Source of book: NetGalley (thank you)
Relevant disclaimers: none
Please note: This review may not be reproduced or quoted, in whole or in part, without explicit consent from the author.
And remember: I am not here to judge your drag, I mean your book. Books are art and art is subjective. These are just my personal thoughts. They are not meant to be taken as broader commentary on the general quality of the work. Believe me, I have not enjoyed many an excellent book, and my individual lack of enjoyment has not made any of those books less excellent or (more relevantly) less successful.
Further disclaimer: Readers, please stop accusing me of trying to take down “my competition” because I wrote a review you didn’t like. This is complete nonsense. Firstly, writing isn’t a competitive sport. Secondly, I only publish reviews of books in the subgenre where I’m best known (queer romcom) if they’re glowing. And finally: taking time out of my life to read an entire book, then write a detailed review about it that some people on GR will look at would be a profoundly inefficient and ineffective way to damage the careers of other authors. If you can’t credit me with simply being a person who loves books and likes talking about them, at least credit me with enough common sense to be a better villain.
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Spoilers for the first book. Very small ones for the second.
Well, I say this every time: middle books in trilogies are hard. But the truth was, I was deeply, mortifyingly happy to be back with this impossible collection of people. There’s part of me—the part that’s in my mid-thirties—that is, I think, on some level aware that they’re all obnoxious beyond reason: unnecessarily articulate, unnecessarily appealing, unnecessarily obsessed with each other, even when they’re pretending not to be, unnecessarily self-absorbed, unnecessarily shaped, driven and helpless in the face of their own trauma. But the part of me that devoured The Secret History as a teenager, who genuinely hoped I would grow up to be brilliantly and beautifully damaged (as opposed to just in need of therapy), who was so terribly needy in every way it is possible for a human being to be needy … that part of me? To that part of me, these books are a fucking feast. And y’know, it kind of pleases of me that I can put aside the ironies and detachments of having grown the fuck up just to revel in them.
I don’t read YA very often because it tends to make me feel old. The Atlas series make me feel young. Because I can (mostly guilt-free) gleefully splash about in all the shit I was desperate to experience as a teenager—anything that would make me feel special and interesting, basically—and then quietly put the book down and go back to the very banal life I adore and fought to have.
So, the actual book. Well. Something I noted in my thoughts on The Atlas Six was that I wasn’t sure if the sequel could maintain the same propulsive tension when there wasn’t a murder game happening. And I’m afraid—though your mileage may vary—I might have been correct. The Atlas Paradox has some fantastic set pieces in it (usually confrontations between the various characters) but, as a whole, it felt just a touch directionless. We also get a broadening of perspectives—including more from Gideon, Ezra and a few other characters—which is … interesting, but I missed the sense of emotional claustrophobia—the snarled yarn ball of endless unreliability—when it was just the central six (especially because when we did break away from them in the final section of the first book it was like such A Moment). Ultimately, for me, broadening the scope just made the story feel more fragmented, especially because (following the events of the first book) Libby is elsewhere for the entire book and the other five feel more isolated within their own private narratives: Reina, angry with Nico, is fucking with the archives, Nico is trying to get Libby back, Callum is falling into substance abuse, Parisa is still pursuing Dalton, Tristan is … being Tristan, which mostly involves nebulous adventures in self-loathing. (Nebulous Adventures in Self-Loathing is also the name of my autobiography, btw).
Of course, part of the point is that the group is genuinely unbalanced without Libby. She’s always been a character study in exquisite irritation, but I missed her deeply. And, honestly, I also missed everyone trying to fuck and/or kill each other all the time. I mean, yes, there’s moments where so-and-so is full of deep, murderous rage towards so-and-so but I never really believed anyone was actually going to try to knife anyone else. Unlike the first book, where I was pretty much convinced it was going to happen at least once a chapter.
On top of which, the ending of the first book—in which the scope of Atlas’s plan is revealed—kind of led me to expect significant changes to the world state in book two? And … well … there aren’t any? Like Atlas is still planning the same plan, but he doesn’t seem to be any closer to achieving it than he was at the end of book one. The Forum is still out there but they don’t do anything except … attend a party? And the remaining five researchers mostly sit around, um, putting together research proposals? Which in academia terms too real, man, too real. In terms of a story about sex, power, trauma and someone who literally wants to create a new universe … bit disappointing?
We do get a shifting of alliances within the five, following the events of the first book, and those character dynamics continue to be wholly fascinating. Put any of them in a room in any configuration to fuck or get in a fight and I was RIVETED. In terms of development, however, we only really get more insight into Reina and Callum, while Nico, Parisa and Tristan continue to act mostly as they always have. In some ways, I suspect, this was necessary because Reina and Callum were the least developed in the first book, Reina because she was so locked down, and Callum because he was portraying himself as a cackling supervillain, but the fact that we finally begin to understand Reina and Callum more makes the others feel static in comparison (as much I adore them). Similarly, Libby does make a really significant series of choice in this book, even though she’s not on page very much, but we’re not going to see the impact of them—either on the world or Libby herself—until the next book.
But here’s the thing. The reason I’ve foregrounded these issues is because … kind of … in a very real sense … I don’t give a fuck? Like, I’m aware that there are ways in which this book doesn’t quite do enough on its own to drive the whole story forward—it’s mainly treading water, set-up, and just enough new information to keep you curious—but none of it stopped me eating The Atlas Paradox right up and still being ravenous for more. I think at this point we might be in a style over substance place (something that may very well change in the third book) but … hell, the style is dazzling and it’s a pleasure, sometimes, to let yourself be dazzled. The characters are all godawful (I mean, as people, they’re wonderfully written) but I’m obsessed with them and the books themselves are just so shamelessly charismatic, their tendency towards extravagant self-indulgence always expertly balanced by this thread of dark humour. I mean, academics psychically feeding themselves to a sinister, potentially sentient library to access knowledge … that’s just fucking delightful (cf. too real, man too real).
Basically, if you loved The Atlas Six, The Atlas Paradox is more of the same. You might think it could have done with being a bit *more* more of the same. But, equally, if you’re as into the same as I apparently am then you won’t be disappointed.
Less coherent thoughts:
--I know Nico/Gideon is supposed to be, like, THE ship but Callum/Tristram? Come on. It’s not real love unless one of you might be an actual sociopath and the other has tried to literally murder you
--I have never wanted anyone, real or fictional, with the intensity I want Parisa
--I have a new appreciation for Libby
--Still #TeamCallum. All the way.