Chris Blocker

There's been a lot of hype surrounding Neil Gaiman for some years.

I saw the movie Coraline and I liked it.

I also saw Stardust and I really liked it.

I read Fortunately, the Milk and didn't care for it all that much. Too much whimsy for the sake of whimsy.

So it was time to read some real, quintessential Neil Gaiman.

After The Graveyard Book, I can say that I still don't understand the hype.

This was a better story than the aforementioned picture book, and the opening chapter was fabulous, but overall, I was still quite ‘meh' about this one.

The story is a bit meandering, the characters didn't have much depth, and the language–while beautiful at times–was so incredibly repetitive (‘twining,' anyone?)

For a child, this is probably a brilliant and excitedly unexpected novel. My four-star rating takes into account the intended audience.

Though The Graveyard Book was fine, I wouldn't rush to another Gaiman. I do, however, recognize that I should probably read something of his that was intended for an older audience. Maybe then I'll understand the hype.

It's not fair that I'm always grouping “The Brontë Sisters” and comparing their respective works with one another. I'm not the only one who does this, though.

At this point, I've now read everything from Emily and Anne, and only Jane Eyre from Charlotte. Stylistically, they're similar, but each has their own distinctive flair. Though Anne is probably the least recognized of the three sisters, I'd put her right up there with Emily.

I thought Agnes Grey started particularly strong. In fact, of the Brontë works I've read thus far, this one probably hooked me the fastest. The backstory regarding Agnes's family and the details of her first assignment as governess were very entertaining and evocative.

Midway, my attention did wane. The subsequent assignment and all that came with it just didn't hold my attention the same. Despite a stellar start, Agnes Grey is probably the least overall memorable of the stories I've read.

I regret that more of Anne's and Emily's work doesn't still exist.

I absolutely loved the concept of The Deep, essentially that there are descendants of pregnant African slaves who'd been thrown overboard during the oversea voyage. The descendants, born of water, raised by whales, continued to thrive in the ocean.

The concept was easily the best thing about The Deep. It's an idea I'd love to see explored in more depth. I also really liked the language in this book. The words Solomon uses echo the lull and tempest of the ocean.

This is a very short book, and I never felt as though the story or the characters were given sufficient space to be fleshed out, or to grow.

I worry readers are going to be expecting something from this book that is very different from what they receive, and this will only drag down the rating. Everywhere You Don't Belong is definitely a book very much about the issues of social justice and racism, but it is very much written in a clever, darkly comic manner. This is a novel for fans of David Foster Wallace and Adam Levin, particularly the latter. The same kind of quirky characters with endearing nicknames you'd find in [b:The Instructions 8380409 The Instructions Adam Levin https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1287702723l/8380409.SY75.jpg 13237247] are here. The build up to a battle to end all battles ([b:Infinite Jest 6759 Infinite Jest David Foster Wallace https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1446876799l/6759.SY75.jpg 3271542]'s tennis war or The Instructions' Armageddon) is also here, but the payoff isn't quite as epic as either of those provided. Although I have a love-hate relationship with Infinite Jest, I thoroughly enjoyed The Instructions and I do think Everywhere You Don't Belong is an excellent companion piece.Given the length of Everywhere You Don't Belong (a fourth of the aforementioned tomes) and the popularity of the subject matter, I do think this book will fall into the hands of many readers who are unfamiliar with postmodernism. They may be looking for an entirely believable story, and when what they get isn't realism, nor is it something they can equate with an established genre, I think they may be too quick to dismiss it.But look at me, spending all my time talking about what other readers are potentially going to do... Here's what I think of this novel:I enjoyed much of this book. The opening chapters where we're introduced to Claude's life and his friends is stellar. I wish I'd been able to spend more time with Nugget, Bubbly, and Jonah. The conversations that happened between Claude's grandmother and her friend Paul were so outlandishly entertaining. Many of these chapters felt more like short stories from the life of Claude, giving the reader an idea of different aspects of his life rather than a joined narrative. Eventually, the narrative becomes more cohesive. For me, the concluding chapters didn't carry the same heft as the first half of the book, but I was still pleased with them. There's just a sharpness to the wit and language of the first half that I think was missing in the end.Everywhere You Don't Belong comes out in February 2020. And if I haven't made it clear yet, I recommend this novel for fans of [a:Adam Levin 29694 Adam Levin https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1288572127p2/29694.jpg].

