Eduardo Santiago
Reviews suggested this was sweet. It was. But also lifeless and contrived. The characters go through their motions as the story requires, responding to stimuli, but I never got a sense of why or of who they are. Jane consistently addresses them by role — “the wife,” “the brother,” “the stepchild” — so this distancing is intentional, but why? She writes like she wants us to care for the characters, and she even interjects occasional PSAs on the preciousness of life and relationships, but it’s all Tell, no Show.
Kudos for originality and pacing: some fun creative ideas, with nicely done foreshadowing and reveals. Way too many loose ends and side plots that went nowhere, but hey, first work. Give her time.
Skip it. Blasphemy, I know, but consider: Equal Rites and Mort, Sir Terry’s first decent books, are 1987 and 1988 respectively. The dreadful Color of Magic is 1983. These stories, with one exception, are 1970-1975! Publishing them is like grabbing Picasso’s third-grade sketches off his parents’ fridge. Sure, there are tiny recognizable glimmers of what is to come, but they’re stepping stones. None of this is actually good nor worth reading.
Interesting setup, disappointing resolution. I might tentatively recommend this as a taste test for someone unfamiliar with Murderbot, but with caveats: it nicely demonstrates Murderbot's essence, yet also Wells's occasional handwave-it-away laziness. The best of her books do not rely on the latter.
"Chilling" is probably not the right word. Would you prefer "horrifying"? Vaillant paints a bleak picture of Earth's future, one shaped by greed and negligence.
The book loosely centers around the week of May 3, 2016 in Fort McMurray, Alberta: fire start, then Everything Is Fine, followed quickly by panic, chaos, terror, disbelief, struggle, shellshock, adaptation, and misery. War, essentially; war that will be coming for most of us. These parts of the book will feel hauntingly familiar to my friends and neighbors in Los Alamos, especially the part where Vaillant writes "[this or that] was—how many times can one say this?—unprecedented." We've lived through that: Cerro Grande (2000) was unlike anything else before; Las Conchas (2011) likewise; and the next one is simply unimaginable as I write this. I don't mean that in a good way.
It's not just the Fort McMurray fire, though: the most impactful parts of the book are the contexts that Vaillant provides. He writes a rich history of atmospheric science, what we know, when we learned it, and HOW we learned it. The scientists and dabblers who, through curiosity and determination and cleverness, figured out the nature of oxygen, carbon dioxide, combustion. The ones who sounded the alarm about CO2 in the nineteenth century, then with increasing urgency in the early and mid and late twentieth. And the subhuman oil executives who squashed those findings.
One of Vaillant's recurring themes is the Lucretius problem (which I'm more familiar with as the Black Swan problem): humans have a poor ability to imagine and plan for events beyond the ordinary. He writes about pyrocumulonimbus: everyone in New Mexico is familiar with these, but apparently they were only formally identified in 1998. He writes of fire tornadoes, which are even newer. He notably does not write about the next unexpected megafire effect, but we can be sure that one future day there'll be another shocking development in fire behavior. I am infinitely grateful that my children will never see what that is.
Tender. At least the first two-thirds; after that, there's some tension, uncertainty about motivations and story direction and outcome, and you'll have to read for yourself. I'll just say this: the book ends satisfactorily and was quite enjoyable to read.
The mythology is complicated but fun overall. Nice worldbuilding. And the supernatural stuff is really just setting -- backdrop for the real story, which is about oppressed minorities and the self-righteous nazi bullies who terrorize and kill them; about living in hiding, about the suffering of loss; about the suffering of remorse.
A mixed bag. Some of the stories were meh, but the good ones were very, very good. Great writing, beautiful twists, powerful and memorable dilemmas.
Horror stories often involve supernatural elements. I tend to find those silly, and prefer the ones exploring plain old human nature. This collection includes both kinds of stories, and to my surprise, of the ones I loved, there was a tie (four-four) between supernatural and non.
