Eduardo Santiago
Very difficult start: infuriating superstition and ignorance, then tragic consequences thereof. Thanks to reviews and encouragement from friends, I kept reading, and am glad I did.
The story is sweet and well told. Almost entirely first-person narration, very effective: a strong voice with quite satisfying growth over time. Rich and fascinating cultural details. Rather more about tea than I'd ever imagined wanting to know—I am firmly Team Coffee—but to my surprise I ended up appreciating those parts. Appreciating the book and its characters quite a lot.
The infrequent (and mercifully brief) shifts into epistolary or dialog narration were awkward, even cringey at times. But, okay, we need exposition, and I appreciate keeping the book under four hundred pages. What disappointed me most was that the story arc was too pat. Too many convenient coincidences. They added to the overall tender tone, but made it feel fluffier. Maybe if you go into it with that expectation you'll be more forgiving than I.
Oh, be sure to read the author's Acknowledgments at the end. Impressive.
I used to find Hiaasen's books funny; now I just find them depressing. Was I not in the right mood this week, or am I a different person? Anyhow, this was fun in the slow-motion-wreck kind of way: you don't read it for the mystery or the narrative arc, you do so in a chewing-gum way to while away a few hours with explosions and ever-increasing body count. (I haven't watched TV in about thirty years, but it reminded me of what TV shows were like).
But the absurdity in this one was a little over the top; it wasn't clear what was deliberate farce and what was just carelessness. And the real-world aspects — half the characters are shallow, or venal, or corrupt, or all three — just reminds me too much of Puerto Rico and why I left. Even though Hiaasen plays it for yuks, it just saddens me to know there are so many people like that. The good characters, otoh, are a little too good, too decent. Which is enjoyable, I guess. We need some of that once in a while.
Bit of a roller coaster: starts off pretty awful, with characters who are tedious unselfaware automatons. Then a quarter of the way in it gets promising, with hints of inner life, complexity, nuance — not really believable, but I felt willing to go with it — and then it just seesaws back and forth, with moments of lucidity and reflection amid a baseline of vapidity.
There's romance: two independent (and laughably improbable) love-at-first-sight tropes. Slapstick: the multiple last-minute escapes from the hired goon are played for humor, right? Intrigue, and Preaching, and Flawed But Basically Decent People, and a Nice Pat Wrapping-Up at the end.
It was almost three stars, but the frequent pattern of characters Mutually Understanding Each Other wore me out. That's adolescent wishful-thinking connection, not messy real-world connection.
Two books in one: Bruder in part explores the aftershocks of the 2007 collapse that left so many people in deep poverty; she also dives into some of the systems that keep people trapped there. The book, in part and in whole, serves as a distressing indictment of our American need for Cheap Crap™.The Premise: a disturbing number of people lost jobs and homes in the crash. Some of those have resorted to living in vehicles, quasilegally hopping between campgrounds, parking lots, and streets, chasing livable temperatures across the seasons.The Twist: when you can't change your situation, change your perspective. These people (justly) take great pride in their resourcefulness; many go the next step, calling it a blessing, or liberating; an escape from the consumer rat race. They're actually psyched about it. This is a core element of the book, one which Bruden analyzes from many angles.The Catch: even nomads need money. Large corporations (notably, but not only, Amazon) prey on these vandwellers, offering physically and emotionally grueling jobs for pitiful pay, with the promise of free van parking. No insurance, obvs, but who cares? When workers are injured or killed, there are more lining up. There are always more and more desperate people; our system depends on it (and guarantees it).The writing is disjointed, the timelines confusing. Only cursory and slightly sheepish acknowledgment of white “privilege” (if such a word can be used in this context): vandwellers are predominantly white, because, duh, think about it for two seconds. I found myself wondering often: vandwelling may be a last resort, but it's one not available to all. How much worse are things for the darker-skinned poor?Quibbles aside, five stars because it taught me and made me think; and because more people need to be aware. If you've read [b:Nickel and Dimed 1869 Nickel and Dimed On (Not) Getting by in America Barbara Ehrenreich https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1442378091l/1869.SY75.jpg 1840613] and/or [b:The Working Poor 11095 The Working Poor Invisible in America David K. Shipler https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1388266050l/11095.SY75.jpg 430062], you probably want to read Nomadland.
