Julia

Got this from my mom - the verdict from her and one of her book clubs was a hearty thumbs up, and I agree! I will say that she and I are both predisposed to have liked it. The context of the novel is union activism in Spokane in the early 20th century: she's a labor lawyer, and I just relocated from there. Walter is very adept at blending facts about that history and geography with his fiction, and the details (some of which I knew, some of which I didn't) really resonated with my love-hate relationship with the locale (e.g., small details like the names of bars that have been reincarnated in recent years, a building I used to work in makes a cameo appearance, and how strange it is that the courthouse is across the river from other important municipal buildings, big chunks of history like George Wright's evil genocide of Spokane and local Indigenous people and their horses [a road named after him only got renamed in 2020 to honor Whist-alks, a Spokane woman who contributed to the resistance to his violent oppression], and things in between, like how a part of the country that created Taft, the wickedest city in all of America for a few short years before burning up in a literal ball of flames, shaped the region's culture [truly, the history of Taft is a wild ride I recommend]). Anyway! Enough about my feelings about the inland northwest. Walter is quoted in an interview as intentionally using the economic and social strife of this time as a commentary on our own, and to his credit, those echoes are loud and clear without feeling didactic. The threads from multiple narrators were skillfully interwoven, I appreciated that the characters were just people without either pure saints or sinners, and this is the sort of book that I read always feeling driven to know how the story ended.

Reading N. K. Jemisin's profile in The New Yorker this January (https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2020/01/27/nk-jemisins-dream-worlds) put The Broken Earth trilogy on my hazy “to read” list, but then the rest of 2020 happened. I'm slowing clawing my way back to book-reading, however, and this seemed like a great place to start. The thing I'm most dazzled by is Jemisin's world-making. She has many other tremendous skills as a writer, including deft and novel descriptions, great control over pacing that sometimes grinds to a halt when cataclysmic events in her world unfold and other times drives forward relentlessly, crackling dialogue, etc. All that effort receded into the background as I felt compelled to know more about the Stillness and its ugly history and what was going to happen to the characters. I stayed up too late reading, but is it “too late” if you don't regret it? I guess some people might argue that 2020 isn't the time for apocalyptic fiction, but I think it's probably exactly the right time. Her science fiction lens had me wrestling with the realities of power, subjugation, and freedom in ways different from the daily grind of the news, and I'm grateful for it. Ordered the next two, and can't wait for The Obelisk Gate to arrive, because this one ends with quite a cliffhanger!

Bottom line: If you're still grieving that Harry Potter is over, this series has the backing of over 10 clinical psychology grad students at U of U, which is how I got hooked, and we're all supposed to be intelligent, right? I'd give it a try.

Right. Anyway. The teen vampire romance. Part Deux. This one goes up a star because it was captivating enough for me to finish in one night. While not exactly literature (well...not at all literature), anything that induces 540+ pages of reading in less than 12 hours should get some credit for being addictive. Plus, while Bella, the heroine, remains aggravatingly insecure, the love plot thickens! In ways that are spicier and way more fun than the first book. The author is Mormon, so I won't be getting the hot vampire sex I'd really like to be reading about, but I'm sure there's some fan fiction that's positively filthy.

I think that Dr. Judith Herman's quote on the front of the book is an excellent summary, and she's a giant in the field of trauma as well: “A masterpiece that combines the boundless curiosity of the scientist, the erudition of the scholar, and the passion of the truth teller.” Van Der Kolk has many strengths as a clinician and writer, including humility, a willingness to look for and test alternative hypotheses, and a refusal to put any tribal allegiance to a particular treatment above “do what works for the patient.” This book would be interesting for the non-clinician, I think, but is a must-read for any clinician who does work with trauma. For people who are far enough in their trauma recoveries to tolerate reading about those of others, this book can also be healing for them (I have several patients who have found it very helpful). The bad news is that many people are traumatized. The good news is that there is an increasingly integrative body of knowledge on how to holistically treat them.

In the ongoing nightmare of 2020-2021, I bought this YA quartet for a rush of nostalgia, recalling loving it in elementary school. I'm writing about it as a set because I really wouldn't read any of the novels individually now. Instead, I just polished them all off in a single weekend, and I think the best thing I can say for them is that they actually made me feel rested and restored to head to work again on Monday and take actions amidst the political chaos of the U.S. right now. Which is not an understatement in the current era!

Here's what held up: Alanna is a great protagonist. She's not perfect, but you really root for her, and her growth is believable. Pierce manages to capture the very distinctive personalities of the various supporting characters without too much explication, and the fantasy/magical elements are interwoven organically throughout the other plot elements. If you want a captivating story that doesn't punish you as a reader but still chugs along with good moments of suspense, all the elements are here.

