“Besides, how do you attend to the thoughts and concerns of the dying when medicine has made it almost impossible to be sure who the dying even are. Is someone with terminal cancer, dementia or incurable heart failure dying exactly?”

In the end, I think that quote from about 58% of the way through is the central thesis and crux of my experience with this book. It’s not an altogether new premise or thought to me; I’m a medical provider, I work in oncology, I’ve thought about this on my own without needing Gawande to elaborate on the state of nursing homes, geriatrics, hospice or the challenges of navigating end of life care. I’ve had patients that made me think about this, about the utility of offering more treatment, about whether we’re doing what’s right for them versus being informative in ways that don’t, perhaps, align with their most important needs.

And yet, for all the points raised that I did already know or had already thought about—that conditions in nursing homes are often appalling or soul crushing, that overmedication and over-treatment are problems, that we, societally, have made death into a medical problem rather than one centrally focused on the patient and providing good time whatever that means—it was made all the more meaningful to hear them reinforced through his personal journalistic-style exploration of settings I’ve never interacted with and his reflections on his own experience. The personal interactions scattered throughout—especially those in the latter half of the book—are deeply moving too and I appreciate them for what they are; reflections of a son who watched his father struggle in a heartbreaking, medically complex way as well as those of a physician who deeply cares about patients, who wants to help people to the core but also recognizes that the system—and society—are broken.

Flawed.

As are all of us. As am I as a medical provider.

In the end, a book like this is meant to be informative and to help an audience who does not often interact with death and dying consider their own regards as well as society’s. For me, personally, there are some other things I’ll take away: a reminder to continue leading with compassion, a reinforcement to continue trying to meet patients where they’re at on their journey regarding making peace with their diagnosis, and maybe—most painfully—a gentle exhortation to have the difficult conversations more openly rather than optimistically because the latter is more comfortable for everyone involved.

I don’t promise patients things I don’t know. The number of times I’ve said, “I don’t have a crystal ball, I can’t give you an exact answer on how long you’ll get from this treatment,” followed by “the data says ‘from x to y’” or “I’ve seen anywhere from a to b” always with the caveat, “but nothing is absolute,” is high. Sometimes that’s the right thing to say when talking about certain kinds of treatment. But maybe with some of the harder conversations—ones more aimed at palliation and disease control rather than cure—I need to do a little more asking about what’s important—whether it be time or something else—to make sure our efforts are aimed towards the right targets.

Even doing what I do, this wasn’t a comfortable read. The most personal anecdotes made me tear up—no matter how much exposure I have to death and dying, I think it’s only right, in its way, to feel the impact of the stories being offered—and I only read (or well, listened) to this when I knew I was in an emotional space that I could engage with the subject matter. Regardless, I gained things that matter from this read in ways that are deeply personal and specific for me. I think readers who don’t have my background, who don’t do what I do, might get something different out of it—an opportunity to consider death and dying in a world that likes to gloss over it, as well as a chance, perhaps, to consider what they might like for themselves, what dying with dignity means for them—but I suspect it won’t be any easier to get through.

It’s definitely worth the read though, at least in my opinion.

After all, we, as a society, don’t stop death from being an exclusively medical problem, without actually considering it in places where it’s not being thrown into our faces and accepting that it’s a part of life that deserves to be discussed and improved upon rather than simply hidden from.

Well, here we are. This is a review that’s been a long time coming, insofar as this book was originally recommended to me five years ago as being up my alley because of the sense of humor as well as the sapphic romance of it all. On both those counts, it delivered somewhat, the first more so than the second. Gideon’s sense of humor worked for me—it’s irreverent, it’s sharp, it’s snarky—and I never got bored of that. I also enjoyed the subplots that were sapphic romance edged, both via Gideon/Dulcinea and Gideon/Harrow. The latter pairing’s relationship at the beginning, their initial fight in particular, captivated me, and for a while sustained my interest.

However, what I wish someone—anyone—had told me before I went in is really simple: this is a vibes book. Yes, it’s about Gideon and Harrow, yes it’s a locked room mystery, and yes it’s about the quest to become a Lyctor, but expecting to close this book with a thorough understanding of the world is a mistake, one that I walked into by virtue of the book length.

Unfortunately, because of my lack of understanding, I found myself really frustrated about 60% of the way into the book because I felt like I should understand the universe better and I absolutely thought I should have a better grasp on the cast. But at that point, I was listening via audiobook, which I unfortunately cannot recommend, not because the audiobook is bad—it’s great, the sass level via audio is fantastic—but because there’s no way to go back and refer to the cast list unless one goes out of their way to obtain it elsewhere. This is made a much bigger problem by Muir’s insistence on having MULTIPLE ways to refer to every character. Gideon alone is referenced as “Gideon, Nav, Ninth, The Ninth Cavalier, Griddle (a nickname I still don’t understand the source of, which kind of galls me, not going to lie)” plus others/variants I’m sure I’m forgetting and a variety of abusive terms from Harrow for a good portion of the book.