Pregnancy happens.

I really liked the way this novel, Night Boat to Tangier, started: two aging Irish gangsters, sitting on a dock, talking to one another while they keep an eye out for a young woman named Dilly. Had this story been kept to just that for twenty or thirty pages with a nice little ending, I think I would've thoroughly enjoyed it.

Of course, Night Boat to Tangier doesn't keep it that simple. The narrative jumps back and forth between present and past to fill in all the pieces that I didn't ask to be filled in on. Perhaps all this information helps the reader to understand the relationships between these characters, but I didn't enjoy any of these recollections and I personally did not find them necessary.

For me, Night Boat to Tangier was at its best when it focused on the relationships in the present. In these moments, Barry's writing was gritty, terse, and filled with longing. All the pain that mattered to me as a reader took place in the present. Every time I got pulled away from this pain, I became a little more numb. And by the end, I was ready to move on.

Sometimes you get it, and sometimes you just don't.

I received an Advanced Readers Copy of this book several months before it came out, and I was excited. This looked like it was going to be a fabulous read.

And sadly, I just couldn't get into it. There are always some clunkers in short story collections, but story after story in this collection bored me to no end. There was something in the style that kept me at a distance and failed to entertain or educate me.

And that was odd, because this collection seemed like it would have so much going for it. And I can't explain why it didn't exactly.

There were two exceptions in this entire collection: “... Knockers” and “Special Topics in Loneliness Studies.” The latter was a novella length piece that was actually quite compelling. These two left me with a desire for more from this author, but knowing I could end up with stories that run the gamut, I'm hesitant to reenter this world.

In the end, this fairly short collection took me more than six months to read. I took long breaks after finishing each story and dreaded coming back. Perhaps I shouldn't have continued to press on, but that's a lesson for another book.

A grab bag of essays covering many areas of mental health and illness. Some were very interesting. Some were not so much. Many showed how high functioning Wang is, regardless of her diagnoses. Others showed a need to shield behind cultural references and extensive forays into religion.

Like any collection, there are highs and lows. Overall, this one didn't make as big of an impact as I hoped it would, but it definitely provided some insight, specifically into schizophrenic disorders.

For me, Normal People is a novel easily forgotten. There's some wonderful writing and characterization, some good scenes throughout, but there really isn't a whole lot to the story or even to the depth of our protagonists. This could work if the journey were really powerful, or the characters really grew into something quite special, or—something...anything—but I felt no impact. Ask me in two weeks what this novel was about and I'll say, “a relationship,” and that's all I'll have.

The story is simple enough. Connell and Marianne like one another. In high school, Marianne doesn't fit in and Connell does, so he doesn't exactly broadcast their relationship to others. In college, Marianne finds her tribe, and their respective roles are reversed. I liked the story up to this point. But then the novel drags the reader through countless breakups and hookups. It's a seemingly never-ending roller coaster of on-again-off-again, breakup, hookup, breakup-hookup, every time you exit the ride, you're put right back on. Sadly, despite many good qualities and an excellent start, Normal People grew tedious.

In the realm of relationship stories, Normal People reminded me some of Lauren Groff's Fates and Furies. BUT, to be clear, I hated Fates and Furies. While Normal People desperately needed to pull out and add some lubrication now and then, it was a well-written story overall with several redeeming qualities. I'd be open to reading another story from Rooney, but based on this one book, it's not a relationship I'd draw out for too long.

It just dawned on me that I now have zero recollection of any characters outside of Connell and Marianne. See—the story is already fading from my memory. This is probably a flaw in part of my own faulty memory, but certainly a stronger story would've planted more of a seed.

