It is to James Smythe's credit, then, that his new novel manages to pay its respects to the conventions of the astronaut-in-peril genre while still doing something new, and memorable, with it.
Nicely written and thoughtful, but two more of these literary variations on a morbid theme may be far too much of the same for readers.
In fairness many people do actually talk like this, and what Smythe’s prose lacks in literary flair it makes up for in easy accessibility. His is decidedly a big-screen sensibility, and I Still Dream pulses with the foreboding frisson of a sci-fi disaster movie.