nathalie

A curious magical realism novel about the anxiety of temp work that gets too caught up in its fiction to construct a coherent theme. There’s definitely something here about how living under capitalism puts you in a constant state of precariousness you are then left to try and outrun, but it’s muddied with this strange romantic notion of being middle class and eventually a girlboss at the end of the world. I like the whimsical prose but there’s only so many homophone jokes I can take before I’m dying for real character development.

What an exasperating novel! Literally half of it is made up of the most inane, indulgent emails where characters ponder about consumerism and cosmetics and the philosophy of relationships, with zero theoretical background. Literally hundreds of pages of people just saying shower thought nonsense about labor and the exploitation of the global south and being like “idk if that makes sense, I've just been thinking about it.” These are the sorts of conversations I have with friends over coffee and they tell me to read a fucking book.

The parts that aren't Wikipedia rehashes are also bizarrely inert. Huge chunks of the book read like alt text (constant plain descriptions of characters opening messaging apps), with almost no character voice because it's written in this detached third person style where everyone is a soup of the author just trying to have a single coherent idea. The back third of the book is the best by a wide margin because the emails go away and characters actually interact, but even that is too little too late because it's coming in with dynamics that are explicitly pulling from decades of friendship we barely see. We're meant to assume these characters are best friends despite only having uncomfortable interactions and bizarre emails. Then - psych - it's COVID time and we're talking about how actually nothing changed and isn't it sad we can't go to the cinema. Just exhausting stuff.

Finally, there are ongoing gestures at queerness which are so fucking obnoxious. Two of the characters are supposedly bisexual but everyone craves the traditional stability of heteronormativity. The book literally ends with a character getting pregnant and talking about marrying her childhood best friend and moving to the country.

This will certainly appeal to a certain type of middle class liberal that fancies themselves progressive but refuses to engage with actual materialist reality. Why consider decades of theory when you can act like you're the first person who has ever thought maybe it's wrong to subjugate much of the world to preserve an expendable lifestyle. Rooney is so transparently trying to come to terms with her own wealth and celebrity and it's just embarrassing.

What a fucking let down after Normal People.

Decent body horror novella with a lot of queer subtext. I think it tries to be about too many things and doesn't end up having coherent thoughts about any of them (transhumanism, being trans and beholden to the pharmaceutical industry, trauma from complicity with a dehumanizing corporation), but it's pretty sick when a lesbian turns into the monster from Carrion and eats Newark.

A really challenging read. The prose is astounding and some of the most beautiful writing I've ever read, but the narrative it's in service of is troubling. Broadly about how trauma becomes a constant lens through which you view relationships, and the difficulty of ever coming out of it, mediated through a 20 year age gap relationship. The degree to which the dynamics are addressed was never particularly satisfying to me, and becomes very explicitly romanticized as if the problems were purely historical.

There is so much I love about this book - its tenderness, intimacy, and willingness to engage bluntly with challenging topics - but by the end it becomes too infatuated with its characters to commit to the end that's coming. Will be thinking about it for a long time all the same, please do read the content warnings if you are considering picking this up.

A compulsive and brutally nihalistic romance novel. This is my first Sally Rooney and not at all what I expected, but it's very easy to see why she has become so highly regarded. She writes her characters with such tenderness and empathy, in spite of their confounding decisions and cycles of self alienation. At the same time they possess an acute, almost meticulous physical awareness that nevertheless only makes their pain more acute.

This book is predominantly about an inability to connect to others, of superficial interactions insufficiently standing in for a deeper connection the two protagonists crave. The conclusions they arrive at are frustrating, but so deeply articulated that they make a sort of sense. Nobody is capable of unpacking their adolescent (and ongoing) trauma because it requires a vulnerability that frankly terrifies them. So they dissociate, attempt to mirror each other, cling to the closest approximation of happiness they can find. It is unrelentingly bleak and I admire the willingness to refuse an easy resolution.