I'm curious why an autobiographical graphic novel needs three authors. Even if George Takei isn't the best writer—which I find a little doubtful—why does this story need two additional authors? It's not that complex. This isn't meant to be a critique of this novel, I'm just curious...

Anyway, They Called Us Enemy is a great recounting of Takei's experience as a child being relocated to concentration camps during World War II. It gives a very full picture of the events, locally and globally, that affected the Takei family. I think this book could've done better to show the experiences of other Japanese families who were not as fortunate as the Takeis—they remain together throughout the detainment, George's father is given a position of authority in the camp and the family is granted leave, and they reintegrate better than many—but perhaps a broader view of the average Japanese American was not the intention. Also, I thought the “isn't America great” rally as a conclusion only watered down the message of American oppression.

The illustrations are ideal for the telling. They're not overly ornate, but still carry some lovely detail. And the choice to tell the story in black-and-white frames was perfect.

This is a great addition to the story of Japanese internment, as well as an important biography of an integral part of the Star Trek universe, but its tame approach to the subject does present a much more neutral view than I think many with first-hand experience may have felt. They Called Us Enemy is a great introduction to this chapter of history, but it lacks the depth and clear indictment necessary to tell the full story.

There are some good ideas here, explorations of where we might be in a few years that are certainly within reason. The concept is a good one, and the illustrations are effective. The story of The Hard Tomorrow unravels with the slightest pressure. There are many things I liked about it—it is both tender and biting—but there just aren't enough threads to pull everything together into a cohesive piece of storytelling.

I'm dropping my initial five stars to four: while reading this book was a fantastic ride and the story was very well put together, the conclusion didn't convince me. Also, after finishing it, I was left without the sweet taste I experienced through much of my reading. It's still a tremendously fabulous book and well worth a read, but in my opinion it's a bit more of a very strong four than a solid five.

So the premise of Nothing to See Here is solid. In short, Lillian takes care of twins who spontaneously combust anytime they become angry. Before you ask, the kiddos are not physically harmed by the fire. (You're right, this isn't really all that different from what most children actually do.)

You may imagine that such a story is quirky, and it is to a degree, but aside from this issue of fire, Wilson delivers a tale that is completely plausible. The result is a novel where the whimsy completely fits into the narrative. Add to this the stellar dialogue, which is as equally sharp as it is natural, and a tale that is as heartbreaking as it is humorous.

Kevin Wilson's titles have been on my to-read list for several years, but Nothing to See Here is my first. I look forward to reading his earlier work even more now.

When the Wind Blows was much different than I expected it would be. It's much lighter in content and has an almost juvenile appearance, neither things I expected for a graphic novel about survivors of an atomic bomb. Of course, what I hadn't realized before starting this short tale is that Raymond Briggs was an author of children's books ([b:The Snowman 489972 The Snowman Raymond Briggs https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1355497688l/489972.SX50.jpg 2499762] anyone?) and that this book was published in 1982, way before the advent of the modern graphic novel.The focus of this story is entirely on an elderly couple in the days leading up to, and after, a nuclear attack. Sounds heartbreaking, doesn't it? But both husband and wife are a bit daft, so their attempts to outlast the bomb and its effects are absurd. Despite the ridiculousness of their attempts, there is a sweet innocence about this couple that provides the necessary blow to the reader. As husband and wife grow splotchy and begin to fall apart, the haunting reality that this is not funny sets in.This is a simple story that has some chilling effects. It's not an exceptional story for its plot, language, or even illustrations, but it does strip away any bravado one might have for nuclear warfare.

This Halloween season, I was in the mood for some classic, twisted stories. For a long time, I've wanted to read some of the authors who were instrumental in the writing and development of The Twilight Zone. I decided to start with Charles Beaumont, who was involved with the writing of more than twenty episodes of the classic series.

Immediately, I was pulled toward the Night Ride collection. I felt drawn to it. But I looked at the ratings and reviews of all of Beaumont's work and decided it would be more prudent to start with his first collection, The Hunger. This was where I went wrong.