DNF, p.101. I found it meandering and disjointed, with ornate prose that’s far too clever for me. Occasional snippets of word evolution, but much more text seemed devoted to outrage over the imbecilic things that primitive males believed about women’s bodies, typically without ever having consulted any actual women. I struggled to find cohesion. Maybe I’m just too male and insensitive.
Moving, sensitive, thoughtful, and pretty badass. Although it starts off with a YA feel, it’s not: this is (mostly but not always) emotionally complex. Tough moral questions and decisions. Strong themes of personal responsibility, betrayal, forgiveness. And feminist AF.
Impossible not to be reminded of The Book of Longings: mythologically-inspired fanfic from a female POV. That’s a really tough genre. The constraints are absolutely rigid, so the author has to be careful to work within the gaps. I know nothing of Hindu mythology, so it was reassuring to read the Author’s Note at the beginning in which she describes her familiarity with the canon and the care she took to remain within it. She also has a remarkable postscript in the Goodreads reviews. Read both. I think they show her to be a person of admirable intelligence and ethics. (Despite those, I see some religiofanatic GR reviewers have gotten their “feelings hurt.” I see that as an added bonus.)
The (not a spoiler) Binding Threads gimmick was intriguing. Patel used it a little more than I cared for, and often uncomfortably, but overall effectively. Any power lends itself to abuse, and I see that as part of the author’s point. I really, really loved the relationship dynamics, the first-person narrator’s imperfections, her recognitions of kindness in others. There is a good deal of evil in this book (*cough* “pious sages” *cough) but much more decency and nobility.
A bit heavy, with Sinek's earnestness reminding me sometimes of Dave Barry's [b:Claw Your Way to the Top 126036 Claw Your Way to the Top How to Become the Head of a Major Corporation in Roughly a Week Dave Barry https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1312045551s/126036.jpg 121387]. Also a wee bit too reductionist in the neuroscience (“If you do X, you will trigger serotonin release in your employees and life will be great”). But bring a few grains of salt with you because despite all that this is great material, well presented for a general audience, and the content might just help you grow into a better person.
We know that our food is artificially cheap. At some abstract level we know there's suffering involved. Holmes beautifully lets us see and almost feel what that suffering is really like: the terror of the border crossing, the social circumstances that make it necessary; the back-neck-knee-and-body-breaking misery of picking strawberries seven days a week for unending hours; waking to rainfall as condensed breath drips from your uninsulated ceiling; the humiliation and insults and violence. Seth Holmes walked the walk, spending years living with (excuse the term) migrant workers roaming between Oaxaca, California, and Washington. People who turn out to be (gasp!) actual human beings who experience love, joy, fear, sadness, pain (only much, much more of the latter than you or I ever will).
Holmes writes engagingly, with more grace and heart than I could ever muster. Even when interviewing truly contemptible hatemongering bigots he refrains from editorializing, letting their own words damn them. But those are just small parts of the book. The vast majority takes you into the lives of these families, into their days and hopes of finding better lives. And into the systems that make that almost impossible.
Recommended reading for anyone who eats food. Required for anyone who has influence over immigration, agricultural, medical, or other cultural policies.
Four stars, rounding up to five purely for astonishment value. Each story is wildly different: absurd, wistful, powerful, thoughtful. There is decency and dignity and kindness. Pause after each one to savor it. And, most importantly: keep going. She saves some of her best work for last.
Tender; gentle; smart — not your run-of-the-mill postapocalyptic novel. Damn, I enjoyed this! It hooked me from the beginning and kept me rapt the whole way through despite the choppy writing, too-perfect characters, one-dimensional villains, and an Infinite Improbability drive turned on Eleven; and I can't even tell you why. It's just a great story with noble characters, tough situations, and vivid imagery.
(Oh and FWIW there's no comparison to Cormac McCarthy, whose writing I can't abide).
This is my second reading. Again, I found the book informative and well written. Again, I felt disappointed by Gilbert's failure to differentiate between kinds of happiness.
