelic, … Continue reading →