The writing style is very much of its time. This is great. I was in the mood for the dark, twisty 1950s vibe. With the exception of a couple notable stories, however, this collection didn't really grab me. Many of these relied too much on shock value, whether provided by the twist, or merely by the depravity of the subject. There's also a playfulness in many of these stories that, given their dark nature, comes off as a bit crass. Some of this was the times, but I would venture to guess that part of this was the maturity of the author, and later stories would show more masterful orchestration.

I can't say that Night Ride would've been a better selection for me, as I haven't read it. I do get the impression, however, that it would've better satisfied my thirst for Twilight Zone nostalgia. Maybe someday I'll find out. Or maybe I'll just catch up on my Shirley Jackson reading.

I've taken quite an interest in Rod Serling. I've always been attracted to The Twilight Zone, and the more I learned about Serling, the more I felt that I had some kind of otherworldly connection with him. His work ethic and his unparalleled stance on issues of social justice and consumerism made him stand out amongst a cast of unremarkable Hollywood stars. Yet, Serling was human: he battled his demons, even selling out to the same corporations he railed against when his career began to wane. I knew all this, but I wanted more.

I hoped The Twilight Man would provide me more of the picture. Here are the details I already knew of Serling, now illustrated. I learned a little about some of the secondary characters in the business: the executives, the writers. I learned a bit about Serling's struggles in the business, particularly about his involvement in Planet of the Apes and Night Gallery. I would've liked to have seen more of Serling's personal life after fame presented here, but that's largely left out. What was included were several allusions to extramarital affairs I hadn't encountered in my previous study, and this cracked my image of Serling some. I had the impression of a strong family man who was overworked, but resilient. This new bit of information, assuming its veracity, paints the picture of someone who gave in under pressure (and not just to the corporations).

There really isn't anything here that probably isn't in other Serling bios (I just haven't read all of them). What this book does is present the story in a format that may allow new or less interested fans a gateway into Serling's story. The presentation, the illustrations—all these elements were fine. In fact, I'd say the graphic style was perfect for the atmosphere and tempo of The Twilight Zone. The story itself wasn't told in the most interesting or dramatic way, and the attempt to encapsulate the whole thing as an episode of The Twilight Zone felt off to me: it was a good concept, but the implementation was a bit cloying and ill-conceived. Still, anyone with an interest in Serling's life would be advised to add this text to their reading list.

A well deserved winner of the Booker Prize.

Perhaps my favorite thing about Girl, Woman, Other is how Bernardine Evaristo gives a unique voice and perspective to the twelve subjects. Hearing that the story focuses almost entirely women who are black and British, I worried that the author would push a particular perspective or agenda. Certainly, in these interconnected stories, there's bound to be some overlap, but Evaristo really presents a wide spectrum, giving substance to each and every voice regardless of her personal views. This is a skill that needs to be applauded as many talented authors choose not to (or refuse to) implement such diversity in their work.

The structure—a sort of hybrid of prose and poetry—is a little off-putting at first, but quickly becomes natural. The language is gorgeous, but not overly ornate.

The overarching story is masterful in regards to some smaller arcs, but really weak in regards to others. That's perhaps this novel's most notable weakness—if you can call it that. The individual stories are all strong, though. Some of them were particularly moving, but all of them kept my interest.

Girl, Woman, Other is a particularly strong piece of fiction because it gets so much right—it's wise and entertaining, honest and sensitive, sharp and meandering, pause and movement. It may lean towards being driven by character and language, but it is quite well balanced with story. I doubt that I'll read this novel again (as re-reads are vary rare in my world), but it's certainly one that I'd consider giving another look in the distant future. I feel like this novel would only improve with a subsequent, more focused reading.


Advanced Reader Copy provided through Edelweiss.

Why would I read a novel entitled, My Sister, the Serial Killer? Well, because it was nominated for the Booker Prize. Otherwise, I doubt this one ever would've made my list. And maybe that's my flaw—perhaps I shouldn't so quickly judge a book by its cover (or title).

