Eduardo Santiago
What a slog. Pretentious, long-winded, annoying. I found myself wondering how this could be the same author as [b:Victory City 61111246 Victory City Salman Rushdie https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1670259879l/61111246.SY75.jpg 96232966]. (Likely answer: forty difficult years).Maybe it would help if I knew more about India's history and culture. Or if I liked florid ornate excessive circumlocutious language. Or if I were more tolerant of moronic religions and stupid vain shallow self-absorbed people. But that's not me, and I am clearly not the target audience.In a delicious coincidence, halfway through my reading I stumbled into a conversation with a remarkable young person who was drawing parallels between this book and [b:The God of Small Things 9777 The God of Small Things Arundhati Roy https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1590282886l/9777.SY75.jpg 810135] and who urged me to just not bother with this one, and rush to pick up that one. Unfortunately, it turns out I already tried and DNF'ed it... with similar gripes about flowery prose. Sigh.Unrated, because who am I to argue with a Booker Prize.
Mixed feelings: I loved most of its parts, just not the entirety. Probably because I'm old and cismale, also in large part because I read it too soon after [b:World of Wonders 48615751 World of Wonders In Praise of Fireflies, Whale Sharks, and Other Astonishments Aimee Nezhukumatathil https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1577258440l/48615751.SY75.jpg 73952157] and it's impossible not to contrast them: the describe-a-creature-then-find-parallels-with-my-life thing was less effective this time; it was also a lot harsher in this book, chip on shoulder. I felt deeply sorry for the author, for their pain; also somewhat angry at their parents and parental figures for not teaching boundaries or enthusiastic consent. I feel angry thinking of how many more children out there will suffer because parents shy from difficult conversations.Imbler writes elegantly. Their marine biology segments are informative and fascinating. Their memoirs profoundly vulnerable, distressing at times but in necessary ways: Imbler's experiences will be more relatable to young people, but we olds can learn from them. If I had a high-school age person in my life, I would pass my book to them. For my friends, though: if you've read World of Wonders, skip this one, or perhaps wait a year or two. If you've read neither, but want to read one: both are excellent, pick WoW for a broader view of racism and a wider selection of living beings, pick HFtLR for intense and painful perspectives on toxic masculinity, rape culture, blackout-drinking, queer self-discovery (and a narrow focus on marine biology). You will be better for reading either one.Favorite excerpt: When the sand striker snatches a fish and begins to feast, it is not thinking of what the fish is feeling. It has no complex brain and no sense of morality, which means its intentions are never cruel. A worm cannot shirk a duty it does not know. But we can.
A little heavyhanded... until the last chapter, when it went a LOT heavyhanded, we're talking over-the-top soapbox. But I loved it anyway: it was sweet, thoughtful, and the ranting was 100% on target (bullies, religiofanatics, rpblcns).
One aspect that resonated deeply with me, and I wonder how this comes off for U.S. natives, is the plight of competent people from third-world countries. Stay, or emigrate? Live surrounded by incompetence and corruption, but possibly able to effect positive change in a land one knows? Or move to the first world, small fish in big pond, making no difference to the world? Ogunyemi does a superb job of evoking the draws of each: there are comforts of living in one's childhood culture, and drawbacks to living in an increasingly nazified U.S. Even when the decision is clear, it isn't always easy; not for anyone. And it's clear where Ogunyemi's sympathies and hopes lie, ... but you'll need to read the book to feel the depth and richness of all the beautiful lives she depicts.
That's. Not. How. It. Works. That's not how ANY of it works.
You know that one relative, they're streamofconsciousnessing, you're nodding, uh huh, your smile frozen in a rictus, your eyes trying not to express please please please stop? This is a whole book like that. No quantum chakras or alien abductions, thank FSM, but every few pages there was a moment that made me pause and wonder, does this writer have any clue how the world works? Fundamental misunderstandings of just sooooo many concepts: cultural, social, biological, physical, probably more I missed. At one point involving basic outdoor logistics G. muttered “I don't think the author has ever been camping.”