The degree to which this articulates an actual worldview of impossible codependency is murkier for me, with a lot of baggage of outdated psychology being inserted as an inherent cause of the isolation everyone feels (rather than, say, the class disparity that is crudely gestured at but far outside the novel's interests). I cannot begrudge it too much as it is well in line with characters who themselves have very little awareness of the reasons they are so unhappy, but I am skeptical about the ways that viewpoint inevitably gets expanded to be some sort of social truth.

Mostly I am surprised by the book's coldness. I devoured it in a few days and came away feeling profoundly empty. I do mean this as a compliment of sorts.

Read this while trying to work through my thoughts on Arrest of a Stone Buddha (a game that blends French nihilism with Hong Kong action... definitely an interesting combination). It's a very compelling and enraging book, I think if I'd read this as a depressed teen alongside Myth of Sisyphus it would have been an instant favorite.

A decade later I don't have much use for nihilism and find the exercise here cloying and unmoving. I will give it props for being the type of philosophy I so strongly disagree with that reading it does prompt me to think a hell of a lot about why I am so put off, which I suppose is the purpose of philosophy in a way.

This remains the defining coming of age story. Still the blueprint for movies like Lady Bird of Eight Grade, just a foundational text for people interested in grounded stories of adolescent ennui. Was shocked to see this came out in 1970, feels very daring for a children's book back then which tracks given people are still trying to get it banned today.

I am a sucker for religious uncertainty, struggling with femininity, and school drama so this ticks all the boxes. Margaret has a great voice that balances overly thoughtful narration with heaps of tween angst. Her titular reframe is initially a bit silly, but once the book begins to explore her anxieties around religion (stemming from pushy adults on all sides), it takes on a greater significance as it's clear her relationship with god means a lot to her despite having no name to put to it.

I do wish the emotional beats weren't reserved for the last 30 or so pages. Much of the book is straightforward scenes of children existing in fairly unremarkable ways (which is itself interesting), but a lot of the major threads go unresolved as there simply aren't enough pages to handle them once the ball starts moving. It has also aged quite severely in many places, which would be alienating enough if everyone wasn't also extremely rich.

Glad to have this as a reference text for similar media, and excited to check out the recent movie which seems to complete the circle of grounded coming of age stories that are maybe more popular than ever.

A charming and reserved collection of vignettes wherein very little happens but everyone comes out a bit wiser. I have been a huge fan of Jansson's Moomin series for years and didn't realize until the introduction that this was also written by her (was looking for summer books and, well...). Her voice is very similar to her comics and still a delight, though I feel like something is lost without her illustrations. She has a way of describing the world like a depressed and cerebral child, whichs works amazing when paired with the silly Moomin designs but here just creates a sense of absence. In a way it's fitting for the themes of death, growing old, bodies wearing down, but feels more an accident of form than an intentional tone.

Was not quite the carefree summer getaway I was looking for, but I'm beginning to notice that most media centered around summer is almost by necessity a meditation on the passage of time and the implacable sadness that follows.

Continuing to work my way through Ishiguro's bibliography in a completely arbitrary order. This touches on a lot of similar themes as Never Let Me Go - systemic caretaking, human costs of technology, being beholden to a world you barely understand - but with less clarity and emotional sophistication than made that book so exceptional.

It's quite interesting to see how in the 15 or so years, Ishiguro is now working through new concerns around AI and climate change as opposed to more allegorical technology. I think this one may end up aging better than I feel about it today, but I was left feeling like it never quite arrived at the ideas it was toying with. This is partially by design as it's told effectively from the perspective of a child, but even taken in perspective with the premise it's quite detached. In particular wish there was a bit more of an idea what this near future society is like. We hear about it in incongruous whispers but it ends up feeling like hypotheticals than anything coherent with the rest of the text.

An enjoyable read despite its frustrating inconclusions. Shockingly breezy for an Ishiguro book, I tore through this much faster than anticipated which may also speak to the reservations above.

Wasn't allowed to read these growing up so now doing my own belated book club. Blown away at how good this is right out of the gate. Has a great campy sentai-show setup but pulls no punches with how gruesome this intergalactic war actually is. All of the morph descriptions are straight body horror, and the violence only gets away with being this gory because of Halo rules (it's not blood, it's yellow goo).