I enjoyed this novel far more than I expected. It was both contemporary, and well written. The author brings together this seemingly absurd premise in a way that grabs your attention. It's an easy read that starts great, grows a little thin by the end, and maybe doesn't quite stick with you the way you'd hope. Maybe other readers have more than a residual memory of this book, but I felt the story could've been more and done more. For me, it was a quick read, but it was just as quickly forgotten.

Despite the title and the blurbs giving the impression of “a thriller,” I think of My Sister, the Serial Killer more as a dark satire. That's not to say it's “funny,” though many readers call it so, as does the author herself (https://lithub.com/oyinkan-braithwaite-on-making-murder-fun/). For some reason, I just don't get the same kick out of murder that some people do.

“The perfect marriage leads to the perfect crime.”

First of all, who the hell came up with that tagline? It's a good tagline, don't get me wrong, but it has nothing to do with the book in question. Did this person read the same book I did? “The perfect marriage?” If anyone has an argument for why Maddie's and Ian's relationship could be viewed as anything but toxic, I'd love to hear it. And there has to be more to your stance than “Well, he's hot!”

Moving on, I don't read much in the way of thrillers, but I'm trying to branch out some here. For me, Beautiful Bad was a mixed bag, full of surprises I didn't expect from the author, and some elements I grudgingly trudged through. Briefly, here are my thoughts:

-I liked that Beautiful Bad dealt with questions of psychology. I wasn't 100% convinced with the psychological ailments shown in the story, but they added to the story.

-Though it may have been a bit hard to follow at times, the shifts in POV and time allowed for the story to unfold at just the right speed.

-It kept me guessing. I thought I'd had it all figured out a couple times—my ideas were far more convoluted than the actual solution (not sure if that's a good thing or not)—but the conclusion surprised me.

-Most surprising to me (being a lit snob and all) was that some of the writing was quite good. This was particularly true when Ward was pushed invoke emotion. My own flaw, for sure, but I wasn't expecting this from a thriller.

-I had a very difficult time accepting these characters and their relationships. I didn't buy any of it. There just wasn't any personal or relational development that gave me a firm impression of who or why. Ian and Maddie, Maddie and Jo—what do they all see in one another? My biggest critique would be that I wish this had been developed more in place of all the details surrounding where everyone ate.

-Because I didn't have a firm grasp on the characters, I also found the motivation for the violence at the center of the story was difficult to accept.

Despite my mixed feelings, I'm glad I gave this novel a chance. I don't feel the characters were given proper development, but I see a lot of potential in the writing; and it certainly gives me a psychological thriller I can recommend without much trepidation.

To me, there's a difference between graphic novels and comics. For starters, comics are often serialized, and graphic novels can stand on their own (though they may be part of a series). There's a stylistic difference—comics either move at a breakneck speed for larger stories or provide a small snippet of daily living; graphic novels, on the other hand, tend to have a slow burn. Surely, there's some overlap and some comics may indeed fall under the umbrella of graphic novel, but I do think the two terms are used interchangeably often when a distinction is in order.

Because of its epic nature, Monstress may blur the lines some, but I do think it bears much more similarity to traditional comics. My views, therefore, are reflective of this categorization.

Of the handful of comics I've read throughout the years, Monstress has some of the best illustrations I recall seeing. Details of both the foreground and background are not skimped on. Each page is bursting with lines. Though the nature of the comic is rather dark, the blacks, grays, browns, and blues have a certain vibrance to them. In both text and illustration, the world created here is interesting and vividly drawn. It has an alluring quality that pulls the reader in.

Unfortunately, there's something about comics that keeps me at a distance, and while Monstress succeeded in being breathtaking, it failed to bring me into the fold. The biggest issue was that I couldn't follow the story. Throughout this entire volume, I couldn't quite follow who the various factions were. I had a tough time distinguishing characters and how they were related to one another. There's just such a strong emphasis on keeping the action moving, and action has a tendency to bore me. Entire pages were filled with it: weapons wielded, powers displayed, blood splattered, and BOOMs, BLAMs, WHAMs, ZZZHAMMs, YAHHs, AAIIEEEs, UMMMPHs, KRRNCHs uttered. Holy comics, Batman, this just isn't quite for me!