Okay, those are quibbles. If the story had been great I would chuckle and shake my head and enjoy. But the story centered around a handful of characters who were briefly connected—sometimes flimsily—in the pre-apocalypse world, now surviving twenty years later, with glimpses into their lives Before. The reader is supposed to form a bond with these characters, maybe? This reader didn't. I found nearly all of them affectless and difficult to believe; a bad combination. And the story... well, let's call it “contrived.” Anyhow. I finished, and am glad it's over.
(Side note, I've picked up an interesting habit from friend A.: on books that have been recommended to me, I no longer even read their blurb, just dive right in. So I had no idea about the very premise, the whole pandemic thing, nothing. Not sure I would've started it if I had known.)
EDIT: few days later: I figured it out. It's nostalgia porn: many scenes are “oh, didn't we have it good” or “we should make the Internet and movie celebrities a core part of what we teach our ten-year-olds.” I found all that stuff weird, but now it makes sense.
Really fun premise, and sweet execution. I'm really glad to have read it so soon after abandoning [La Sombra del Viento 184834]; it was a lovely bibliophilic palate cleanser. I was initially disappointed after finishing it, grousing that it left too many questions unanswered... but after thinking about it I understand that it could be no other way.
Quite a rollercoaster; I'm so glad it's over. Wish it had ended a little before it did.
That doesn't mean it was in any way bad... just... painful, and probably not for the reasons you might think: suicide I can handle, but drama, not so much, and Eve the narrator is tiresomely self-obsessed. Most of the book is beautiful, insightful, emotionally raw; but a lot of it is tedious self-pity. I was often tempted to DNF it but kept going because holy shit can Nwabineli write. Even though the Eve we read about is annoying, the Eve who's writing—the older wiser Eve who made it through—her voice is exquisite. She writes with awareness and humility and sometimes even a little chagrin; not to excuse traumatized-whiny-Eve but to ... here I'm not so sure ... to help us learn from her? This is a tremendously compassionate, intelligent, and even funny book, snarky and witty, and at the end I can't tell you if it's anti-suicide, pro-suicide, or some sort of mindful caring hey-it-happens. And I really loved that.
The story itself was a bit contrived and became ever more so as it progressed; some aspects of that were easier for me to accept than others. On the whole, despite the annoyances and inverisimilitudes, I found it hard to put the book down. Eve was surrounded by kind, caring, competent people, and I genuinely cared for each of them. I cared about future-Eve, too, the one narrating with so much heart, and wanted to know how the Eve in the book, the one who shows no promise, transforms.
Finally and most importantly, the book's treatment of suicide seems fair. Not always—this was part of the rollercoaster, all the different takes and angles and perspectives she whirlwinds through—but at the end I feel satisfied that no corners were cut. Suicide is a ferociously complex topic, one that we rarely if ever talk about (except in overly simplistic, condescending fly-bys: “call the hotline mkay see ya”), and Nwabineli honors that complexity. Brava.
UPDATE, few days later: can't believe I forgot to mention my favorite topic, asymmetry. So many kinds of it in life and in this book! Some asymmetries can be rebalanced given time and energy and desire. The asymmetry of understanding—of being with others, seeing them, feeling them—that to me is the most mystifying one, and one that I seem to be devoting more and more of my life to addressing even while knowing how unsolvable it is. Death is the ultimate brick wall in that effort; unexplained suicides add a giant middle finger to those left behind. So if you're considering suicide—and I hope you're not, but can empathize if you are and can even accept under some circumstances—anyway, this is a great book to read, because it really helps one understand how not to be a dick about it.
Paradoxically, or maybe not, I felt more discouraged than hopeful. In part it was the book's era: 2003, whose major problems just seem so trifling today. The book also felt disjointed, cobbled together. The stories were too similar; the Hope theme only occasionally coming in as an afterthought. I love and miss Terkel, though, and this reminded me of why.