Gilbert is a terrific writer: engaging, entertaining, even laugh-out-loud funny at times. The book is well organized, rich with examples of the latest knowledge in psychology, neuroscience, and economics (but don't worry – he makes it readable without dumbing it down). Without actually labeling them as such, he describes many of our cognitive biases: the tricks our brains play on us, how and why they happen, and why they're so hard for us to see.
The conclusion of the book is simple: if you want to know how happy or unhappy something will make you, don't trust your imagination. Instead, look to and trust the experiences of others who have been there. Getting to that conclusion, convincing the reader of it, really does take the entire book, and it's worth it. I'm disappointed at his lack of discussion of internal vs external rewards, of deep fulfilling happiness vs the shallow potato-chip-yum kind ... but that's another book. Despite that lack, I fervently recommend this book to anyone who wants to know and understand a little bit about ourselves.
Another “it gets better” book. I had abandoned this some months ago, at about ten percent, because of violence I found uncomfortable and religious overtones I found tedious. A friend convinced me to give it another go, and I'm mostly glad I did: it remained a disturbing read, but also developed thoughtful themes of trust, compassion, attachment (in Buddhist and other senses), and the fragility of civilization. I don't understand the economics of her world nor some of the character motivations, which diminished my enjoyment somewhat. I haven't decided yet whether to continue with the trilogy.
Slow going (because there's a lot to absorb) but oh so worth it. This is a tale of discovery, misdirection, adventure, and astonishing progress. Prothero's 25 chapters don't so much focus on a particular fossil as revolve around it: each has a rich backstory helping us understand contexts: life in that particular era, scientific knowledge at the time of the discovery, the personalities and driving forces that helped advance our knowledge.
Fun. It's been two decades since I last read Holt, almost that long since I stopped looking for more books by him. What a treat to discover that he's writing again!
Doughnut is pretty much what I expected—deliciously so. Surreal, whimsical, charming, lighthearted, but also mature. I'm looking forward to catching up on the last ten years of Holt.
Four? How dare I rate Gaiman fewer than five (or eleven) stars! Have I lost my mind or—gasp—my heart?First, though: [b:Ocean 15783514 The Ocean at the End of the Lane Neil Gaiman http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1351914778s/15783514.jpg 21500681] was great. Moving, poetic, sublime. Gaiman's writing just keeps on improving. Sentences that merit savoring. Ambiance that can fill a room. There is no doubt that I'll be reading it again some day, perhaps listening. It's masterful.It's just the substance that's lacking. Too-perfect and -wise characters; an improbably precocious seven-year-old; third-person narrative awkwardly expressed as first-person (for the intimacy, which I'll admit does work); several convenient Dei ex Machina. I never felt any real tension, perhaps because I never understood the rules. Much like the child protagonist I was just swept along for the ride, trusting that all would be taken care of... only I'm not seven any more. And as for the titular Ocean: I feel like Gaiman started with a great title but then just sort of veered off, occasionally remembering to mention it in passing. There's a story there, a rich one, but this isn't it.I don't feel disappointed. I feel warm, even hours after having finished it. (And that's not just June in New Mexico). I am overwhelmingly grateful to Gaiman for sharing his words and worlds. I just think he can do better.
Much of this is material you know: agriculture, state societies, atypical, etc etc. Where Diamond differs is in his unromanticized analysis and recommendations: it's not useful to pretend that we'd be better off as noble savages, but there are important lessons we can (re-)learn about managing risk, pursuing justice, raising children, and living better in our circumstances. Diamond's illustrative anecdotes from his field work in New Guinea are profound and, IMO, helpful.
Sadly, this book will never reach policymakers or influencers. So it's up to us to recommend it, discuss its lessons, live by example and hope the next generations pick something up.
Oh, and it's slow going but worth toughing out to the end.