Our first POV, Jake, is fully the likeable leader boy archetype, but the character voice is so strong it hardly matters. Particular highlight is dog brain, which is exactly what you'd expect but even more charming. Under the YA nonchalance is a surprisingly affecting tragedy, particularly Jake's distant relationship with his brother (I imagine we'll see even more devastating scenes from the other POVs whose family life seems even more complicated).

Great start to this series. I am sure it goes off the rails over the next 50 (!!) books, but I'm fully bought in right now.

What a weird nothing of an ending. Expected more from this series from how highly it's talked about, but while I can clearly see its influence (especially in The Matrix) there's so little of substance here. Each volume got progressively less interesting as it became clear all the scifi bullshit had no destination and themes were off the table.

This last volume is still one of the more enjoyable ones just due to having a higher sick art to dialogue ratio, but having it all wrap around to a birth allegory is...disappointing, to say the least. If you've been sitting on BLAME!, read the first master edition and pretend that's all there is. Can't wait to watch the Netflix adaptation, I can't begin to imagine how you adapt this.

Had high hopes this would finally make a Sonic Youth fan out of me but I'm honestly shocked how boring I found it. Kim Gordon has a pretty abstract, detached way of writing that makes all the events described feel very distant and almost like they were happening to someone else. Maybe it's just that I'm not very interested in middle class art gallery culture, or that I also read Michelle Zauner and Carrie Brownstein's memoirs recently and both were much more engaging.

I will continue to not have any real feelings about Sonic Youth I guess. Truly zero opinions on this band I spent 300 pages learning about.

Every volume feels like a step down from the last. Amazed there are still two more volumes to go. Equally amazed that this series may truly have zero themes, just lots of facts that I cannot begin to care about. So disappointing how little focus is given to the outrageous monster designs or fight scenes. Why would you draw a face that gross and only show it once???

A frustratingly vague but often haunting epistolary short story. I wasn't anticipating it to hew so closely to videogame emails and SCP entries, but I'll give it credit for being thematically richer than most of the shockbait horror it structurally parallels.

Ideas about the bodies of dehumanized (in more ways than one) workers in a future capitalist state are woven in without the didactic brutality so much contemporary scifi relies on. Characters cannot see outside the demands of the company anymore than readers can materialize the absent interviewer. Both are invisible absolutes, acknowledged but dismissed because who has time when you're working 12 hour shifts (to say nothing or the cosmic horror leaking from this cargo...).

I felt rather listless by the end of this. Even with the introduction of an honest to god plot in the third act it retains the abstract, nonlinear structure (it was not surprising to learn the author is primarily a poet). Certain passages were striking enough to overcome the otherwise formless collage of interviews, but I am glad it was only a scarce 125 pages.

Perhaps I took the title too literally, but it was disappointing to discover how little of this book is concerned with articulating actual tactics for violent climate resistance. It is predominantly an argument for the necessity of violence, a position I agree with having bought a book called “How To Blow Up A Pipeline,” but which ends up feeling as late and ineffectual as the doomerism that spurred writing it.

The last chapter dedicated to rebuking climate defeatism is the most engaging (if shockingly bleak). It seems an altogether more difficult challenge to pull people back from the ledge of accepted annihilation, which Malm does a commendable (if brief) job of. I just can't help feeling like I am no closer to actualizing any of the goals that have been hazely waved before me. The anger and restlessness is already here, what's left is the difficult task of directing it.

Grotesque queer horror of the most beautiful and trashy variety. It is so rare to find something that so bluntly captures the trans experience, trans survival, love and gore wrapped in a scrapnel coated blanket. It is uncompromising, at times bordering on cruel, the accumulation of a thousand daily tragedies spilling out over a ceaseless apocalypse.

Within that pain are the pockets of hope that sustain us. The relationships and messy connections and bitter loyalty of communities continually rebuilding themselves because nobody else is going to save them. It is an uncertain future, but a future all the same.

Just wrapped it up. It's a very good detective novel though I think it's political allegory sort of falls apart by the end (or at least to the wayside). Lands in a disappointing ambiguity about the role of police and borders, seeing them as both fully artificial and hostile but also necessary because the alternative is total anarchy. I maybe expected something a bit more given Mielville's clear interest in leftist politics, but it was really closer to a Dan Brown novel but where the conspiracy is actually just a sad man with something to prove.

