has plenty of Margo in it. First, she falls off her bike in Milestones—this I will show all my cycling buddies ('So when you
fall off your bike, does it get noted in an International Journal? No? You are, like, so nobody!'). A few other things happen, too, to other people—you know, babies and wedding anniversaries and stuff—but Margo's Collarbone gets top billing.
Then Rich Horton reviews Jonathan Strahan and Jeremy Byrne's Eidolon I
anthology and says, 'In particular I liked Margo Lanagan's quite nasty "A Fine Magic"...the magic described is lovely and scary.' To be fair, he does talk about other stories, Jeff VanderMeer's and Alastair Ong's, as well. But he talks about me first
, all right?
Then Nick Gevers writes a nice fat
review of Red Spikes
and says it is 'no less brilliant' than the previous two collections.
Its stories are unassumingly written yet dazzlingly original, full of moral force and unsettling psychological insight...To read Lanagan is to inhabit other minds—sometimes Other ones—to a greater extent than literature customarily makes possible: the effect is hypnotic. In Red Spikes there are ten stories, ten trances masterfully induced...never simplistic, persistently wise...provocatively ambiguous moments...a formidably accomplished book.
Citizens of Sydney, you have no excuse for that stack of books at Galaxy. Go, buy your copy, and be intimidated now.