“Five senses,” they told me. How chauvinistic that seems now. Understandably so, but still.Remember [b:Flatland 433567 Flatland A Romance of Many Dimensions Edwin A. Abbott https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1435435775l/433567.SY75.jpg 4243538]? (I like to think everyone read that in grade school but am now wondering if it was only us math geeks?) Anyhow, Immense World brought back those feelings of wonder; of imagining what we know is out there but can never, ever fully understand. A dog navigating the world through smell. The countless ways of arranging color receptors, giving some animals a visual experience we can barely even describe. Touch. Vibration, through air (sound) and through ground. Sensing electrical fields. Magnetic fields! How little we know! And of course, [b:bats 197189543 What Is It Like to Be a Bat? Thomas Nagel https://s.gr-assets.com/assets/nophoto/book/50x75-a91bf249278a81aabab721ef782c4a74.png 40899183]. All creatures taking their senses for granted, just like we do, but we have that amazing ability to study and learn and devise instruments that help us see-hear-sense farther. And to imagine.“[...] we can try to step into their worlds. We must choose to do so, and to have that choice is a gift. It is not a blessing we have earned, but it is one we must cherish.” Yong, more than anyone else I've ever encountered or heard of, has made me recognize that gift. Has let me glimpse those worlds of sensation. He does so with compassion and humility.
I really wanted to like it — so many of my friends have — but it just didn't work for me. The writing is tight, terse yet rich and really quite enjoyable, the kind I would normally devour... but the story itself felt flat. Affectless. Is that a thing now? It reminded me of [b:lost Children Archive 40245130 Lost Children Archive Valeria Luiselli https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1547386427l/40245130.SY75.jpg 62525285]: an ever-so-detached first-person narrator moving through the world but without really being part of it. A complete lack of connection. The whole book is bleakness, resignation. Not the fog of medication or apathy — her observations are too sharp at every level — just ... I don't know. I don't get it. A kind of going-through-the-motions thing, with exquisite awareness yet no spirit.
This book has insidiously been changing my life. I find myself engaging differently in some conversations. Definitely reading differently, especially anything to do with communication. There are some books I may want to reread in light of this new perspective. And perspective is all it is: just a reframing of a mental model.
Barrett in no way denies or invalidates emotions; what she does is suggest that they're not as universal as we think. Not across humans, certainly not across species. Affect is more universal, but we build emotions from that plus self-awareness plus the all-important social/cultural environment. It's nature and nurture both, and just like that fruitless debate, people get into trouble when they start looking for gene-for-this or brain-region-for-that. Barrett's model helps us see complex emotions as constructs, which she hopes can change the focus of research and, should those directions prove fruitful, eventually society and even law.
Barrett does seem a little too smitten with her own thesis, a little too certain. I do hope her model pans out, yields new insights, and proves useful. But this is science: it may not.
Darwin. Quammen. What's not to love?
I had this book for dessert, but recommend it as an appetizer. Maybe I'm not the right person to review this book: I'm already a bit of a Darwinhead, have already read Origin and at least one biography. I didn't read this to get something new, it was more for enjoyment. And enjoy I did. Quammen has distilled the complexity of Darwin's life but has preserved its richness.
Abandoned, p.90. Stories of disasters bringing out the best in us. Cherrypicked anecdotes demonstrating how wonderful and kumbaya it is when disasters happen and survivors organically unite to provide mutual assistance, rejecting payment, everyone acting out of pure unselfish love; then how horrible it is when authorities come in and ruin everything. This was reading more like a utopian manifesto than anything nuanced, informative, or thoughtful. I flipped ahead, got the same vibe, am moving on to my next book.
I wanted to DNF it by page 60. I wish I had. This just wasn't a book for me: I found it irritating and depressing, chock full o' superstition, violence (physical and emotional), ignorance, toxic masculinity, abuse, trauma. The so-and-so-is-this-animal comparisons felt forced. The story was annoying in other ways: not exactly an unreliable narrator, but (minor more a case of oh, I neglected to mention this super-important detail that happened a few chapters ago and completely changes the reader's understanding of the situation). That was jarring and felt gimmicky. For me, a good storyteller will take themself out of the story so it's the action and feelings that the reader focus on. This felt more like, look at me!
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.