This is one of those books that doesn’t just tell a story — it breathes it. Reading it feels less like moving from page to page and more like drifting, like being carried across water by language that knows exactly where it’s going, even when you don’t.

The writing is the heart of this novel. It is mesmerising, poetic, and deeply intentional in a way that feels rare. The prose moves effortlessly between registers: at times it reads like an academic paper, precise and observational; at others like a folktale passed down by firelight, mythic and intimate; and then suddenly, achingly human, slipping into first-person voices that feel like confessions. These shifts never feel gimmicky. Instead, they mirror the way memory, history, and storytelling actually work — layered, fragmented, communal. The structure itself becomes meaning.

What struck me most is how confident the writing is. It trusts the reader to sit with ambiguity, to pause, to breathe, to remember. It allows silence and slowness. It invites you to stay. There is a hypnotic quality to following the story this way, as perspectives rotate and overlap, as we sometimes observe from the outside and sometimes find ourselves uncomfortably inside the story, implicated simply by reading. It is a deeply unique approach to fantasy — not driven by spectacle, but by voice, by rhythm, by interiority.

Thematically, this book is an exploration of found family, sisterhood, loneliness, and the quiet devastation — and beauty — of letting go. It asks what it means to belong, who gets to decide that belonging, and what it costs to love when love does not guarantee permanence. Relationships are not framed as possessions, but as moments of choosing: choosing to stay, choosing to leave, choosing to remember. There is a tenderness to the way connection is handled, paired with an understanding that love does not always mean proximity, and that sometimes the deepest acts of care involve release.

The worldbuilding unfolds gently, almost sideways. Rather than overwhelming the reader, it reveals itself through myth, memory, and lived experience. Characters feel less like constructs and more like echoes — people shaped by place, by community, by fear and hope and longing. They linger long after the page is turned, not because of grand gestures, but because of the emotional truth they carry.

This is not a book you rush through. It’s one you live inside for a while, one that asks you to slow down and feel — grief, wonder, connection, ache. It’s a story about stories, about the way we hold onto each other, and about what remains when we cannot. By the time it ends, it feels like you’ve spent a lifetime there.

And somehow, you’re grateful for every second.

Babel is honestly one of the best books I’ve read in a long time. From the very first pages, I felt completely immersed in its world – the atmosphere, the setting, the way Kuang built Wessel felt so vivid and real. The worldbuilding is incredible, and I devoured this book much faster than I expected given its length.

What stood out to me most were the historical aspects and the sheer amount of research that must have gone into writing it. The way history, colonialism, and language are intertwined was fascinating to read about. As someone whose first language is German, I especially loved the way the book makes you think about translation – about which words carry meanings that can’t be fully captured in another language, and how much is lost or transformed in the process. The footnotes and the linguistic reflections were such a highlight for me.

The characters were also very well written. I really enjoyed following the protagonist’s perspective and growth. At the same time, there were moments where I wished for a bit more balance: Victory’s development felt a little underexplored early on, Letty’s role could have been fleshed out more, and occasionally the pacing slowed down before suddenly accelerating a lot toward the end. None of this, however, took away from my overall reading experience.

Babel is powerful, thought-provoking, and beautifully written. If you’re interested in history, languages, or stories that explore the complexity of words and power, I can’t recommend it enough.

The Lion Women of Tehran was an incredibly emotional read for me. I finished it teary-eyed, and there were several moments throughout the novel that genuinely moved me. At times, I almost forgot I was reading about fictional characters because of how vividly the story is woven into the real history of Iran from the 1950s through the 1980s.

What captivated me most was the relationship between Ellie and Homa. Their friendship is the heart of the novel, spanning years of political upheaval, personal growth, separation, and reunion. It feels authentic in all its complexity. Through them, the novel explores joy, loyalty, jealousy, grief, love and betrayal in ways that feel deeply human. I found myself connecting with both women, even when I didn't always agree with their choices. One of the book's greatest strengths is its willingness to let its characters be imperfect without losing empathy for them.

The historical setting is equally compelling. Rather than feeling like a backdrop, Iran's changing political landscape becomes an active force in the characters' lives, shaping their opportunities, relationships, and futures. I learned a great deal about Iranian history and culture while reading, but never in a way that felt like a history lesson. Instead, these events are experienced through the lives of people you come to care about.

Beyond its historical elements, the novel explores themes of feminism, motherhood, autonomy, sacrifice, and resilience. I particularly appreciated how it portrays different kinds of strength and different ways of being a woman. There is no single path to fulfilment, activism, or courage, and the book allows its characters the space to navigate those questions for themselves.

Beautiful, devastating, hopeful, and heartbreaking, The Lion Women of Tehran is ultimately a story about friendship, about the choices that shape our lives, and about the enduring bonds that connect us to one another.