Half a Crown, Walton. Yes. In most respects this last volume is the best of Walton’s “Small Change” series (Farthing and Ha’penny being the first two). I don’t know how long it’s been since I last burned through the final third or so of a book in one sitting, but Walton succeeded completely in making me need to know what happened next. My complaints are quite minor, arguably ironic, and outside the scope of my review

A Mixture of Frailties, Davies. Yes. I can think of only so many ways to praise the writing of Robertson Davies. The present work is up to the high standard, engaging if not quite compelling. This gem most caught my attention:

Wit and high spirits and a sense of fun—yes, they’re wonderful things. But a sense of humour—a real one—is a rarity and can be utter hell. Because it’s immoral, you know, in the real sense of the word: I mean, it makes its own laws; and it possesses the person who has it like a demon. Fools talk about it as though it were the same thing as a sense of balance, but believe me, it’s not. It’s a sense of anarchy, and a sense of chaos. Thank God it’s rare.

Ha’penny, Walton. Yes. Follows Farthing, which I think I read after I started writing reviews, but which I apparently didn’t review. They are more or less indistinguishable in character of the plot, quality, and structure . I’ll be reading Half a Crown as soon as my library can get me a copy, but I think I’ll be more than half hoping that there won’t be a Quid or Guinea in the offing unless Walton comes up with something a little more surprising or otherwise interesting. Walton’s lead is likable enough, and the writing is just fine, but the themes are nearly tiresome in their timeliness, and I prefer a bit more escape in my escapist literature.

Now and Forever, Bradbury. No. Now and Forever comprises two novellas: “Somewhere a Band Is Playing” and “Leviathan ’99”. Both had been kicking around Bradbury’s head for a long time, and I don’t think the extended simmering did either of them any good. The former work is merely unremarkable; the latter was nearly too overwrought for me to finish (yes, I get that it’s a stylistic hommage, and maybe I’d enjoy it more if I had read the original, but I’ve read other sf treatments of the same source, and they didn’t hurt nearly this much).

Bad Monkeys, Ruff. Yes. Reminiscent in some ways of Soon I Will Be Invincible, I enjoyed it similarly. It’s less obviously stunty, and I think its premise probably appeals strongly to some kinds of geeks. I found the writing and the story quite compelling, and burned through it fairly quickly.

Tom Swift and His Space Solartron, Appleton. Yes. This was really more of an historical exercise than a book reading. I’m satisfied that I have now read as many Tom Swift books as I ever need to, and they’re really not very good. I was impressed with the accuracy of some of the scientific speculations, for a work from 1958.

Jhegaala, Brust. Yes. I’m beginning to wonder whether Brust is really loving this series anymore. I imagine that he has the final few installments ready to go (at least in notes and in his head), but that he has about four more creatures in his mythology than he really wants to deal with. Nevertheless, he’s a solidly competent writer, and even if he is marking time, it’s still quite enough to keep me turning the pages. I’m just not feeling the love and joy in the work that I fancy I used to.

Soon I Will Be Invincible, Grossman. Yes. Given its arguably stunt premise, I enjoyed this surprisingly much. It’s also arguably a continuation of my recent streak of familiar stories told from unfamiliar viewpoints, though the story is familiar only in a broad sense. The unfamiliarity of the viewpoints, and especially their contrasting views of the same situations, was quite fine.

James Tiptree, Jr.: The Double Life of Alice B. Sheldon, Phillips. Non-fiction. Julie Phillips has taken an enormous wealth of material (letters to and from Tiptree and Sheldon, Sheldon’s journals, friends’ and colleagues’ reminiscences, and photographs) and used it to present an image of the pseudonymous author and his creator. It’s a fairly heart-breaking image, and I can’t help wondering what she might have been like born fifty—or even forty—years later, into a society with a somewhat better attitude toward gayfolk, and with access to serotonin reuptake inhibitors. We might have lost a great deal of excellent (though almost uniformly draining) fiction; but a lovely, talented woman might not have spent quite so much of her life miserable. As it was, between her mother’s shadow, her frustration with the powerlessness of women, and the absence of a relationship that was emotionally and sexually satisfying to her, she doesn’t seem to have enjoyed what was to outside appearances an extremely successful life.

Soon I Will Be Invincible, Grossman. Yes. I expect I’m not familiar enough with the field to have noticed everything Grossman did here, but it was clearly a labor of love, and I did catch a few things here and there. I saw the seams only a couple times, as Grossman really did a remarkable job of sustaining good writing with what is fundamentally a stunt premise.