Metropolis, by Elizabeth Gaffney, was a gift. Now, here are my criteria for a good gift. Ideally, a gift should be something that the recipient would not buy for him- (or her-) self. It should be something that the giver would not have bought for somebody else. It would be something that the recipient would not have got from somebody else. And it should be something that the recipient will, afterwards, associate with the giver, either when looking at it, or using it, or (for an event-based gift such as theater tickets or whatnot) just when remembering it. That's how I see it. Now, very rarely is a gift going to meet all those criteria. If you're lucky, you might pick a gift that the person had been meaning to buy but hadn't got around to yet, and maybe he will remember that it was your gift.
Anyway, as much as I like to get books as gifts, it's always a trifle stressful as well. I mean, what if I don't like the book? What does that say about our friendship, and how well the person knows me? And books, you know, are somehow far more personal than movies or music (at least to me). If I went to the trouble of picking out a book to give as a gift, and then found that the person didn't like it, I'd be pretty down about it. Of course, that has happened, several times. And I've been given books I've adored, and books I've loathed, and books I've never even opened. Not your gift, of course, Gentle Reader, which I did like. I'm speaking of an altogether different book.
As for this book, I liked it quite a bit. There were some odd things, and at least one major editing error, and the whole thing was an odd mix of naturalistic 1870s Manhattan and some very implausible stuff. I couldn't tell if the implausible stuff was meant to be funny, or unsettling, or symbolic, or what. But it was interesting.
chazak, chazak, v’nitchazek,
-Vardibidian.