Here's what I didn't realize as an elementary schooler: Pierce is a second-wave feminist through and through. There are great parts of that (SPOILER ALERT), like how Alanna gets to have premarital sex with three hot men with no judgment about her sexual identity being just another aspect of her lived experience (get it, girl; also, the only sexual descriptions are of kissing, but the steam is still palpable, and it makes me LOL sometimes to realize what I read when quite young as a generally unsupervised reader). But, BUT, the book is insufficiently intersectional. This shows up the most in the 3rd book, when Alanna is living among the Bazhir in the southern part of Tortall, where Pierce slips into some tropes about the sexism of “tribal” populations, and a few things that are just totally gratuitous, like Alanna's servant struggling with the pronunciation of an unfamiliar name at first (actually, now that I'm thinking about it, there's some white savior nonsense at the end of the first book, too). It's not a complete disaster - multiple characters rightly point out that sexism is rampant in the rest of Tortall, as well, and the plot makes clear that Alanna learns a great deal in a cultural exchange that is ultimately pretty balanced, which the clear result in her development is broader, more compassionate thinking. The supporting Bazhir characters are as wholly envisioned as the others, too. Still. I don't think these issues make the novels unsalvageable, but I would never give these books to a child now without some explicit conversation about what could & should have been better done with regard to ethnocentrism in addition to sexism.

I picked this up at the local bookstore because it was $6, and the cover looked vaguely familiar. After reading the blurb on the back, however, which gave the impression that it was just another riff on melodramatic college experiences, I was worried it was going to be like Tom Wolfe's I Am Charlotte Simmons (which...ugh). Or even worse, Jeffrey Eugenides' The Marriage Plot (because I love Eugenides and there is a unique sadness to reading a not-great novel written by someone whose writing you typically love). Instead, The Art of Fielding was perfectly charming. Every bit of it. Not earth-shattering, but wasn't trying to be. Nicely poignant, and felt like a treat to read.

Lending library find - this was a good palate cleanser to the 2-star romances. Christie was taking a turn at blending her typical murder mystery with a spy thriller, but I think I prefer her usual. I actually picked up an edition that has two of her other novels in it, so I'm looking forward to reading those. The forward noted that Christie's portrayal of German and Russian spies in this one hasn't aged particularly well, but...German and Russian spies in the between-war period were up to no good! I also agree 100% with their observation that Christie spares no one, especially the British upper class, in her satiric sweep: this novel is full of aimless young men of means, and Lord Caterham in particular is Wilde-ean in his absurdity. The standout here is for sure the heroine (in another skewering of social mores, she is ridiculously nicknamed Bundle), who is equal parts zany and disciplined. Forget Superintendent Battle; this should have been the start of the Bundle series.

I'm sure part of why this ended up in a local lending library is that it's set on the Washington coast (where I live). I like a romance-suspense blend in theory, but this was fairly flat. One half of the mystery is fairly mysterious until the end, but the other half was obvious within the first few chapters, and the primary male character is so unrelentingly bossy that I'm not sure why his female counterpoint didn't smack him, let alone get serious with him within...a week of meeting? Now I'm just being peevish. It's fine. It was fine.

Read it while–hah–waiting tables at Zocalo. At times very funny in an “omigod this is my life” kind of way. Definitely check it out if you've ever carried a tray of over-filled martinis to overly needy customers. If not, I'd take it to the beach.

In this case, my four-star rating doesn't actually mean I “really liked” this novel, more that three stars wouldn't have properly communicated how impactful I found it. It generated lots of discussion in my queer psychologist consultation group, in a good way! It is hard to find stories that honor the complexity of people's real lives when that complexity is highly politicized, and Peters deserves all the accolades for writing a novel that is a form of activism without trying to do that advocacy by presenting the world with “acceptable” trans* characters - perhaps her love letter to the trans* community as it actually can be is this novel's real activism. The issues this novel raises are pressing, compelling ones, and I am glad to have thought more deeply about them. My quibbles are the following: 1) Although it's a character, not plot-driven novel, the character development is uneven. I don't think I ever really understood how Ames managed his dysphoria in his relationship with Katrina, and we get so much information about Reese in the present, but much less about her “origin story” than the other characters. 2) The characters, regardless of gender identity, are all a little exhausting in their own ways. Of course a therapist is going to suggest therapy, but...I think they might benefit from therapy?? I'm more into escapism in my reading these days. One last upside, however, is I really like how Peters nailed the dismount by ending on a solidly ambiguous note. That's the kind of frustration I don't mind handling as a reader.

Stole this from my mother, and then didn't get around to it until she'd already needed to get another copy for one of her two book clubs. Oops! Anyway, I was suitably entertained by this collection of short stories, but feel as if I somehow missed whatever got the book to be a finalist for the National Book Award. I could possibly attribute it to the weird pace of winter break reading? It was certainly enjoyable, however, and I'd guess that a more careful read could uncover some real treasures in Mueenuddin's storytelling.

