The Iron Dragon’s Daughter, by Michael Swanwick. A Cracking little read, this one, bonkers and brave and brash. Totally slaps anyone who suspects ‘gritty’ fantasy is a new thing. This book doesn’t shy away from adult language and themes (war, racism, sexism), and has a pleasing mish-mash of aesthetics, from the gentle veneer of the fae, to the harsh industrial landscape – all mixed with a spot of college antics and sex. Quite likely a deliberate attempt to upset some section of the genre readership – which you’ve got to love, right?
The Man Who Was Thursday, by G. K. Chesterton. A very eccentric metaphysical romp, where the narrative and dialogue is almost entirely a soapbox for philosophy and religion, thoughts on good and evil, spot the anarchist and whatnot. A little underwhelming, but I still enjoyed it. (Would love to have seen Calvino write this novel.)
Next up, American Gods, by Neil Gaiman. I’m actually about a hundred pages in, and rather seduced by its beautiful madness.