There are a few authors who seem to be barely human in their ability to consistently generate interesting, novel novels. I understand how difficult it is to do art, and I appreciate greatly that there’s a lot of work that goes into doing art. Tchaikovsky seems to do art on a different level–the Roberts/Sanderson level–where there’s like, a book or two or three every year and all pretty different and always a good outing even when, like with this book, I found them less keen […]