All of us carry our lifetime of mistakes and regrets and secrets, although probably not as many or as heavy as Rosa and Hou Yi. This is a dark and lovely reimagining of a handful of stories. Maybe a little too ambitious—some of the character dynamics seemed implausible—but hey, these are fairy tales, plus, it's better to take risks than to underachieve. Huang pushes herself. She unfolds the protagonists' traumas slowly, carefully, giving the reader the chance to reflect, relate, and empathize. “These things are complicated,” one character exclaims, reminding us to be careful when we judge. This is a thoughtful work that will forever color how I think of the classic fairy tales.
An unusual and lovely voice. Although many of the plot elements seem farcical—the affair, the entire El Salvador storyline—this is no farce. I found it a sober, compassionate exploration of toxic masculinity. Not the machobullshit type—although there is a little of that—but instead the vastly more common thoughtless, clueless-bumbling male-fantasy variety. The narrator is by most measures a decent man: well-intentioned, self-reflecting; trying to be empathetic, but not quite going about it in the best way. Not knowing any better—or even that there's anything better to know. He screws up in big ways; what he learns, and how and when, that's the story. The three alternating storylines take a little time to get into and that effort is totally worth it.
[b:Nonviolent Communication 71730 Nonviolent Communication A Language of Life Marshall B. Rosenberg https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1386925124l/71730.SY75.jpg 2766138] changed my life when I first read it fifteen years ago. This one I'm thinking not so much... but it's too early to tell, and I promise to give it time.I came >this< close to abandoning it on page one, when the very first paragraph tingled my spideysense with a feeling of dread: This is going to be a “hegemony” book, isn't it? Fourteen pages later there it was, but by then something had happened: I was hooked. The book isn't pretentious or (overly) chiponshouldery. It feels genuine, written with compassion and respect. The author does point out real concerns with NVC, some of which I've learned for myself and grown from, some I had not considered because of my privilege. The author has put a lot of work and thought into this volume, and the world has changed since Rosenberg's day: the conversations we have are different. This is a worthy successor slash companion to NVC.My review is being derailed as I write it: I wanted to write about the book's obsession with unmet needs. I wanted to write a smug rebuttal, saying that part of being a grownup is accepting that some needs can never be met, that we need to suck that up. And I found myself scanning my body (a gift I learned from NVC, strongly reinforced in this book) and finding anger. I guess I haven't let go of my grief after all. And I guess I have some unexpected work to do. Feeling both dejected and grateful. And that's all for now.
There's so much wrong with this book. Every fundamental plot device is silly: the existence of a spirit after death; the idea that said spirit could see hear smell (violation of laws of physics); that said spirit could have desires and emotions (chemical/biological processes); and then the gimmicks on top of that, like the amnesia thing, how convenient; all of it makes for a book I would toss aside in the first few pages.
But I didn't. And it wasn't a stick-with-it thing: I enjoyed every page—okay, almost every page; some of the violence was sickening but I breathed through that—and despite the absurdity I fell deeper and deeper in love with the book. And the payoff is oh so worth it.
The book triggers so many of my hot buttons (in good ways) but I'll focus on asymmetry because so many central themes revolve around it and because Karunatilaka does such a masterful job weaving it into every element of the story. Porous asymmetries: Maali's spirit is thrown into an afterlife whose rules are only partially explained, ... with dangerous gaps; the amnesia gimmick is an effective tension-building device, leaking information slowly to Maali and the reader, information that changes the context of what has transpired so far. In addition to the information asymmetries there are asymmetries of power, of attraction/attractiveness, and of morality. The unusual second-person narration is powerful: I often find that gimmick distancing; here it drew me in, made me identify with and feel a strong connection to Maali.
Some of my other hot buttons: Letting things go. The value of life. Compassion. All of them exquisitely handled, not necessarily with the resolution I would've preferred, but one I find more than satisfying.
Un poquito heavyhanded... maybe more than un poquito. Required Golden-Gate-level suspension of disbelief on the science, the character motivations, the sleep deprivation, the health issues that magically just go away when convenient, and, sigh, the sloppy editing.
