Derek

I really enjoyed the light touch of this novel.

Some of the ideas didn't quite click for me. I found her sense of alienation a little unfounded and I spent some time wondering if I missed an explanation for where she is spending all her money. The ending also felt telegraphed.

But I really enjoyed the cohabitation scenes with Shiraha and the mixed messaging from her family and peers that she struggled to reconcile. I also found some of the phrasing to be both jarring and beautiful, which was a fun sensation.

A fun hardboiled tale. I found the exposition a little odd. The reader isn't omniscient but the book reveals info in kind of a haphazard way - sometimes in a slow reveal and at other points with a dump of information.

But Leonard clearly loves writing dialogue and it is a highlight throughout.

I also really enjoyed the imagery of Miami as a decaying city caught between the pounding ocean and the backwaters of rural Florida. It seems no coincidence that one villain comes from Cuba on a boat and the other is a hick from some swamp who winds his way down to the big city.

What a beautiful book! I felt swept away from the first page, as Piranesi almost is when he miscalculates the incoming tide. Susanna Clarke also has a real sense of comedic timing - Piranesi is a funny, beautiful, haunting story.

I didn't mind the narrative arc but it's not why I found the book compelling. If I had my way, I would have spent hundreds of pages with Piranesi exploring the ins and outs of the halls. I wanted to spend more time in the upper halls, and push further west, and find the little unique bits and nooks that makes this feel like such a home away from home.

Reread.

Sentence for sentence, blow for blow - Train Dreams is top of class fiction writing.

Denis Johnson tells this story sparingly, as he should. Anecdotes might seem funny (he really is one of the funniest authors I've ever read) or sad or simple. But they all weave together to make a story so much greater than the sum of its parts.

It feels reductive to call this an American origin story. Yet it is. Robert Granier at first comes across as a basic everyman but he shows us where we all fall short, where our deepest fear and desire reside - of a life with meaning and community.

Is his life meaningful? Did he find community? In the face of immense loss he finds continuity and purpose. Why would you look down on him for not wanting more?

Same Bed, Different Dreams is the type of book that finds its pleasure in puzzle. Ed Park leads the reader through a complicated setup and peels just enough of the layers away for the idea to cohere - the reader feeling special for seeing pieces snap together. I enjoyed the feeling, of course, but sometimes wished that the punchline was more emotional and not always "clever".

I was surprised to find the repeated reference to 2333 - one puzzle that wasn't solved clearly for the reader is if and how there is a connection to 2666. Ed Park makes much different use of the numbers but it's hard to imagine he did not intend the callout. Two things do seem similar about the books - first, the commentary and comedy found in the dregs of late stage capitalism. And second, the breezy sense with which characters float in and out of scenes.

All in all, a good book and I hope to see more of Ed Park!

Kem Nunn is fantastic at setting tone. Tapping the Source is dark and brooding and full of violence in the murky waters. A twisted Beach Boys fantasy land. Like Ike, you don't know if you want in or out.

That said, this is clearly a first novel. I found the pacing off and that some plot turns did not make sense. I was looking forward to this after The Dogs of Winter - which is an all-timer - but it fell a little short.

2666 feels like one of the most important books of the 21st century. I previously read Savage Detectives and enjoyed it but wasn't captivated. With that in mind, I let 2666 sit on my shelf for several years before finally picking it up.

2666 is entertaining, beautiful, and funny. At the same time, from the very start, there's a sense of something sinister hiding around the next page / corner - though it resists the reader pinpointing that dread. It's not a character, per se. It's not (just) the vivid abuse and body horror. Instead it's a sense that all of society is pounding, driving toward obliteration.

That drive to obliterate is everywhere. Some aimless academics beat a cab driver to a pulp. Oscar Fate drinks himself into a scary situation. Amalfitano hangs a book on his clothesline to let it cook in the hot sun. A vagrant breaks into churches and soils the holy spirit. A Romanian general is crucified, left only with bits of tattered uniform. And women keep showing up dead.

All the while I felt like a creature crawling across the vast desert floor with the vulture of the black Peregrino dipping in and out of sight.

I read this while re-watching Twin Peaks and playing Disco Elysium and I found a lot of harmony between the works. Twin Peaks' story is of a woman crying for help and those around her numbing themselves to the horror (compare, Florita Almada). Disco Elysium establishes a world so complex that it has collapsed in on itself and destroyed us all in the process. In both, characters bounce off each other like atoms, often oblivious to the destruction they leave in their path.

There's so much to love about 2666. Part 4 is heartbreaking. The women given a bit of justice in Bolano's memorial, before the police and public glam on to the next shiny object. I really appreciated the backdrop of Santa Teresa - full of maquiladoras and sex workers and cartels and so many people just trying to make it to a better tomorrow.

I hope I get the chance to revisit this book some day. I think it will stick with me for a long time.