Last winter, I received a very exciting delivery in the mail: 10+ books, hand-selected for me, based on a detailed questionnaire I’d completed just a few weeks prior, from Heywood Hill, a Mayfair bookshop. Every single book looked uniquely fascinating, but there was one in particular that caught my eye: Babel, by R.F. Kuang.

I did a cursory search on TikTok and Twitter, and found that it was beloved. It was also 500+ pages, and, in the midst of planning a wedding and a particularly busy spring and summer at work - I couldn’t commit.

This September, though, a unique set of circumstances transpired that made it the perfect time for me to embark upon a journey with the tome (which any book over 500 pages can - and should - be called). After starting the series in mid-June, by September, I found myself facing the very last episode in the Game of Thrones series. Prior to this summer, I hadn’t considered myself a fantasy girl. In fact, I’ve always been an avid reader, but, ask anyone well-acquainted with my reading patterns over the years, and they’ll tell you that fantasy doesn’t often figure into the genre rotation. But after spending 70 hours and 14 minutes watching the likes of Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen ride dragons, fight the undead, and beyond over the course of 2 months (the actual number—I googled it), I could no longer consider myself averse to fantasy.

The second circumstance was the book Yellowface, a completely different type of book, also by R.F. Kuang. I had first heard it recommended by Pandora Sykes (yes, her again) back in February 2023, and, because it was a novel for pre-order, had forgotten about it until it came out in America and I started seeing it everywhere. Granted, the cover is distinctive, but still - the volume of my sightings was notable. I saw it brandished on the subway, peeking out of bags, popping up on Instagram, etc. I was tempted to buy it, but knowing I had a different R.F. Kuang book at home, spine not yet cracked, I found myself incapable of justifying the purchase until I started (and finished) Babel.

So I started it. Did you need to read through four paragraphs to find that out? Probably not, but you’re here, so let’s get into it. Babel opens with a mysterious man spiriting a young, fatherless boy away from his home (and his sick mother, who dies of cholera that same night) in Canton (Guangzhou today - the book takes place in 1892), to a new life in England. As the boy grows up (and is forced to adopt an American name - he chooses Robin Swift), he realizes the man who “rescued” him is named Griffin Lovell, an Oxford professor determined to prepare Robin to attend Oxford himself - or, more specifically, it’s vaunted Royal Institute of Translation (known, in the book, as Babel).

When Robin arrives, he’s one of just four students in his cohort that isn’t a white male. He quickly forms friendships with those three: Rami, who is Indian; Victoire, who is both Haitian and female; and Letty, who is a wealthy white English girl, and, though she has it easier than the other three, is still alienated by the rest of the cohort for her gender. Rami, Victoire, and Robin have all come to Babel by way of “benefactors,” all of whom took notice of their intelligence and appreciate their fluency in languages that many of the white Englishmen at the Institute lack.

They quickly learn that their education revolves largely around “silverwork” (here’s where the fantasy element comes in). Babel houses the largest repository of silver bars in the world, and the bars’ power comes from the fact that, when two words with slightly different meanings, in different languages, can be used to create what’s called a “match-pair.” When a match-pair is valid, it activates the bars, which then have the power (depending on what the pair asks of it) to grow gardens, heal illness, hide individuals, etc. It took me a while to pick up on the silverwork element, but Kuang regularly introduces examples that make it clear without bogging down the story.

Soon, Robin & co. realize that the silver bars they’re activating are being used for the British empire’s personal gain — often inflicting harm on smaller, less powerful countries, including the ones they came from. Following a harrowing trip back to Robin’s home city of Canton, they decide to do something about it.

Babel is a complex, clever, and thought-provoking story about Empire, violence and survival, but also a reflection on the power of friendship and community in the face of fear. Even after finishing Thrones, it’s not a book I would’ve gravitated towards naturally in the bookstore, but I truly enjoyed reading it and am glad it was hand-selected for me. Plus, I started House of the Dragon just weeks after finishing it, so perhaps I’m a bit more of a fantasy girl than I thought. I’m considering picking up The Poppy War—if I do, I’ll throw my thoughts into an NB at the end of this review.

I must admit, my desire to read Yellowface did get me through the final pages of Babel more quickly than I might’ve otherwise. My sister-in-law had a copy, and I cracked it open basically the moment I finished scanning Babel’s acknowledgments section (always read the acknowledgments!!!!).

And, as the title of this blog post suggests: Kuang has range. This book could not be more different than Babel. First of all, Babel takes place in 1892, and Yellowface could not be more modern. Both of them, though, seem intent on skewering the ideologies that rule their respective days. The first few pages of Yellowface follow a jealous, middling writer named June to respective hangout sessions with her frenemy Athena, an astoundingly successful young Asian author. One night, June and Athena are having dinner, and Athena chokes to death on a pancake. June, having previously discussed Athena’s forthcoming book with her, hastily collects the unpublished manuscript from Athena’s desk before she goes. She reads it and is moved by its brilliance; which leads her to hatch a brilliant plan of her own: she’ll publish Athena’s novel as her own work. June knows that Athena, a perfectionist to the very end, refuses to show anyone her work until it’s entirely complete. Which means that no one, not even Athena’s editor, has read the manuscript. What could go wrong?

The answer is, obviously, many things—and I found myself riding a rollercoaster of anxiety alongside June, who grows increasingly unhinged as her paranoia continues to mount. It’s a book that takes on both the fragility of white women and the absurdity of the current state of cancel culture with a deft and witty hand. You’ll fly through it, I promise.