The Little Book of Lykke

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Clementine and vanilla botanical candle from Kaminari. Prints from Artifact Uprising.

“If you want happiness for an hour, take a nap. If you want happiness for a day, go fishing. If you want happiness for a month, get married. If you want happiness for a year, inherit a fortune. If you want happiness for a lifetime, help others.” – Chinese proverb

Rather than a shortcut to personal happiness, and despite its Danish title, The Little Book of Lykke is an international introduction to why some communities are happier than others. Investigating six keystones highlighted by a United Nations report, Lykke takes you across all six inhabited continents on a “treasure hunt” for what makes people happy. In surprisingly succinct sentences, it carefully considers cultural attitudes, national policies, local efforts, and individual case studies. Sure, some explanations may be oversimplified, but as a starting point, the analyses were more than sufficient to set Lykke firmly apart from the more wishy-washy-flower-child happiness self-help guides.

That said, some practical suggestions for individual implementation are given. They were helpfully grouped into boxes of Happiness Tips, which translated positive principles scientists, psychologists and anthropologists have observed around the world into small, day-to-day tasks. But the intention of these is to not only help yourself become happier, but also to make others happier too (which in turn will make you happier as well).

And of course, the binding and format of this book are lovely – if books can be hygge, then Wiking’s (currently) two-part series is the epitome of it. The Fair Isle illustrations and matte cream covers are cute touches, and aptly bring a smile to my face. Not to mention Wiking’s compulsive (and very topical) pun-making.

So should you read this book? If you want a one-stop checklist of steps to lifelong happiness, maybe not. The Little Book of Lykke is much more than that. But if you want a solid launch pad for your own investigations replete with social experiments and studies to refer to, then Lykke would be a good place to start.

Side note: I had first read the opening proverb on the corridor walls to a mall bathroom in Hong Kong, and I remember thinking it was the most profound advice I had ever heard. (Although hopefully your marriage remains happy for more than a month!) I was pleasantly surprised to find it in a book by such a quintessentially Danish author.

Rating: 4/5

Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdom

Is it just me or is reviewing a book you love a lot harder than reviewing a book you really dislike? Because I promise I do not normally take a month to write a review. I originally bought Six of Crows for my flight to New York, but ended up reading Being Mortal instead (I had just lost my phone in the Hong Kong airport so I was, ironically, not in the mood for an escapist book – I was too busy worrying). I was, however, in the mood once I had settled into my queen-sized hotel bed that night and sorted out how I would get my phone back. A mistake, because I only went to sleep at 5 a.m. after I had finished the whole thing in one sitting. #typical

To bookend the trip (pun intended), I bought Crooked Kingdom for my flight back to Hong Kong. But of course it did not download properly, and of course I did not find out until well into the flight (also #typical). So what was the obvious thing to do? Start it at 1 a.m. once I had settled down on my sofa at home. And only go to sleep at 5 a.m. after I had finished the whole thing in one sitting.

I have never read the Shadow and Bone trilogy, which is set in the same universe. I do not think I ever will – the premise looks a bit too plain-Jane-Mary-Sue, and from other readers’ comments, Six of Crows seems to be the darker, ‘edgier’ cousin. But that did not give me any trouble getting into this duology. Bardugo’s sleight of hand in the first chapter was a brilliant move. You are first introduced to an impressively fleshed out cast with histories and futures you quickly become invested in, only to be pitched into the next chapter to meet the real criminal crew. It was a splendidly sly opening, subtly foreshadowing the ingenious, labyrinthine plot in store.

This real crew was easy to love. Bardugo’s greatest strength is the rich diversity of her characters and world. Six of Crows is probably the most diverse fantasy novel I have read in at least the last few years. Few books manage to bring together comparably diverse characters – there are the logistical obstacles (the effort required to craft so many cultures, to devise convincing reasons for these very different people to be in the same place at the same time), and then there is the simple fact that it does not even occur to most authors to actively consider it in the first place.