What can I say, I love Leaphorn & Chee! I read this over a very gray and rainy few days in the Pacific Northwest, so it was really nice to be transported mentally to the sunny Southwest (although Hillerman is also adept at capturing the drama of a desert thunderstorm). These mysteries are so reliable - good plot, main characters you really root for, and respectful cultural detail (Google tells me that the Navajo Nation gave Hillerman their “Special Friend of the Dineh” award in 1987 for the strength and dignity of Navajo culture he accurately captured; this novel also has elements of Hopi culture). My only quibble is that I could have done without the romance piece - it is aligned with their personalities for both Chee & Janet Pete to be reserved with each other, but their guarded distance is distractingly painful in this book and much less fun to read than the other elements of the plot. This was also an interesting time to read this particular novel, because the plot centers around the threat of pandemic disease. I wish it felt more speculative than it does in 2021.

Is it bad that my fave part of this book was the ridiculous sparkly font on the cover? Really, though, despite the ostentatious and fun-loving cover, I liked the book, too. I would place it in the category of “definitely a first novel,” for its faults, but it had strong points, too. Las Vegas figures as a character in this book–at times shimmering in the evening sun, at times grimy and dust-covered–which was one of the things I liked best. Bock covers the dissolution of a marriage the best, I think, and although all the character's narratives are skillfully woven together, you end up caring more about some than about others, and not intentionally on his part, I believe. Still, overall enjoyable, and interesting to read to compare to ALLLL the hype he's gotten.

My god. If you'd ever like to feel incandescently angry (as if there are not enough things in the world right now to prompt such feelings!), please pick up this book. Published in 2019, it makes everything about Russia's current war on Ukraine obvious (spoiler alert: oil, it's always about oil), to the point that I'd love an update from Maddow on how everything she writes about has persisted or even escalated. I would say the anger is worth the increased understanding, and I appreciate Maddow's huge capacity for weaving threads together: everything from Equitorial Guinea's dictatorship to fracking-induced seismic events in Oklahoma are, at the end of the day, about oil. The only reason this isn't a 5-star book for me is that the absolute absurdity of the situation doesn't actually need dark humor as an enhancement, and I think she veers a little too often into snappy asides that don't actually underscore the power of the story she is telling. Basically, her humor feels too much like what she does on television, as opposed to adapted to this form of media. But yeah, overall, everyone should read this.

How to describe how I feel about this book...well, it came on a three-day, 30-mile backpacking trip with me. And it is 445 pages long. So, I think the simple fact that I didn't grow to resent the extra weight it added to my pack speaks pretty well of it.

It's a Kiwi book, set on the South Island in the early 80s. Some aspects I really liked; Hulme sprinkles a lot of Maori through the book, plus a glossary, and it's always fun to get a sense of a completely different language. At her best, she has a real knack for capturing the complexity of people (the mute and abused six-year-old Simon, for example, is at once cuddle-worthy and infuriating). At her more amateurish, complexity gives way to moral yuckiness (Simon's abusive father is a sympathetic character some of the time, but just because separating children from their parents isn't always what's best doesn't render the father automatically forgivable).

So, didn't love it, but was certainly interested by it. Read if you're ever tramping (as the Kiwis say) around NZ.

This was so wonderful that I don't have anything original or insightful to say about it. It's a very complex novel, but two of the blurbs summarize it nicely for me: the reviewer at the SF Chronicle said it was “dazzling....Funny and defiant, and simuntaneously so wise....Brilliant,” and NPR's reviewer commented, “[A] knockout of a novel about immigration, American dreams, the power of first love, and the shifting meanings of skin color....A marvel.” I've been listening to the BBC World News podcast lately, and I think the non-US-centric perspective is good for me as an American listener. I loved this novel for similar reasons; Adichie casts her critical and also lyrical eye on the world from a fully intersectional perspective, considering race, class, immigration status, culture, location within cultures, language, gender, and more. I feel enriched for having read it, and it was beautiful.

I was feeling really badly about how little I've been reading lately, until I remembered that gardening books totally count, too :) This book is garden porn, for sure. It emphasized the people side of landscaping (e.g., patios) a bit more than the garden side of it (e.g., actual plant placement), which is not quite my cup of tea, but it was still great visual inspiration. It was a nice mix of very aspirational stuff (unfortunately, I'm unlikely to have an outdoor kitchen anytime soon) and do-able projects (e.g,. different visual effects using planters).

I like this (also borrowed while babysitting) even better! It's the 3rd novel by Sarah Waters, and she manages crazy plot twists without seeming like a cheap mystery novelist. A fabulous Gothic novel. Not quite done yet, but again, putting off other stuff to read it.