But those are just the mutterings of a grouchy old man who enjoyed the book regardless. The story is fresh, the protagonist unique, the tension high. (Narration is first-person, so you'd think that would give me a clue about the ending... but okay, smartypants, you read it and tell me you weren't ever on edge.)
Not quite four stars, but am giving them anyway for its sweetness and charm.
For someone who doesn't really like YA, I sure seem to be reading a lot of YA lately. I blame my friends. In particular, this small group of remarkable people, kind & smart & patient, each one apparently feeling obligated to make me a better more open-minded person by foisting books on me that I would otherwise turn my snobby nose up at.This one, like [b:that other book I just finished 58388343 Some Desperate Glory Emily Tesh https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1668621616l/58388343.SY75.jpg 91580340], was almost unbearably painful at the start. This one, too, paid off after initial effort. Here the setup was cartoonish; the protagonist a humorless, soulless, unlikable bureaucrat; and the dialog made my teeth hurt from gritting them. But I kept going, because see above. And then somewhere near page 50 my brain just did a flip of sorts and I started getting it... and, soon, really enjoying it. This is escapist fantasy, a chance to snuggle safely with warm lovely marginalized people – which is why we read [a:Becky Chambers 17650479 Becky Chambers https://s.gr-assets.com/assets/nophoto/user/u_50x66-632230dc9882b4352d753eedf9396530.png], after all, though that's a parallel that only just came to me; I didn't make the connection while reading.The story arc is predictable, but only broadly speaking: you know Plot Trope X is coming, but when it does it's not quite how you thought it would be. Maybe the best way I can describe the book is “charming”: it charmed me.Thank you, friends.
It's like Valdez Quade read the Dunning-Kruger paper and thought, OMG, this explains so much! And then set out to write about what she's seen. Every story here features losers of different degrees: people we know or may have been ourselves, with poor impulse control and judgment; all the way to people we hope never to have in our lives, worthless ignorant irresponsible leeches who serve only to drag everyone down.
Underdeveloped prefrontal cortex is a prominent theme in every one of the stories. Unsurprisingly, religions play a strong role in about half of them, and Valdez Quade brings out their full creepiness. I wondered often what a believer-type would think of these stories.
So, why would you want to read this? I'm not making it sound pleasant, and it often isn't, but it's rewarding. The stories are all infused with compassion. Not necessarily for the worst of the losers, but for those around them: their young children, the parents who have to support them, even for our own selves, because we've all been losers at times. And, of course, the settings are especially enjoyable: mostly New Mexico, with two elsewhere in the Southwest.
It was a painful book to read: it hurts me so much to see this kind of needless suffering. I read it over about two weeks, which tempered the pain. I'm glad Valdez Quade publishes infrequently, it'll give me time to be eager for her next book. (Human incompetence being an inexhaustible resource, she is likely to have writing material for the rest of her life).
Holy shit. This was so, so, so good. Sassy; insightful; tender; enraging; illuminating; suspenseful; and smart as hell. And to think I felt dubious going in, fearing it would be fluff! Quite the opposite: I'd call it dense, and if that conjures up a negative impression, let that go. There's just so much in it: toxic masculinity, domestic violence, poverty, injustice, consent, ... but all of it served with a loving heart and a pretty hefty dose of brain. Let's say it's packed. I wasn't able to finish it in one day—see below—but I shuffled priorities to nibble at it every chance I had.You've read the blurb, you know the premise... but you have no idea where it's going. I felt off-balance for most of the book, thinking I had a grasp on the situations and characters, then things change: circumstances progress in interesting ways, and the characters, we learn more about them, information that changes how we see them. Really beautifully done: Shroff writes crisply, sparingly, with an impressive vocabulary, a wry wit, and a poker player's sharpness. We learn what she wants us to learn, when she wants us to learn it, and it's masterful. Cruelty, kindness, nuance, complexity; the book makes demands of the reader, and it rewards in kind.On the subject of demands: Shroff throws a big fuck-you to non-Indians. I spent many minutes, cumulatively easily over an hour, getting up to sit at my laptop and look up Gujarati or Hindi words, Indian customs. Sometimes she explains them a few pages later, more often not. Sometimes they're clear from context, sometimes not. Navrati, kabbadi, crore, gadheda... my time was well spent, and I was curious, and I learned. I am thankful to Shroff for not pandering to me.I loved this book so much that I ordered a copy for myself, to reread and to loan out. (To you, should you wish). But before you read it: if you are not Indian, please take time to learn about Phoolan Devi first. I read [b:this graphic novel 50162467 Phoolan Devi, Rebel Queen Claire Fauvel https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1575492203l/50162467.SX50_SY75.jpg 72611481], which J. at Samizdat had pressed on me some months ago, mere days before Bandit Queens—very, very fortuitous timing. Knowing about Devi was infinitely helpful to me in understanding context.Many parts don't add up: some suspension of disbelief is required for the coincidences, a few character interactions, plot gimmicks. All of these are completely forgivable. Wow, what a book.
