I am not saddened by this book, but in it I hear the clearest question of what meaning there is to life for us a individual people or as a species. Crisp and cool and startlingly terrifying, the images in this book have implanted themselves fairly deeply into my head. As with all novels, time will fog the clarity of detail. But I am certain the essence of the book–or at least what I have posited the essence to be–will remain. “There was a moon. The women always said that it looked like the moon they’d known, but they weren’t sure they could trust their own memories.” If you cannot remember the moon and will never be allowed a way to compare, then just pick one: yes, that is our moon; no, that is not our moon. Perhaps things will change tomorrow by whim, by revelation, or by discovery. Or perhaps not.

Read More