There was justified criticism of the Shadow and Bone trilogy and Bardugo’s pick-and-mix inspiration from Russian culture. In Six of Crows, she was careful to inject three-dimensional cultural backgrounds into her characters, more mindfully shaping their languages, customs, dress, religions, values, even details like staple foods. With this elaborate arsenal, her duology was even able to touch on exoticization, genocidal indoctrination and state-sanctioned mistreatment of minorities. It is only with such diversity that an imagined universe comes alive – not just as an isolated, generic kingdom or woodland or gritty city. But as a sprawling, breathing, beating world.

Yes, the ‘impossible-beyond-impossible heist by some overlooked outcasts’ premise was a bit clichéd. But Bardugo made it work. Every member of the crew had talents that were incredible, but still believable. There were no deus ex machina magical powers, no deus ex machina ways out. This was where Kaz Brekker’s genius (which is to say, Bardugo’s genius) shone. There was never a moment when I could guess what his ultimate plans were. Just when you think he has finally been cornered, he pulls a Plan Z that flips the cards back into his hand. And because of this uncanny a-hundred-steps-ahead thinking, I was easily convinced that only he could lead a bunch of teenagers into an unbreachable fortress, steal an internationally hunted hostage and escape alive.

If you want a roller-coaster plot and a lucidly imagined world with unrivalled diversity, the Six of Crows duology will be right up your (crooked) canal.

Favourite quotes: Kaz leaned back. “What’s the easiest way to steal a man’s wallet?”
“Knife to the throat?” asked Inej.
“Gun to the back?” said Jesper.
“Poison in his cup?” suggested Nina.
“You’re all horrible,” said Matthias. – Six of Crows

“Have any of you wondered what I did with all the cash Pekka Rollins gave us?”
“Guns?” asked Jesper.
“Ships?” queried Inej.
“Bombs?” suggested Wylan.
“Political bribes?” offered Nina. They all looked at Matthias. “This is where you tell us how awful we are,” she whispered. – Crooked Kingdom

Ratings: Six of Crows 4/5
Crooked Kingdom 5/5 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

Flame in the Mist

An overdue review, but better late than never. (Although in medicine, late often makes never. But I’m getting distracted.) Having read Ahdieh’s last duology, I was justifiably wary about this one. Like most Young Adult books, the blurb of Flame in the Mist had to spotlight a romance, and romance is definitely not Ahdieh’s forte. Compound that with the incomprehensible fact that the most successful ‘feudal Japan-inspired’ series amongst English readers is still the quasi-Asian mess that was Across the Nightingale Floor, and you have quite a sceptic. (Going on another tangent, every single one of the most popular books set in feudal Japan was written by a Caucasian author.)

What ultimately encouraged me to buy the book was her evident meticulous research for The Wrath and the Dawn. She may be Middle Eastern, but the language, tone and smallest details demonstrated an impressive understanding of a region that preceded modern Persia by more than twelve centuries. And thankfully, besides minor descriptions that were a touch absurd (really not sure how varnish can ever smell like Dragon’s Beard candy), Flame in the Mist was also nowhere near Rubinstein’s gross appropriation.

Flame in the Mist was a large improvement on The Wrath and the Dawn in almost all aspects. But most of all, in the romance – or lack thereof. Yes, Mariko does fall into another nonsensical amour (an Ahdieh signature). Yes, it was ridiculously abrupt. Yes, there were no conceivable reasons behind Okami’s attraction towards her. But this was all much more forgivable because it was forced into existence only in the final quarter of the book, and remained relegated to the sidelines. What is Ahdieh’s forte is subterfuge, and the ceaselessly twisting, ruthless palace politics were fortunately in the limelight this time around.

I have no idea what is up the crown prince’s golden silk sleeves. Or the consort’s. Or the elder prince’s. I am still not even sure what the emperor’s agenda actually is. Nothing good, for sure. But beneath the appearances the characters are so adept at crafting, the loyalties are divided between many more than two sides. Sure, a lot of Ahdieh’s tricks have long been hallmarks of East Asian period dramas. But I personally have yet to find another English Young Adult novel capturing the tensions so well. The Wrath and the Dawn was no original tale either (in fact, it was much closer to a poorly disguised khoresh of clichés), but Ahdieh does have a knack for recreating worlds too often dressed in garish kitsch and scanty knowledge.