A beautiful, accessible way to tell a difficult and (in the U.S.) unknown story. I had never heard of Devi, and that's a shame: she deserves to be known and celebrated.
This is a violent book, TW everything. “Violence is not the answer,” some people proclaim, but I firmly believe it is part of the answer process, often a crucially necessary one. I feel fury over the trauma inflicted on Devi and countless others like her, but my fury does nothing to prevent it from happening again and again today and tomorrow. Heroes like Devi: they help, and, more importantly, inspire others. It was cathartic to see her neutralize those who hurt her and would hurt others. We need more of that.
Finally: this graphic-novel adaptation is clearly oversimplified, with an almost infantile tone at times—perhaps to reinforce Devi's own lost innocence? In any case, this is not a book for children. Also, the adaptation is based on Devi's autobiography. There may be biases. There may be more to her story, some of it less flattering to her, some of it possibly ambiguous. Almost as if she was a real, complex human being. I still think this is worth reading: much as I love objective truth, a little hagiography is OK from time to time, and everything I've found in my followup reading tonight suggests that she was a worthy person.
Inexperience, poor judgment, and exhaustion are normal parts of life and growth. In the mountains, where safety margins are narrow and bad luck is a certainty, we do everything possible to stack the odds in our favor, and reading this annual collection is a sobering step toward developing judgment... and toward avoiding a writeup in next year's edition. Thank you, AAC.
Mmmm, I love it when you talk nerdy to me. Blend it with meaningful human connection and I'm all yours. This is the most scientifically literate work I've read by Chambers, and it's exquisite. Four beautiful, complex characters (one trans, one ace!) in a loving polycule, all of them committed to an achingly lonely mission of searching for extrasolar life... and no human yet has experienced this level of commitment, in which the Earth you return to—if you return—will be unrecognizable. The emotions of leaving your home and loved ones behind could merit a book in themselves, and are not the main focus here, but Chambers does a respectable job with them.
There are big plot holes: crowdfunding six deep-space missions, uh, not likely. Onboard fuel and energy. And, four planets, with only one landing site each? That goes into “inconceivable”[1] territory. But the story wouldn't work otherwise, and oh, how the story works. The bioadaptation gimmick is fascinating; the exotic life forms tantalizing, the moral dilemmas heartbreaking. And, finally, this is Chambers, so her characters are on the too-good-to-be-true side (virtuous, decent, flawed but self-aware and self-correcting) and I just love that. It gives me hope for what we can be.
[1] “You keep using that word.”
I don't get poetry. But I'll keep trying for what's left of my life. The eros here escaped me. What I felt was despair, partly at myself for being so dense, but partly, too, in the content. There were moments when I maybe almost got it?
I'll read it again one day. Something tells me it might feel different under an entheogenic perspective. Maybe one day I'll ask a loved one to read it to me then. I need to keep trying.
Unrated, because I haven't earned the right.
I was wrong. Years ago I gave up on this book, despising the evil priest, unable to concentrate on anything except the fantasy of him getting eaten by crocodiles in slow motion. This month, at the urging of a friend, I gave it another go. And, as the book progressed, I found my thoughts changing. Becoming more nuanced. I now wanted him to be engulfed alive by driver ants, swarming all over him, entering every orifice, stripping his flesh from the inside and outside. In slow motion. (Unfortunately—spoiler—this does not happen).