My second Ishiguro in a row — why did I wait so long to discover him?? — and it seems almost impossible to talk about his books without going into spoilers. It seems safe to lay out the major themes I note in his writing: classism, empathy, loneliness. Kindness and cruelty. Both books so far have been first-person reminiscence from a quiet but watchful servant-class entity nearing the end of their life, with heavy emphasis on the unreliability of memory and on how, despite our best intentions, our understanding of the world and of others is so incomplete. Both are masterpieces of exposition, with puzzle pieces being hinted at, then appearing in due course, then finally fitting in. Both have been sublime, deeply thoughtful.
I hate using the spoiler tag because of how stupid the Goodreads phone app is with them. But although most of my Goodreads writing is for my loved ones, in part it is also for me — I, too, am reminiscing near the end of life — and it would be unfair to stop without saying more. So I really need to say more. Like: the genetic-enhancement aspect. I still can't say whether this is a major plot point or a minor one. I mean, it is central to the story, and so many of the character dynamics hinge on it; and it is a huge deal, one that ever-so-class-conscious Ishiguro wants us to ponder, but it feels incidental. Is he trying to get the reader to ask, hey waitaminit, why isn't this getting more attention? Is he, goddammit, making the reader actually think about privilege, and underprivilege, and the rights of those who have no voice in what is done to them? I felt like this deserved a lot more air time than Ishiguro gave it, so I‘m obligated to stew about it on my own.
And, empathy. Where did Klara's observation and empathy come from? And, frightening to contemplate, how much connection is there between empathy and animism? Can we ever really understand others, or do we only think we do? Obviously all we can ever see is our projection of other minds, not their true selves, but sometimes we hit and sometimes we miss. Can we really know which is when? Like, Klara tends to imbue everyone's actions with kindness... but that says much more about Klara than about the characters, especially over time as we wonder more about her reliability as narrator. Can empathy and kindness and caring skew how we view the world? (Yes, duh). Can they make us more susceptible to being abused? (Almost certainly). Then the big one: what makes for a better life? Who “wins”: those in the rat race, or those who quietly make their peace with their situation?
And, the two Ishiguro books I've read feature narrators who are disposable: created to serve the needs of others, discarded when their utility is complete. Both of them exquisitely aware of this condition, neither of them bitter or resentful. This point of view is at times jarring, but damn, it's effective. It helped me relate to Klara and to think in ways I might not have.
Dislikes: I found the Helen-Vance thing improbable, even distasteful. It was like a different writer had briefly taken over. WTF was that about? The portrait subplot, I think I see where he was going with it (projection, seeing what we want to see in others, wishful thinking), but it fell flat for me. And Josie's Miracle Recovery, well, that was disappointing. Too neat. Looking back at that list they seem enough to drop a star, but no: five stars in GR-land means “it was amazing!”, and it was, for the questions it raises and for a truly wonderful experience of seeing and feeling through Ishiguro's mind.
Disappointing after all the hype. Kind of cartoonish, like a prepubescent male space fantasy (very very minor spoilers): “and then this GREAT BIG PROBLEM came from space, and these mysterious Secret World Government people came and kidnapped me to work on it, and I became SUPER IMPORTANT, and I got to go to SPACE to SAVE THE WHOLE WORLD and I'm the ONLY ONE who can do it, and I get to have ADVENTURES and SOLVE PROBLEMS with my knowledge of junior-high physics and then MORE REALLY COOL STUFF, and then uh-oh the whole mission is in DANGER, and did I mention that only I can save the WORLD?” All it's missing is SPACE LASERS, PEW PEW PEW. There's even sex, or at least acknowledgment of the existence thereof in a way that seems cringeworthy to anyone over the age of twelve.The science itself was surprisingly sloppy. I won't go into details because therein be spoilers, but sheesh. I was expecting much better from the author of [b:The Martian 18007564 The Martian Andy Weir https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1413706054l/18007564.SY75.jpg 21825181]. Each of the many mistakes were elementary, and should have been caught in the earliest drafts.That said, it was fun in a bubblegum sort of way: thrilling space adventures, and problem-solving, and Valuable Lessons on the Importance of Paying Attention In School Because You Never Know When You Might Have to Save the Planet. Worth reading, but be prepared for some serious suspension of disbelief—no, not the space stuff, I mean the part where all the countries and peoples on Earth unite to fight a grave threat. No deniers, no republicans claiming fake news. That was a little hard to swallow... but damn, what a sweet fantasy.
