Well, that's it. Neal Stephenson's "The Baroque Cycle" is finished. This book suffers from the same malady as its predecessors: an insufficiently empowered editor. 'The System of the World' offers a bang-up conversation between Newton and Leibnitz. It wraps its major plot threads. It works. However, there isn't enough story to justify its length and Stephenson isn't a good enough prose stylist to justify his longwindedness. Still, I give this three stars for its carefully imagined 18th Century Europe. I feel like I got to know Newton and Leibnitz. I understand Monadism better than I had. And I now know a lot about the nuts and bolts of Baroque-era coining. I read this because a friend from church pressed it into my hands, exclaiming that "The Baroque Cycle" is his favorite work of fiction. I look forward to discussing his why.

This is a spooky little play on 'Pet Sematary,' with a sci-fi twist. That's really all you need to know. Read it in October.

Man, I love these books. "Babylon's Ashes," the sixth *Expanse* novel, tells the story of the full fledged Solar System - wide war that follows in the wake of the events of "Nemesis Games." This is tense, nail biting stuff, almost as gripping as its predecessor. However, this novel feels like events playing out as they more-or-less must. It's very well written and very entertaining, but I'd recommend it only to those already invested in the longer story that is *The Expanse.*

Solomon's Gold was dull. So, so dull. For any other writer, I'd give "dull" two stars. The novel is written in legible English and it isn't actively offensive. However, this is Neal Stephenson. He wrote *Cryptonomicon.* He wrote *Seveneves.* He wrote *The Confusion,* which came immediately before this novel in his Baroque Cycle. Neal gets graded on a curve. *The Confusion* combined Stephenson's love for the Dickensian with a fascinating tale about pirates, princesses, and stolen treasure. *Solomon's Gold* finds Stephenson giving full flight to his compulsion to describe, in excruciating detail, every neighborhood of Early 18th Century London - down to the last cobblestone. To leaven the dreariness, he distracts us with a tale about what a dick Isaac Newton was. This is not the stuff of which 5-star reviews are made. I feel like this book is an example of a writer getting too well-respected. Where was the editor telling him tighten things up, that his 300-page story could have been told in 125 pages, tops? Where were the beta readers, the friends and family who could have put a hand on Stephenson's shoulder and told him, "We love you, but this one's getting away?" Wherever they were, this book could have used them. I'm pressing on with the next book in the Cycle, but it has some amends to make.