Like sledding down a hill on a piece of cardboard, hurtling towards a cliff, bailing too late and tumbling, limbs snapping like twigs as you become another piece of debris to careen over the edge. The chaos at the center of Stephen Florida is unrelenting, his drive to wrestle both pitifully insignificant and the only thing that has and will ever matter. To what degree any of what's happening is real or true is irrelevant to the kinetic energy that starts fully built on page one and refuses to decelerate until crashing headfirst into the acknowledgements.

The only comparison I can reach for are Johnny's chapters from House of Leaves, both painting images of isolated, angry men rapidly detaching themselves from reality until all that's left is their own paranoia. If you found Johnny's depraved ramblings hard to stomach I would recommend leaving Stephen Florida off your list (or at least heeding the content warnings because there is a lot of shit sprinkled between lines through these brief 289 pages). I have discovered that few books are more engaging to me than those concerning masculinity's proclivity towards antisocial self destruction. I'm not yet sure what to make of this information.

Took me a bit to come around to this. The early chapters are saddled with a lot of overcomplicated scifi world building and inexplicable pop-culture references, but once it shifts into being an earnest villains-to-lovers romance I was all in. I do not read enough violent and vulnerable love poetry so perhaps I am just starved for intimacy, but the way Red and Blue's brovado gets shelled as they realize they are falling for each other made me yearn for a similar connection the way all great romances do.

I am not particularly interested in picking apart the time travel for inconsistencies as the emotional impact works regardless of if I can make sense of the strands and ripples. The impression I get from talking with others is the stylistic moves and flowery ambiguity are fully love/hate, but I'm glad to fall in the former. Irrelevant in some ways, but the cover is one of my favorites of the last decade so I'm glad the book lived up to it (if not in ways I expected).

The more I think about this book the more frustrated I am. It's my first Terry Pratchett so I wasn't sure what to expect, but the blend of British “incompetent masses” humor with the oppressively cynical, Liberal politics was agonizing. The book's arc is about how the world is fucked but it's at least better than the alternative because the people in power are composed tyrants rather than openly killing people; learning that it's actually super fulfilling and good to be a cop if you take it seriously, giving up training dragons to be a proper aristocrat, etc.

Just aggressively bleak “return to normal” resolution that combined with the “people are naturally ignorant sheep who will adjust to anything people in power demand” feels super cynical about the possibility or need for political change. Everyone is the same selfish, ignorant drunk who immediately rationalize horrible actions when they realize it's in their financial favor. I get it's supposed to be a satire or whatever but it just feels unsophisticated and antisocial.

Probably not gonna read more Pratchett unless I get a compelling sell in the future. Can definitely see a through line from this to Wheaten to Marvel writing, which is unfortunate but I guess helpful for tracking this style of wink at the camera, a better world is not possible fantasy.

Found the way the book deified Jeff Mangum while describing Neutral Milk Hotel and The Aeroplane Over the Sea as almost supernatural happenings just the most tired Pitchfork-esq aggrandizement. Maybe I should have expected it for this particular album, but the constant “it was like he wasn't even writing lyrics but channeling a spiritual voice” embellishment feels so silly and precluded any actual criticism or analysis of the album beyond a short, haphazard section attempting to interpret the lyrics. Hollow criticism aside, comparing Mangum leaving the band to the death of Anne Frank (which happens multiple times!) is just a wildly gross extension of the already icky allusions to her made in the lyrics. Two stars for the legitimately very interesting section discussing how they achieved the analog fuzz sound on the album (it's as convoluted as you would expect). Would love to know if there are any good 33 1⁄3 books or if they're all just masturbatory touring profiles.

Happy to have finally read something by Le Guin. I enjoyed the pseudo-epistolary structure and concept of a fully gender fluid civilization, but the book's age really shows through in the limits of how far this queerness can go (all relationships “become” heterosexual, for instance, because reproduction I guess).