It's dangerous to reminisce. There are so many ways to get trapped in the past: “if only I had...”; “things were so much better then...”; and we all know people stuck in their imaginary what-ifs. Then there's reading someone else's reminiscences—there's so much that can go wrong there. In the right hands, though: wow. This was a masterpiece that kept me engaged and thinking; it will likely stay with me for a long time.
If you haven't read this, and are over forty: read it. Don't try to learn “what it's about,” don't read cover-jacket blurbs: this isn't a book ”about” anything, it's a journey; one in which you might find more than a handful of parallels with lives you recognize. Including perhaps your own. Ishiguro's language and insights are sublime. Most importantly for me, the narrator's voice was so perfect: he could've made her wistful, or bitter, or resentful. There is drama and cruelty in the story, both individual and societal. Loss and longing. It could've gone many ways, but what I got from it is a reminder, both sobering and refreshing, that this is the life we have. We can reflect usefully on our growth: the insecurities we had (and may still carry), how our unspoken assumptions wreck the possibility of communicating with others. The narrator's life has been set on a course that is likely harder than yours or mine, yet her voice is one of curiosity, thoughtfulness, never self-pity. She thinks back to choices and decision points, understanding that things may have gone differently, and she moves on. I suppose most of us wonder, from time to time, if we're wasting or have wasted our lives. We may never know, and some days it may feel more like it than others, but even in the deepest pits we still have some agency to do our best. Few of us will have the lives we've dreamed, but we can still make something out of what we have.
Tender, contemplative, charming, just like everyone says. I was not prepared, though, for how uncomfortable this book made me feel.
The nature aspects are truly lovely. So are the tone and pace, the gentle rhythm. Bailey's self-awareness shines, even though it's clear that there's much she's holding back, and that, I think, is what kept me so tense the entire time I was reading: Bailey is clearly intelligent and driven; her affliction, one that's especially devastating to such a person. How does she cope? Not with the tedium—snail to the rescue!—but with the feelings of uselessness and despair? Being a burden, unable to produce or give? She's made what comes off as a painful peace with her reality, and that's what I was really hoping to read more about, and what kept me cringing with discomfort. (Or am I the only one whose worst fears involve becoming crippled and utterly dependent on others?)
What would you say is the mark of a good anthology: loving every essay in it, or loving only some? Now that I'm old I find myself grateful for editors who take risks, who include voices I might not otherwise hear.
This is an exceptional collection. All the entries made me think, or change the way I think. Some made me work. It's been two weeks since I finished reading, and I'm still mulling over parts of it. I love the recurring themes of language: “kinning” as an active verb, use of proper pronouns for nonhuman life forms, how our words shape (and limit) the ways we see the world around us.
Much better than [b:Going Postal 64222 Going Postal (Discworld, #33; Moist von Lipwig, #1) Terry Pratchett https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1388236899l/64222.SY75.jpg 1636617], but I guess the Moist series is not for me: I found this one too manic and disjointed for my taste, but thankfully with enough delicious humor and Sir Terry's trademark decency to make it enjoyable. And even if this wasn't my cup of tea, I'm just amazed by his versatility and willingness to experiment with different styles.
Entire genres of art would never exist if we humans learned to listen to one another; to communicate our needs and wants; to make the effort to see and understand others. I so wish to live in a world where a book like this is incomprehensible. (In my first draft I added a snarky “but it's not up to me” here. But no: it is up to me. And you. If we don't set the example, who will?)
This was a painful read on so many levels. Emotionally, of course: it's raw, often brutally so, with themes of loneliness, insecurity, violence, trauma, and desperate need. Intellectually—the moments I was able to distance myself from the story, that is—because every one of the lives in the book was real, and suffering in ways that so many others have and still do. And literarily, because it took serious work to read: it's narrated almost entirely in dialog, beautiful conversations that sound and feel genuine but whose cost is clarity. Just like in the real world, there are entire oceans beneath the surface of our conversations: shared understandings (and misunderstandings), shortcuts that mostly work but so often lead to ambiguity and to further misunderstandings. Jones's dialog is superb, each voice unique, each sentence (and silence) communicating so much more than their component words. I felt like I was witnessing, not watching.
The need to connect with others is unquenchable but also overpowering: we can't stop trying even if we know that we'll never reach connection, which not everyone knows. We can come close: by talking, maybe by fucking, maybe for the very very fortunate through both. We can also use both to, despite our intentions, create distance, cause suffering to ourselves and others. You can probably guess which of those outcomes Jones chronicles. And if you're a decent person you may wonder why you'd want to read this? And I don't have a convincing answer for you but I still think you should.
