The thinness, the repitition of history. Palimpsests.

The unfathomability of loss, of absence.

The war to end wars. It's very much a novel of the War on Terror, while nothing in it is about that. War becomes a permanent state of fighting itself. Parse that sentence anyway you want.

Wormholes. Illusions. Tricks.

Magicians. Mechanics. Nurses.

The Spitfire Mark XI doesn't have any guns. It just has a camera, to document what happens, to remember. It's powered by a Merlin engine.

The Adjacent is a terrifying novel. A frustrating novel. It's one of the most beautiful novels I've read in a while. It makes very few attempts to explain itself; it just weaves, cuts, overwrites, repeats, retakes, dreams.