Ultimately, I read the last 40% or so in one sitting via a physical copy, mostly because I just wanted to get it over with. It makes me sad that my experience above (and my brain doing the thing it does where I inevitably struggle with very/over hyped things if I’m not enjoying them to my max ability/to the level I think I should be) made finishing feel almost like a chore or a slog, BUT I actually do think this last chunk did redeem itself somewhat.

For one, I did find it much easier to get through. In part, this was because I’d had a few conversations about my frustration with people who had finished and was basically told, “being confused is part of the ride, just enjoy the vibes” which made it easier. Another good portion of that ease, was because I had the cast list in front of me and kept flipping back to it every time a character was mentioned to be sure I knew EXACTLY who they were/which house they were from and whether they were the adept or the cavalier, so I will give credit where it was due; having the cast list is helpful. That said, given that this is a several hundred page book and the cast hits its largest point relatively early on before gradually starting to shrink, I don’t really think this is good worldbuilding or good story writing. Again, see my gripe about way too many names for the same character.

For two, I appreciated the fact that there were answers. Not enough to truly satisfy me, like it galls me that I listened to/read several hundred pages worth of words and still have very little understanding of the nine houses or how to distinguish them, but the locked room mystery of it all was somewhat solved, which, you know, was gratifying, so it could be worse, I guess.

Ultimately, before I understood that this is a vibes book, I was going to give this two stars; I was NOT having a good time. But accepting that this is not a book where you’re meant to walk out feeling immersed in the world and satisfied with your understanding helped me let go of that and make my peace with this book. I had an okay time. I would have had a better one if I’d known this was something other than I expected it to be going in.

I’d like to think that maybe things will become clearer in Harrow the Ninth, but I’m skeptical that the ‘handwave, it’s vibes’ aspect of this will be any different (please someone tell me if I’m wrong, I’d love to know if I should walk in expecting another vibes read!). Either way I will probably pick up the next installment in the series, though I’m certainly not rushing to do so RIGHT NOW (though I also don’t think I’ll have to wait another five years to finally be in the mood to engage with this world again). I also might consider rereading this again when it’s a little less fresh with the understanding I now have and see if that improves the experience. Either way, I’m happy to take this off my TBR.

It’s hard to find a way to describe this book. Fundamentally, I think it’s more a vibes read because the plot itself is a little lackluster and doesn’t quite tie up in a satisfying bow, especially for being framed around a locked room mystery.

I love Arkady Martine’s prose—it’s lush and sometimes lyrical; for someone with aphantasia, I love how much weight sound gets in the description of this book especially when it comes to Rose House’s speaking (the vocal tags surrounding its dialogue were always of interest, the way its laughter is described was fascinating)—but it doesn’t entirely lend itself to simple and straight details, to a mystery being solved in an uncomplicated way.

Only, I don’t think that’s really what the book’s about, nor do I think it’s what makes this book compelling. Instead, what makes Rose/House is, well, Rose House. There’s a distinct eeriness that colors its interactions with our human cast from the start.

It begins in just vocals, in the way it thinks at computer speeds, but talks with human cadence, in the way it pauses to mask its inhumanity, but betrays itself by way of content.

(“I’m a piece of architecture, Detective. How should I know how humans are like to die?”)

And it only gets more strange as the story progresses.

As the characters enter Rose House we learn more about the mystery, but really, this becomes an unravelling of architecture and AI, of revealing Rose House for what it is.

And what it isn’t.

(“It was playing with her. […] It knew, and it was deliberately pretending it didn’t. There was nothing in the nature of an artificial intelligence that forbade it to lie. Nothing at all, save the few failsafes that produced duty-of-care calls. It would have to recognize lying, though, internalize the concept and the methodology of falsehoods, and then choose to engage in it as an—aesthetic practice. No wonder Rose House had figured out how.”)

In the end, again, this is a vibes read, one that hit at the right time, place and mood for me. I can easily see why people dislike or are disappointed by this, it’s not a very grounded book nor is it a satisfying locked room mystery, but I found myself gravitating to the character work rather than the plot. The thought of Rose House—the AI, not the architecture—is going to linger, and that, I think is as intended, which makes this successful to me.

After all, do we not live in a world where we must think about AI more and more? About what it is? About what it isn’t?