Chock full o' red flags: “do your own research”; “detoxifying”; ”my friend David Avocado Wolf.” And privilege! Even the basic-maintenance regimens she recommends can run into a hundred or two a month.
I have a yardstick by which I judge skepticism-worthy sources: on topics where I'm well informed, does the writer know what they're talking about? Yes. Her section on entheogenic mushrooms was disappointingly short, but it was accurate. On medicinal (non-psychoactive) mushrooms she covers a great deal more than I can vouch for, but her information is all consistent with what I do know. And, importantly, Sansouci is unfailingly careful to state that all these treatments should be in-addition-to medical care, not instead-of. She is no science denier, she's simply trying to compile and share information that has been underground for most of our lives.
Unrated, because I'm too cannabis-ignorant to assess this content. That said, I will be buying my own copy (this was a loaner). For reference to help me learn more about cannabis, for lending out to loved ones with certain medical conditions. I'm a skeptic by nature but I‘m also deeply curious; that curiosity led me to discover entheogenic mushrooms, which transformed my life for the better. What else is there for me to discover?
Really wish I could rave about this. The memoir parts were phenomenal: effective, deeply moving. They conveyed Hall's disappointment over so many lost threads; frustration over the many closed doors she encountered and the ways she's been unjustly treated; her heartbreak over all the lives destroyed and reduced to mere entries on a ledger. Her use of excerpts from ledgers and logs is brilliant: their coldness reached deep into my heart, infusing me with despair over a species — my species — that could so easily perpetrate such abominations on fellow humans. The palimpsest-style illustrations in these sections were beautifully done.The fictionalized parts were... pretty good. (Not the dialog, but there was little enough of that). The stories added a personal touch, helping me imagine that past and the individual souls who lived and fought and suffered.The jumping between the two — that did not work for me at all. It took me a while to realize what was happening, and I tried my best to accept it and love it, but couldn't. Maybe there's a way to read it without feeling jolted out; some mindset; maybe on second reading I'll be more prepared and able to understand. Right now, first reading, right on the heels of the exquisite [b:Caste 51152447 Caste The Origins of Our Discontents Isabel Wilkerson https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1597267568l/51152447.SY75.jpg 75937597], I just can't justify the five stars I so badly wanted to give.(That doesn't mean you shouldn't read this. YOU SHOULD. It's informative, haunting, beautiful.)
Unusual, kind of like something from a slightly different dimension, or as if Raven's voice is rotated a few degrees away from the world I'm used to. Not difficult to read, just ... expect occasional disconnects. For a certain kind of person — someone who can appreciate wildness without romanticizing it, who understands that life is messy, who can accept that scientific objectivity and personal attachment are not incompatible — totally worth it.
The author befriends a fox. Said fox befriends the author. It's not a storybook relationship nor a lovy-dovey woofy-pet one, more a gradual exploration of each other, of boundaries and comfort zones, converging into a mutually respectful bond. And, damn, it's a real one: Raven may have her tics and quirks, but she knows her way around feelings. Their friendship is a moving one, with missteps and triumphs and regrets. And there's much more: personal memoir, natural history, and Raven's rich wildlife observations.
This is, necessarily, a different and more painful series than March. For starters, we're now living in a world without John Lewis. Then there's the story arc: March ended on a triumphant note, the passing of the Voting Rights Act, huzzah. Unfortunately, the VRA did not immediately vanquish intolerance and injustice in the USA.
Run chronicles the slog ahead: new ways to intimidate and disenfranchise Black voters and candidates; the conviction and sentencing of white terrorists for murdering – oops, my mistake: I meant the continued murder of Blacks with total impunity; and the growing schism in the SNCC, between the nonviolents and those espousing aggression, leading to Lewis's ouster from his (til then) lifelong path. Book One covers 1965-1966, and I'm worried that at some point they might get to 1968, which was not a good year.
Two panels halfway through serve as a sobering reminder of how far we've come:
The number of polling places was reduced, making it almost impossible for poor voters–without access to cars–to cast a ballot. And many of the polling places were moved to new locations.
“It's the monotonous and mundane tragedy of every woman you know.” No, it's not, but most women I know have experienced multiple aspects of Williams's story — and every woman will recognize the toxic culture she depicts. The one that grooms women into growing up frightened, insecure, ashamed, and willing to put up with the vilest forms of abuse from men. (Side note: I thought I knew shame and self-loathing, but nothing in my life compares to what Williams has confronted.)