Like Shahrzad’s entirely absent ‘allure’, for the first half, Mariko’s alleged strategic quick thinking was also just a lot of tell without any show. Her choice to cross-dress and hunt down her attempted murderers was based on tenuous logic (I suppose Ahdieh had to get her to the Black Clan somehow), rather than shrewd judgement. She also made some pretty stupid decisions more frequently than one would expect; she saved the leader of the aforementioned murderers, even though all she was wanting was him dead. Now, the classic ‘calculated reason’ would have been because she wanted to torture his employer out of him first, or just to torture him, finis. But no. She did not show that foresight either. I can only say how glad I was when she realised her own naïveté and ineptitude once she had to ‘play with the big boys’, so to speak.

Anyhow, Flame in the Mist is one of the very few well-researched non-European historical fantasies I have read. For that alone, I was impressed enough to give this three stars. For the relatively complex and incalculable plot, I bumped it up to four. Highly recommended holiday read – quick, light and so much more engaging than the typical Californian beachside summer flick.

Favourite quotes: “To me, you are magic.”

“I’ve never been angry to have been born a woman. There have been times I’ve been angry at how the world treats us, but I see being a woman as a challenge I must fight. Like being born under a stormy sky. Some people are lucky enough to be born on a bright summer’s day. Maybe we were born under clouds. No wind. No rain. Just a mountain of clouds we must climb each morning so that we may see the sun.”

Rating: 4/5

The Bird and the Sword

I loved the beginning-of-the-world myth Harmon’s medieval kingdom was built from, which had an intriguing biblical base note. I loved the premise of an emotionally shuttered young woman fighting for her voice, wings and people. I also loved the final twist, even though it was not the most unpredictable development in the world. But something about Lark and Tiras’ relationship just left an uncomfortable aftertaste.

I have only seen this mentioned in one other review (many reviews were five-star), so maybe I have quite an individual interpretation. Personally, I failed to see Tiras’ ‘love’ mature much from its possessive origins. Maybe Harmon thought the whole “I think I will keep you” thing was romantic. Maybe it could have been, in the right circumstances, with the right characters, and with the right context. But Tiras himself admitted that he had kidnapped and imprisoned Lark to “kill two birds with one stone” – (1) because he thought she could ‘cure’ him and (2) to threaten her father into submission (and dissuade him from plotting too hard to steal his throne).

And he only continues to use her to keep his lords in check and to help his army slaughter the Volgar. Even his lovemaking was largely to ensure there is an heir. Yes, he teaches her to read and shows a little care and patience, but it far from negates how much he based Lark’s worth on her ability to protect his city. Love (even if we call it love) should never be the endgame, you should love for the right reasons. And I have a feeling Tiras’ were not the right reasons.

“You are of great use to me. I will put a child in your belly. A son who will be king.”

“Why do I have to be taught?”
“Because you said you know nothing about being a queen. Because I am king. And because it is your duty to please me.”

“You said I chose you because you are of use to me. And I did.”

Otherwise, I found the prose and pacing quite enjoyable; 350 pages was the perfect length. There were no frilly descriptions (the bane of fantasy literature), few sentences felt aesthetically pretentious (you know, those blunt phrases tacked onto the end of some observation or revelation that the author thinks sound ‘deep’ and ‘poetic’) and I was only tempted to skim a handful of passages. Deep-rooted hate and hysteria (likely inspired by the Salem witch trials) pervaded the atmosphere in an unusually adept demonstration of ‘showing, not telling’. While the plot was relatively straightforward and somewhat predictable (the typical a kingdom faces a mysterious threat and its king falls in love with its unlikely liberator concoction), Harmon’s particular blend of fantasy elements was fresh enough to make a quick, agreeable read.