An interesting book. Paul Farmer is a bigwig in the public health domain; Kidder chronicles his progression from starry-eyed med student to co-founder of Partners in Health, a non-profit that now has a serious global reach. Kidder's writing is involving and well-researched, but I would have loved a more interpersonal approach to Farmer's outsized personality. He is, as Kidder portrays him, a genius with apparently no need for sleep. Amazing, to be sure, but I'm always curious what kind of legacy such a person leaves in his wake–most of us aren't geniuses, and need lots of sleep, and pushing to Farmer-esque reaches will cause many smart & competent people to underperform. Kidder touches on such issues briefly, but I'm curious to see what PIH will do without such an unusual man at its helm. Anyway, overall, it's an interesting read if you're into public health, poverty, and the politics of international aid.

I might go back and change this to 4 stars as I keep percolating about it...my main complaint with this book is that I think it's a wee bit crushed under my all-consuming love for A Memory Called Empire. Which is not Martine's fault! This sequel is sexier and higher stakes, with another doozy of an apt opening quote: “To ravage, to slaughter, to usurp under false titles - this they named empire; and where they make a desert, they call it peace” (Tacitus quoting Calgacus). For me personally, the tension in this book around clashing war tactics was less compelling than the geopolitics without the immediate threat of genocide of the first, and I think some of my star rating reflects the profound sense of melancholy I was left with about Mahit & Three Seagrass - Martine is so, so skilled at illustrating the ways that bias embedded in language itself makes it impossible for Three Seagrass to really see, and therefore truly love, Mahit, and I didn't want a happy ending, I don't think, but maybe just a squee less pathos? These are personal problems, though, and this is a beautiful book. A quote from a review on whatever you call the part of a book where they put quotes from reviews struck me as very accurate: “demands and rewards the reader's attention.” I couldn't have torn through this even if I wanted to, which I didn't, and I feel myself uncomfortably, but maybe ultimately productively, provoked by all the many things Martine gives a person to think about, especially what it means to be alive. Okay, there, I wrote myself into it. 4 stars!

I found this book in a donut shop in Arlington, VA, where I spent most of early 2020 before my dad died in March. It caught my eye in their lending library because Jamie has won a John Burroughs Medal, and I was partway through “The Song of Trees,” for which Haskell won a JB Medal, as well, and I've really been enjoying environmental non-fiction. My star rating doesn't totally reflect my emotional experience with this book: there was something oddly soothing reading a poet's prose about Neolithic ruins while bearing witness to someone's death, and this book was one I could come back to throughout this year without losing the connection to the story despite significant lapses in time. There are times that I think Jamie came close to exoticizing her subjects (the book includes passages about Alaska, a Tibetan town in China, and Scotland), but I think she recognized and addressed that tendency relatively successfully by the book's end, and she has a great deal of compassion for the world, both human and everything else.

Honestly, not my Sedaris fave. I think I had read one too many of the stories when they first appeared in the New Yorker. But Sedaris' mediocre is most people's side-splitting, so I certainly enjoyed the read.

The blurb on the cover of this book, from Elizabeth Gilbert, says, “A hymn of love to the world.” Yes, yes, YES. I had first heard Wall Kimmerer talk about her perspective during an On Being podcast, and this book was just a treasure from start to finish. She has so much scientific and indigenous wisdom to share, and an exquisite way of blending the two. If I could make everyone I know read this book, I would. I tend to feel environmental despair (when I'm not actually out digging around in my garden), and this was the antidote, call to arms (or rather peace), and way forward.

I always feel particularly silly writing reviews for books that win awards like, ya know, the Pulitzer. Let's just say I agree with the selection committee's wisdom. Really moving historical fiction that feels painfully salient in today's political climate (even more so than when it was published in 2014), and I especially enjoyed its unusual combination of poignancy and urgency. A very quick read I didn't want to have end.

As a testament to how much I loved this, I was really struggling with my “books can only come and go, not stay, in the 31' travel trailer in which I currently live” policy, wanting to hang on to this foreverrrrrrr. Then a good friend I saw this past weekend said they'd been wanting to read Erdich but couldn't decide where to start, and that felt like the kind of interconnectedness that Erdich herself would appreciate, so off it went. This novel is just gorgeous. It seems to me that writers who create both poetry and prose well have especially gobsmacking prose, and that is certainly true of Erdich. It documents her ancestors' experience of the federal attempt to “terminate” (what an evil word/concept) the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa in the 1950s in ways that always feel evocative, not didactic, and I'm hard-pressed to think of a novel with this many characters whose humanity is all drawn in full-fledged detail, not to mention a few ghosts and assorted animals. So I suppose humanity isn't the right word, but aliveness. Will definitely be reading more of her work.