This is a hell of a ride, and it's worth staying on despite its occasional disjointedness and stumbles. It's a vulnerable work, requiring courage beyond my imagining. Erin Williams the protagonist is not a likable or relatable character, but Erin Williams the writer—older, stronger—draws her that way for a reason, starkly yet with compassion. And, I repeat, with tremendous courage.
(I found myself wondering who this book was for: the kind of people who most need to read it won't, or if they do they will dismiss it. In the end I think the book is for Williams herself, and brava. I consider it a privilege to have read it, and am grateful for the opportunity, and hope to use it to become an increasingly better ally.)
I like to think of myself as moderately competent in English... but poetry in this language has always eluded me. I know there is something important and beautiful that I'm missing. I keep trying, intermittently, unsuccessfully, to learn to appreciate it. Burt's teaser — “Don't read poetry, read poems” drew me in, as did her six-axis breakdown.
Unfortunately, this was not the book for me. I need a book written by a late bloomer, not by a lifelong aficionada in a university English department. Burt tries hard, and with enthusiasm, but her words fly past me or shatter against my thick old skull. We are coming from much different places.
I am not completely unchanged. Although some of the book confirmed my prejudices — about some poets being pretentious and self-absorbed; or about “tedious, impenetrable, baffling” being a deliberate art form; or about the need to know a lot about Wordsworth and other pop icons in order to understand their poems — there is much more about minor and minority voices, about the expression of personal and cultural struggle.
Quite likely the sweetest murder mystery I've read. Intriguing storyline. The characters are all so cheery, all well-adjusted, all interacting so jovially and lovingly with each other (the Good Gals/Guys, anyway). Half the dialog is written as “‘...', [Character] said laughing.” Strong female, minority, and LGBTQ characters. So kumbaya I could squee, and honestly that's why I stuck with it: because I needed that today.
On the less-enthusiastic note: it was kind of painful reading. “The dialog is a bit stilted, and too often used as an exposition device for introducing plot points,” Ed said laughing. Misspellings galore, most distressingly when she writes (shudder) “Sangre de Christo.” Supernatural elements weaving in and out unexpectedly. Occasional jarring shifts from third-person narration to first, from the viewpoint of an otherwise invisible (human) character. Serious technical goofs (e.g., GPS readings from inside a mine. I'll accept the audio recordings of a conversation with a ghost, because why not.) Most importantly, the characters—good, bad, neutral—just aren't convincing. I did like the book, might even pick up another of Johnson's books one day.
I don't get it. Or, maybe a little, but it just made me sad. Three generations of mental disease, like a case study in neuroses compounded by underdeveloped prefrontal cortices: Swiv, the narrator, a hyperprecocious and ultra-hyper-anxious nine-year-old; Mom (not much of one), a learned-helplessness pity party who mostly just ignores Swiv; and Grandma, who I guess is supposed to be the Live Your Life To The Fullest influence, a happy-go-lucky free spirit—except she requires pretty much constant caretaking by Swiv, the only responsible one in the bunch.
Everything looms large to Swiv: who, at age nine, has any perspective? Who understands what matters? So to her everything is a Big Deal, every little issue a reinforcement of her anxiety... and there are lots of little issues. Grandma just laughs everything off, maybe trying to set an example for Swiv that there is joy in life, but in practice just adding to Swiv's workload and stress. Then, at the end (this is not a spoiler), a new baby for Mom to ignore and for Swiv to caretake.
The humor eludes me. The rat-a-tat stream-of-consciousness narration, with no pauses for breath, was almost too effective in conveying anxiety: it just made me feel hopeless.
Unrated, because once again I'm not the target audience. [Two for two in 2022. I wonder if I can go a whole year without assigning a rating?]
Beautifully done. Exquisite photos (you knew that) and also compelling narrative, photo notes, chronology, and personal touches. Reinforces the impression I've long had of Chin being a genuinely decent human being in addition to all his technical talents.
This feels like (and probably is) an utterly pointless review: if you're familiar with Chin's work, you're going to or have already bought the book; if you're not, you're not even going to be reading this. So here's an idea: let's all of us lend our copies out to non-climber friends who appreciate beauty and exploration. Maybe we'll wake something in them; or maybe they'll be inspired to buy copies for other friends in turn. Chin deserves to be well known.