Favourite quote: “Often-times, grass was more useful than gold. Man was more desirable than beast. Chance was more seductive than knowledge, and eternal life was completely meaningless without love.”
Rating: 3/5

The Wrath and the Dawn and The Rose and the Dagger

It is all fine and dandy for the central romance to be some inexplicable instantaneous affair if the focus of the novel were the impending war or palace politics or honestly anything else. But The Wrath and the Dawn is, unfortunately, essentially a love story. The (gasp) forbidden kind with a broken boy and a murderous girl (or a girl who wants to think she can be murderous). So when, after eleven chapters of brazen loathing, Shazi wanted to kiss her best friend’s murderer just three days into their marriage, I almost stopped reading then and there. No reason was given for this sudden, ridiculous change, unless her observations that oh, he’s so broken, and oh, he’s so handsome count.1

Even in those eleven preceding chapters, I was filling with dread. Her bravado was swelling to an eye-rolling intensity, and I was already wincing for the classic wow, she’s so defiant, she’s so special moment. But I still had this pathetic hope that it was all only to identify her as a formidable force the caliphate’s enemies would have to reckon with. And not another “charm” to ensnare Khalid. In all honesty, besides her ‘sylph-like’ beauty, I saw few charms in her. At least, none striking enough to make a caliph throw the safety of his city to the wind and say, damn all, I want her to destroy me.

Why Khalid even decided to go to her chamber at all2, I can never say. He mentioned how she glared at him on their wedding night, as if that was explanation enough. And as if most of the other brides would not have so frankly shown their hatred as well, knowing that their husband would order their deaths the dawn after. Was it really because her arrogance made her seem “limitless”? In my experience, arrogance is far too common in this world, not too rare. I am sure there was, at the very least, a handful of brides who had sheltered the same blind hope they would be the ones to break the cycle. So this ‘romance’ was all very sudden and superficial.

Yes, many readers will find the lush Middle Eastern landscape “sumptuous”. Honestly, it was just good research. Maybe more authors should try that when they attempt to set their stories in distinctive historical periods. I am glad, however, that Ahdieh rarely let her lists of palace ornaments or traditional foods waylay the pacing of the plot. There was a surprisingly tolerable ratio of descriptions to actual action, given the “exotic” location. For that alone, I raised this duology from two stars to three.

What finally tipped it to four was the onslaught of subterfuge and intrigue. This became especially engrossing in The Rose and the Dagger, where impending war had forced Shazi and Khalid’s relationship to mature at lightning speed. We see much less of the ‘roiling tension’ (which was never that compelling to begin with) and more of the cunning and stalwart strategising that defined our protagonists. Seeing them work in tandem to raze their enemies to the ground was far more fun to read about. (Too many young adult authors forget to let their characters mature over sequels; many more forget to let relationships between characters to mature over sequels; many many more forget to let characters and relationships mature exponentially in times of war.)

A good deal of reveals left my mind whirring. Some loyalties were better shrouded than others, but I was still kept on edge waiting to see the ultimate goals of the characters’ machinations – and just how far those machinations would go. I almost wished [highlight to reveal spoiler] Despina was nothing more than her father’s spy – it would have been the single most unpredictable and jaw-dropping twist. All of the side characters were delightfully despicable or fatally flawed. And best of all, most took some time to fully figure out. There were men committing evil in the name of twisted love and intellectual fools who could trade a death for a thousand more. There were men as courageous as they were dense, and sisters as strong as they were weak. And enough stubbornness to go around and still have seven basketfuls left over.

So while the romance can be infuriating, if you can cope with some insta-love, The Wrath and the Dawn and The Rose and the Dagger make a light, enthralling and often witty read. Most importantly, they belong to the few fiction books you can rest assured you will not have to trudge through pages of purple prose to enjoy.

Favourite quotes: “For without a measure of arrogance, how can one attempt the impossible?”

“Beauty fades. But a pain in the ass is forever.”

“Tonight is a night to turn heads. Make them remember you. Make sure they never forget. You are the Calipha of Khorasan, and you have the ear of a king.” Despina put her hand on Shahrzad’s shoulder and grinned at their shared reflection. “More important, you have his heart.” She bent forward and lowered her voice. “And, most important, you are a fearsome thing to behold in your own right.”

“The more a person pushes others away, the clearer it becomes he is in need of love the most.”

Rating: 4/5 for both

For my review of a prequel, The Moth and the Flame, please click here.


1Oh wait, she was already falling in love on the second night. Two words, and suddenly she drops from abhorrence to butterflies and whimpers.

2Shazi was the first bride whom Khalid visited after their wedding.