Entries tagged with 4.5 stars

“You have to name things in order to make them real.”

This was beautiful in a quiet, steadfast kind of way.

Where The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet sprawled outward - a road trip across the stars with a crew full of personalities - A Closed and Common Orbit folds inward. It’s more intimate, more reflective. A story about becoming, belonging, and building yourself from the ground up when no one gave you a map.

We follow two stories in parallel: Lovelace, a newly embodied AI trying to find her place in a body that doesn’t feel like hers; and Pepper, whose harrowing childhood and improbable rescue form the emotional heart of the novel. Both storylines are tender, slow-building, and full of grace. They gently ask: who gets to be a person? Who decides what makes someone worthy? And what does healing look like when you’ve been made to feel unworthy of care?

It’s science fiction, yes but in Becky Chambers’ hands, it feels more like a cup of tea passed across the table while someone tells you the truth. Kindness is the fuel here. Kindness and care and the small, unshowy acts that form chosen families.

The writing isn’t flashy. It doesn’t need to be. It carries so much quiet emotional weight, particularly in Pepper’s timeline, which gutted me more than once and still somehow left me feeling hopeful. And Sidra (Lovelace) is one of the most endearing depictions of self-discovery I’ve read in ages. Her confusion, fear, and curiosity feel painfully, beautifully human.

Favourite quote:
"I am not sad. I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am not angry. I am not unnatural. I am not broken. I am not wrong."

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐✨ (4.5 stars)
Soft, slow, and profoundly human. This is a book I’ll return to when I need reminding that growth doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful.

“The map doesn’t show it, but the path is still there. You just have to keep walking.”

In Landlines, Raynor Winn returns once more to the trail — this time with the weight of years, illness, and uncertainty pressing even more deeply into her boots. And yet, from the very first page, there is that same fierce light: the quiet strength of a woman who knows what it means to risk everything for hope.

This third memoir sees Raynor and Moth set out again — not along the familiar coasts of the South West, but from Scotland’s rugged highlands down through wild terrain, ancient paths, and unfamiliar lands. Moth’s health has worsened. Their future is even more fragile. But the act of walking, of placing one foot in front of the other, remains a kind of sacred rhythm — one that roots them to the land and to each other.

Landlines is perhaps Winn’s most mature and expansive work. The writing feels richer, more meditative, with passages that ache with clarity and gratitude. There’s a new layer of reflection here — about aging, the body’s betrayals, the limits of love and endurance. But there’s also a sense of deepening connection: to the land, to the seasons, and to a slower kind of strength.

It’s not just a continuation of The Salt Path and The Wild Silence — it’s a culmination. And in some ways, it felt the most emotionally resonant of the three. There’s something profound about returning to the trail, knowing the risks, and choosing to walk anyway.

If I have a single quibble, it’s that the structure wanders now and then — the pace sometimes slows to a near halt in certain philosophical reflections. But that’s also part of its rhythm. This is a book that breathes, that pauses. That asks you to listen, not rush.

Favourite quote:
"The path was not an escape but a return — to the land, to ourselves, to something ancient and enduring."

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐½ (4.5 stars)
Wistful, grounded, and quietly powerful — Landlines is a moving reflection on perseverance, place, and the quiet act of keeping going.

4.5-Star Review: A Closed and Common Orbit by Becky Chambers

🌲 4.5-Star Review: Landlines by Raynor Winn