On a personal note, I'd like to confess that I read this today while squirreled up at home, inside on a gorgeous New Mexico bluebird day, because it was “too cold”—twenties—to spend the day climbing. (Do not hold your breath waiting for my adventure photo book).
Should perhaps have been titled Notes On My Grief: specific, not generic. I picked it up in late December expecting the latter, thinking it might offer wisdom for coping with 2022 and, for that matter, the rest of our lives, in which I expect grief to ever increasingly be the defining emotion. It is instead Adichie's recounting of her feelings upon the sudden death of her father. She describes all the stages of DABDA, in their usual haphazard non-sequence, but curiously without once even mentioning DABDA. She writes eloquently and with great sensitivity... but it isn't clear to me who she's writing to. (The for is easy: herself. I hope it worked, hope it was cathartic for her, that she is healing. The to, well, it's not me. I just felt uncomfortable viewing her progression.)It's oddly serendipitous to read this the day after [b:The Secret to Superhuman Strength 53968436 The Secret to Superhuman Strength Alison Bechdel https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1603447250l/53968436.SY75.jpg 55906126], in which Bechdel writes “What a tedious slog life would be without death!” On reflection I think that's what I found distancing: Adichie does not seem to have expected her 88-year-old father's death, nor even to have ever contemplated it. As someone squarely in Bechdel's camp, I just can't relate to that.[Unrated, because I'm not the target audience so it would not be fair.]
Bait and switch! Complete ripoff! There's not a single secret to superhuman strength to be found in this book!!1!
What you get instead is... enlightenment. Or at least one person's life journey thereto, and, when you think about it, aren't they the same thing?
This was such an unexpected delight. Engaging and insightful from the beginning, poignant, self-aware. Tender, even. I get the sense that Bechdel wrote this from a place of love, including for her own self—not something she could've done just a few years ago (IMO). (I also get a small sense that mushrooms may have played a part in this growth, apart from the one in her twenties, but what do I know? More power to her if she accomplished it through her own and her loved ones' efforts).
On the surface, the memoir parts are unremarkable—it's her tone that fascinated me: compassion the whole way through. So much compassion, for her family and lovers and herself. Recognition of, and wry amusement at, her neophilic experience-seeking tendencies. Acknowledgment of her obsessions, but this time with kindness. Explorations of her own privilege. Humor, but the loving kind. (In a therapy couch: “Lemme get this straight. Perfection and worthlessness aren't the only options?”) (Yes, there are therapy couches herein, but much fewer than in her previous book, and much less neurotic, and more appropriate). Reflections on death and our opportunities to live, really live. Much Buddhism, nonduality, exploration.
Bechdel is one of the lucky ones. Not because of her successes or MacArthur fellowship: because she has made it into Awareness territory. Which isn't to say she lives in a state of blissful Om (although, maybe?); simply that she gives every indication of living a more deliberate life; and hot damn, it really thrills me to see that in a person. It gives me so much hope.
A slow, gentle meditation where, instead of twenty minutes focusing on a candle flame, Haskell devotes one year to one specific meter-wide circle of old-growth forest land; to observing the life within and around it. As with any meditation, attention shifts: macro to micro, tree to salamander to seed; also across time, particularly the seasonal changes. As with any meditation, attention drifts, typically to ruminations on humanity and our place in the World. Each chapter has one focus but follows tendrils, too, because the entire point of the book—and of all life—is our interconnectedness.One year. January 1 to December 31. It seems only right to read it that way. The fauna and flora in New Mexico differ from those in Tennessee, as do the seasonal shifts, but the same fundamentals apply and it's the general awareness that matters anyway: the slowing down to lend our attention to the world around us; the weekly-or-so reminders; that's what I found most valuable. I find myself moving differently on trails. (Not always: being present takes constant practice). I also learned much about migrations, amphibians, plant growth.Wish I could give the full five stars, but Haskell's writing... like in [b:Songs of Trees 31522121 The Songs of Trees Stories from Nature's Great Connectors David George Haskell https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1474519192l/31522121.SX50.jpg 52206884]... ouch. There are times I have to read a paragraph three times before the words come together. His style does not work for everyone. But please don't be scared off! Maybe you'll love it; or if not maybe you can push past and glean the good parts. (After all, you're reading my words right now, so you're obviously adept at finding the good in anyone's writing).Huge thanks to A., who year-read it in 2020 and subsequently pressed her copy on me, urging me to do likewise.