For the sake of being able to recommend a quality comic, I'm glad I read Monstress, but my lack of connect and understanding will keep me from reading more in this series. I'm still open to other comic recommendations, however, so if you know of one I just have to read, let me know.

Merged review:

To me, there's a difference between graphic novels and comics. For starters, comics are often serialized, and graphic novels can stand on their own (though they may be part of a series). There's a stylistic difference—comics either move at a breakneck speed for larger stories or provide a small snippet of daily living; graphic novels, on the other hand, tend to have a slow burn. Surely, there's some overlap and some comics may indeed fall under the umbrella of graphic novel, but I do think the two terms are used interchangeably often when a distinction is in order.

Because of its epic nature, Monstress may blur the lines some, but I do think it bears much more similarity to traditional comics. My views, therefore, are reflective of this categorization.

Of the handful of comics I've read throughout the years, Monstress has some of the best illustrations I recall seeing. Details of both the foreground and background are not skimped on. Each page is bursting with lines. Though the nature of the comic is rather dark, the blacks, grays, browns, and blues have a certain vibrance to them. In both text and illustration, the world created here is interesting and vividly drawn. It has an alluring quality that pulls the reader in.

Unfortunately, there's something about comics that keeps me at a distance, and while Monstress succeeded in being breathtaking, it failed to bring me into the fold. The biggest issue was that I couldn't follow the story. Throughout this entire volume, I couldn't quite follow who the various factions were. I had a tough time distinguishing characters and how they were related to one another. There's just such a strong emphasis on keeping the action moving, and action has a tendency to bore me. Entire pages were filled with it: weapons wielded, powers displayed, blood splattered, and BOOMs, BLAMs, WHAMs, ZZZHAMMs, YAHHs, AAIIEEEs, UMMMPHs, KRRNCHs uttered. Holy comics, Batman, this just isn't quite for me!

For the sake of being able to recommend a quality comic, I'm glad I read Monstress, but my lack of connect and understanding will keep me from reading more in this series. I'm still open to other comic recommendations, however, so if you know of one I just have to read, let me know.

I'm not going to spend too much time on The Testaments, Margaret Atwood's follow-up to The Handmaid's Tale. I do think it's a competent and well-written modern novel. The story arc is well established and the characters fill their roles with ease. It gives an adequate conclusion(?) to the story of Gilead, although I don't know that it was a necessary addition to the story. It answers some questions, but I question whether these answers will hold the long-term value their secrecy held for the last three decades.

Outside of necessity, I think the biggest critique I have is simply that it lacks the exceptionally riveting atmosphere of The Handmaid's Tale. We've been shown the world as perceived by a Handmaid, now we're given the world through the eyes of an Aunt, a Daughter, and an Outsider. These characters give us a more full view of the world of Gilead, but they've all been given access to a larger view than “Offred” was ever given. The blinders placed on handmaids was a large part of what made Gilead so haunting. Now we're privy to the bigger picture and things don't seem so out-of-control and hopeless. The rest of the world goes on. It's not really all that different from the world we've all lived in our entire lives.

My understanding of the period and events referred to as the Dust Bowl came exclusively from my elementary education and the novels The Grapes of Wrath and Whose Names Are Unknown. In a nutshell, the narrative is that over-farming caused bad conditions throughout the plains making life and farming difficult. That's all basically true, but wow, there's so much more to the story.

The Worst Hard Time gives a more complete story. Over-farming is one thing; completely changing the landscape of thousands of square miles in a matter of years is another. Bad dust storms is one thing; massive clouds of pure blackness that spread from state to state, preventing individuals from seeing anything but random sparks of static electricity for an entire day is another. A difficult life is one thing; the near improbability of survival is another.