Anyhow. This is a difficult and painful book, and I am not its target audience, but I persevered and am glad to have. It's more than just one book, but it took me too long to see that: there's the evil priest, sure, but there's also the women: his conflicted wife, the oh-so-memorable daughters, and the women who keep the village alive despite unimaginable hardships. There's Kingsolver's commentary on white saviorism, on religion, on willful ignorance and on the inability of some people to see or listen. The second half is an uncomfortable in-your-face reminder of the suffering that the U.S. and Europe have inflicted on their colonies. Kingsolver's tone is harsh, angry, but also compassionate; an unexpected complex balance.
Who, though, is her target audience? I still can't figure that out.
Possibly the most self-aware content I've read this year. This is not a look-at-me humblebrag; it's a morally conflicted and often painful reflection from a mature, wise, and thoughtful fifty-something woman. And it's exquisite.
Pike does not sugarcoat her two Peace Corps years in Bolivia. From the very start she describes her youthful naïveté as she set off to “help” those poor South Americans; her desire to be seen as special because of her American Indian heritage; her inner conflicts, struggles, good decisions and shitty ones. Much of the book is cringe-inducing, in the sense of: could I lay bare my juvenile weaknesses and idiocies so frankly? So many I don't want to admit even to myself? (Spoiler: hell no). But Pike doesn't write for pity or admiration or scorn: she's simply honest. About who she was, about what she experienced and did, who she met, about the complicated morality of the Peace Corps itself. Especially noteworthy to me was her awareness of her status as both minority and privileged, and how they interweave in confusing ways; that's a question I've carried all my adult life and I too have having abused my privilege and regretted it. May we all learn to act better.
The book was nothing like I expected. It went interesting places (physical and metaphysical). It was above all insightful: Pike kept a journal while in Bolivia, but wrote the book much later as a different person. A wiser one. The book would (probably) not have been worth reading had she written it then. Today, it's a gem.
Today's word is “unexpected”: the book started off so, then kept right on unexpecting along different directions. First, the setting, unlike any world I've seen before. The conflict, which at first appears to be thinly-disguised evangelical whitemales against everyone else but then ... well, that remains part of the story, but it goes in other interesting directions.
Not everything made sense, either in the story or in hindsight. Not the motivations, or some logistics. But none were showstoppers: the story kept me going, enough so for me to defer a couple of my day's priorities. It's a great little novella, suspenseful and provocative. And fascinatingly compassionate—not in the hugs-and-I-care way, but in a deeper, more reflective and caring way.
And, oh, so much more I'd love to say but nope. No spoilers.
So much of this book didn't work: the physics, the political power structure, the life-support mechanisms, the security protocols, many of the interpersonal dynamics, the languages. But that's just logistics—as a whole, it worked remarkably well regardless. It kept me hooked, made me think and feel. I honestly enjoyed it.
The story is more than just a clumsy Southern Plantations In Space: sweeping themes include body autonomy, gender identity, arbitrariness of beauty norms, neurodiversity, abuse of power, and the use of religion to justify race/class persecution. (A significant subset of my hot-button topics). Solomon writes with deep feeling: I cared about even the minor characters. Huge thanks to E. for handing me this book.
Perspective is hard when we're immersed in chaos—that's why we go to therapy. What Saunders has done here is kind of like showing us our Selves, from an outside perspective, except he makes it feel recognizably personal, like he's writing from the inside. (I can't find the right words. If I could, I'd be a writer myself.)
Each story is unique and powerful. Different settings and voices, with common themes of consciousness, self-awareness, moral agency. Saunders does an exquisite job of depicting inner monologue, monkey mind, life on autopilot; and a painfully accurate job showing the rationalizations we make every day to protect ourselves from discomfort. The book does not feel Buddhist in any way, but I think its insight and kindness make it a book that only a Buddhist could write. Each story requires effort from the reader; some more, some less. They're worth it.