I think I'm missing some important context for when this was written, as it has both a lot of vaguely anti-communist sentiment and also seems to be pulling from Catholic mission trips to East Asian countries, but I can't quite pinpoint a through line. A bubbling pot of challenging political ideas that are not so much unexplored as they are too large for a 300-page scifi novel. Very curious to check out some of Le Guin's later work, but this seems as good a place as any of, like me, you've been meaning to check her out.

There are some valuable historical and sociological observations in here, but Buck's political imagination is frustratingly narrow when it comes to a post-fossil fuel future. A significant amount of the book is devoted to outlining (but not doing) the planning work still needing to be done regarding forces of labor, capital, and government if we are to fully divest from the fossil fuel industry, which while all true is also plainly obvious to anyone already invested in addressing climate change (the audience for this book seems somewhere between center-left MSNBC libs and soft-leftists).

Ideas like degrowth and energy quotas are brought up and discarded in the span of a few paragraphs, while whole chapters are given to outlining accelerationist technologies like carbon capture and nuclear energy which hinge on somehow converting up-to-now destructive capitalist enterprises into public utilities (while also somehow preventing the government corruption that has allowed oil companies to mark the planet off as a tax break). It's a very convenient narrative for the global north, where the work is almost entirely political and rhetorical, costing us little in the form of convenience or wealth or global authority.

Buck tries to balance a very clear US-centrism by occasionally bringing up the ways the global north has pillaged the global south and why it will be harder for many countries there to end fossil fuels, but this doesn't extend to an analysis of how the US can only exist as it currently does due to the exploitation of the global south. Doing so would undermine the already vague solutions presented in the book as incompatible with a globally equitable future, which will require the north to surrender certain lifestyle aspects both for the future well being of our planet but also to remediate the centuries of harm done to the south who will feel the effects of climate change hardest.

Yes, net zero is not enough, but neither are the solutions presented here. Political pessimism makes it easy and appealing to choose the path of minimal resistance (which, to be clear, would still be significant), but we will have to become much more utopian if we're ever to build a society that actually escapes the death sentence we've constructed.

Have been wanting to read this since falling in love with Tarkovsky' “Stalker” and found it just as gripping as the movie (though the similarities are less pronounced than you may expect). Everything that comes out of Roadside Picnic has such a singular mood (run down, labor oriented, darkly humorous, pessimistic about if technology is improving society), and the book does a great job sketching its world just sharply enough to ground the reader while rarely adding uneeded specificity. Everyone is screwed and scrappy and only seeing half of how they fit into the industrial machine they power.

I don't know enough about Soviet fiction to speak to what histories this book is in conversation with. The analogies that spring to mind feel both too obvious to be interesting and too flat for how ambiguous so much about The Zone and it's impact remain. Will be interested to see what interpretations have sprouted up over the last several decades, but even as just a sensory experience Roadside Picnic is riveting.

I can't stop thinking about what a nightmare this book must have been to design and print. I'm not sure any book will ever give me the sort of awe and revulsion I felt seeing a sentence span across the spine over two pages. It's obscene.

I didn't know much about House of Leaves beyond it's infamous typography, so it was surprising to learn it's functionally a book equivalent to found footage horror. It trades documentary “authenticity” for dense citations and pervert French, but conceptually I find a lot of similarities (both are primarily interested in the mechanics of their medium and how our trust in those forms can be exploited). How successful HoL is depends mostly on your willingness to indulge its most excessive elements, following footnotes to smaller footnotes and spinning the book around like it's the world thickest centerfold.

HoL slots into a weird segment of media that I conceptually appreciate but dread existing because it inevitably gets attached to the worst sort of gross art bro. It is a playful, surprisingly warm, darkly funny book, but also one that revels in masculine violence and the deification of male ambition. It is proud of its swamp, fascinated by the algae and mutated fish, but if you want to study the tadpoles you're forced to wade past crocodiles and a CW list longer than the terms you didn't read.

My metaphors are mixing and my mind is wandering, but this is all to say HoL is a challenging recommendation in 2022. A rewarding one if you can stomach the grime, but I wouldn't shame anyone for keeping it on the shelf a while longer.