As a reader primarily of character-driven fiction, this wasn't the most riveting read, but it was very informative. I do wish Egan had spent more time developing the various players, as they mostly blend together for me as a reader. Perhaps the individuals didn't matter so much in the telling of this tale, but the lack of individual connection did make it difficult for me to attach to anyone.

When the #metoo movement hit big in October 2017, there was a call for people to speak out about their experiences as victims of sexual violence. There were men, men like myself, who joined in the chorus and were promptly shut down. “This isn't for you,” was the general response. You don't belong here. And so, I was a good little victim still playing the role: I tucked my tail between my legs, turned my head down, and kept my mouth shut.

For some time I've been curious about The Handmaid's Tale, but I've been dragging my feet. The only reason I'm finally giving in is because The Testaments was placed on this year's Booker Prize list, and I figured I should probably read these books in their proper order. It was as I began reading on page one that I realized why I'd been hesitant all this time. I heard that voice saying this isn't for you.

I've been told about The Handmaid's Tale. I've heard the highest praise and the greatest criticism, primarily from women, who love it or hate it. Some readers have called it powerful, affecting, a rally to rise up against the patriarchy. In the same room, other readers called it depressing, distasteful, man-hating. Going into this book, I expected Margaret Atwood herself, along with every character, reaching out of the pages to point their finger at me and say, “You see, you are the problem.” But that wasn't the case.

Sure, feminist themes feature heavily in The Handmaid's Tale. It is told from a female perspective after all. But this novel really does take on more of a humanist approach to things. This is a warning against extremism. Some readers have called Gilead “a society ruled by men,” separating individuals into camps of good and evil based entirely on gender; yet, they've somehow ignored the fact that the majority of men we see in this story are victims of executions, hunters and hunted, or at the very best, subjugated to a life of servitude. (Oh, what a life!) Those who wield the power are men, but in this complete cast of characters, how many of these powerful men are there?

So some readers may be hesitant to pick up this novel. They may think this story isn't theirs for whatever reason. Someone may have even told them “this isn't for you.” Yes, The Handmaid's Tale shows the extremes of sexism and religion on a society, but it is not misandrist or anti-religious. This is a story of what happens when you abuse these roles. These are issues that affect so many of us. This is a world that should be terrifying for us all.

The Handmaid's Tale is a story for all of us.

I'll briefly go into my thoughts about the novel itself before I close. Atwood really does craft a well-drawn world in Gilead. Sure, she borrows quite a bit from historical images and events, but she brings them all together in a way that is incredibly eerie and startling. I think Atwood's choice to make “Offred” somewhat complacent was a good one. Taking a very radical approach wouldn't have given the reader the same idea of what life was like for a handmaid. The story was well formulated. I've heard some people hold it up as “the feminist 1984,” and while I understand the sentiment behind the comparison, the biggest difference is that this story is a well-written piece of fiction. The Handmaid's Tale is far more daring and brave in its composition and telling.

There were a few points that distanced me as a reader, the most notable were 1) the disconnect that exists between the contemporary setting and the pre-Gilead existence—the two events seem much too close in time for individuals and society as a whole to have so easily misplaced their memories of former years; 2) “Offred” seems to step out of believability by being so trusting—if your oppressor tells you reading is illegal, then invites you in for a game of Scrabble, the correct response (assuming you want to live) should be along the lines of “Gee, I'd like to, but there's this little problem and I seem to have forgotten my letters.” If she really were that fearful, she should've at least shown considerable hesitation. I don't know, perhaps I missed something. She just didn't always seem to give the most authentic response given her situation.

I'm glad I finally had reason to read this novel. It may have parts that are slightly dated, and it may have been emulated a hundred times in the last three decades, but it really does stand up well in 2019—perhaps even more so.

It's difficult sometimes to separate the quality of a book from the subject of the story. Grandma Gatewood's Walk is a wonderful book, but largely because of the merits of its subject: Emma Gatewood, who, starting at the age of 67, hiked the entire length of the Appalachia Trail thrice, as well as the Oregon Trail. Gatewood, affectionately dubbed Grandma Gatewood, was such an inspiring individual, and her story is one that I doubt many born since the 1960s are familiar with.

