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“Lacking formalities hasn’t robbed me of being polite, Reed,” Twelve Azalea said, and then turned a large, un-Teixcalaanli smile on Mahit. It made him appear slightly unhinged.
Perhaps when Mahit received a fifteen-syllable poetic epithet of her own it would involve following through on initial poor ideas.
All Teixcalaanli, more so than she’d ever be, no matter how much poetry she memorized.
As of yet, what Lsel Station has learned from the predator beyond the Anhamemat Gate is how to run.
She could follow about half of the allusions and quotations that slipped in and out of their speech. It made her jealous in a way she recognized as childish: the dumb longing of a noncitizen to be acknowledged as a citizen.
And yet it wormed into her every time she bit her tongue, every time she didn’t know a word or the precise connotations of a phrase.
She thought it should probably have made her feel happy, instead of abruptly unreal. Disconnected—depersonalized. Like she was happening to someone else.
Everything about this was abruptly infuriating.
My thoughts about this book
whilst engaged in recognizance on
Did…did the author mean reconnaissance???