Like many works of non-fiction, Grandma Gatewood's Walk suffers from repetition. There doesn't seem to have been enough worthwhile material to complete a full book-length work, so some of the story has been stretched to cover the holes. And while the writing is competent and clear, this is far from the most brilliant or enlightening book. But it all goes back to the subject of Emma Gatewood, and Ben Montgomery does a stand-up job presenting her as a very interesting and inspiring person. Montgomery makes this book all about her, and in that regard, he succeeds.

10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World begins in the moments after Tequila Leila is murdered. For the next ten minutes and thirty some seconds, Leila's consciousness fades, but not without a surge of memories, each starting with the recollection of a scent or taste. The first half of this novel takes us on this journey in Leila's brain, the huge peaks and valleys that make up her joyous and tortured existence. Leila is so wonderfully drawn, and the orchestration of the events that surround her is expertly done. I was very much pulled into her story—I cannot speak highly enough of these 183 pages.

The idea behind the second part of the novel was a good one, but it failed to pull me in in anyway close to the first half. In Part Two, we're brought into the circle of Leila's five friends—all of whom were introduced in Part One—as they grieve and embark on a quest to honor Leila's memory. There are some wonderful characters in this group, but none have been developed past a slightly expanded character sketch. Certainly, none along the lines of Leila. In some ways this section remains about Leila, but we really don't learn much more about her here, nothing that really develops her story. This part of the novel merely feels like an old-fashioned quest taken by a group of friends.

Of this year's Booker longlist, 10 Minutes... remains one of my favorites—certainly worthy of its shortlist nomination. I don't think it's the eventual winner, but I also don't feel like I've read the winner yet. My interest in Shafak is very much alive and I look forward to reading more of her work.

Quichotte (French: key-SHOT) is Salman Rushdie's nod to Don Quixote. I've been meaning to get around to DQ for some years, but haven't quite gotten there yet. So I may have missed some important connections; that's okay, this book needs to stand on its own, right? Also, it may be worth mentioning that I haven't had the best relationship with Rushdie. He's a Booker Prize darling, so I thought I'd love his work, but Midnight's Children, his most acclaimed work, bored me to no end. Keep in mind that I've now only read two Rushdie novels, so I'm far from familiar with the breadth of his work, but frankly Rushdie reminds me of a more imaginative Philip Roth or John Irving. Certainly, they have their readership, but I'm not a fan of the meandering prose and the leering narrative.

I liked Quichotte more than I'd anticipated I would. I'd heard fans of the author say this was certainly not his best work, and since I didn't find his “best work” all that appealing, I thought this would likely be terrible. Rushdie lets his imagination run away in this metafictional romp, and that provided some level of enjoyment. Also, unlike Midnight's Children, I found the story and the characters entertaining enough to stay mildly invested. The story within a story within a story was crafted well and showed significant intelligence and creativity.

And yet it feels like this story tries too hard to be relevant and humorous. The level of absurdity reaches epic proportions from time to time. There's a scene involving the transformation of people into humanoid mastodons. Because it appeared out of nowhere, I had to read this chapter twice to make sure I hadn't misunderstood. I'm sure this scene is meant to highlight the continued existence of mob mentality akin to our prehistoric human nature or some junk. I don't know—briefcase-totting mastodons are probably best left to the likes of Murakami.

My overall feelings of Quichotte is that the novel is wildly imaginative, but lacks heart. There is what seems to be an attempt to find the pulse of “America” in these pages, an effort which involves highlighting multiple isolated events of the same ilk, ie, the prejudice and hatred of America. Rushdie displays an extensive familiarity with the America that bears the hood of hatred, but he doesn't breathe life into the dark forces, nor into those who stand in opposition. In a story about the creation of characters, Rushdie stops short of creating a soul. It's an entertaining story at its best moments, but Quichotte fails to deliver either magic or profundity.