Chris Blocker
Chigozie Obioma's second novel, An Orchestra of Minorities, starts off really well. That's not to say it's an easy or fun read; even in the opening chapters, where the story is at its best, there's a complexity to the narrative and the plot that can be tiring for a reader to scale. Despite the dense nature of the text, An Orchestra of Minorities runs at full power for more than a couple hundred pages. Personally, I felt the story ran out of steam at some point after this... before we go there, let's talk about the narrative.
The voice of this novel may cause some division opinions. I didn't particularly care for it, though I appreciated Obioma's effort to break with some traditions of the western novel. The story would've moved at a brisker pace without Chinonso's chi, but it also would've been a different story. I think the biggest problem I had with the narrator was the inconsistency in knowing so much yet knowing nothing. This ancient entity seems to struggle with technologies a hundred years old, yet understands a relatively new bureaucratic entity without explanation. It's difficult to get a non-human narrator right, and I think Obioma did a stellar job compared to many who use such a unique narrator, but it can be terribly distracting at any point when the effort shows flaws.
Back to the novel at large. The later events of the novel, where the build-up and climax are intended, fell flat for me. The story goes in a direction I was not expecting, but also didn't really care for. It features an arc that was all too familiar. As the stakes of the story rose, my interest waned. I found that I grew increasingly eager for the story to reach its conclusion. It certainly did not help that a character who's easy to sympathize with in early chapters grows increasingly vile in his treatment of others.
Between the narrative and the latter half of the novel, I can understand why some were less than impressed with this huge undertaking. Certainly, I was hoping for a different novel overall. But I really did enjoy the story and the characters in the first half, so I still must give this novel some love. Obioma is a gifted writer who clearly understands how to spin an intelligent and captivating tale. I may have not cared for the final destination, but I enjoyed parts of the journey, and I'll be interested to see where the author takes us next time.
Is The Man Who Saw Everything about a young man who nearly gets run over by a car?
Is The Man Who Saw Everything about a Beatles' conspiracy theory?
Is The Man Who Saw Everything about the British withdrawal from the European Union?
Is The Man Who Saw Everything about gender roles?
Is The Man Who Saw Everything about Socialism and the Berlin Wall?
Is The Man Who Saw Everything about an artist's representation of reality?
I don't have an answer to any of these questions. And unless Deborah Levy herself says what The Man Who Saw Everything is about, I'm not sure I'll ever know.
Strangely, it seems possible that all of these theories (and more) could be true. The Man Who Saw Everything is one of those books that only supplies more questions the deeper one looks. In fact, to best understand this book, it may be best to not think at all (though I don't think that would make for as enjoyable a read). Undoubtedly, Levy is playing with perceptions of time and reality in this story. What is established as fact early on grows blurred in later chapters. Reader, you may not know what is going on in this novel.
That may dissuade some readers from reading this novel, and that's probably okay. Some readers will never enjoy a book that doesn't provide clear answers. For those who find thrill in trying to piece everything together (whether or not they ever finish the puzzle) this book is a wild ride and well worth the experience.
It's difficult to say much more about this novel—perhaps I've already said too much. The Man Who Saw Everything is clever and mysterious. It's a stylish novel, even if many of its allusions may be elusive. It's every part entertaining as it is intelligent. Perhaps the puzzle could've been a little easier to solve—personally, I like to feel like I have a solution, even if that answer is wrong—but the pleasure in trying to fit the pieces together still provided considerable entertainment.
Advanced copy received from the publisher through Edelweiss
Lost Children Archive is inventive, timely, and ambitious. Valeria Luiselli has pulled off quite a feat, merging a relevant topic with various media forms and using language in a very ingenious way. This is a book that could do for immigrant children what The Grapes of Wrath did for migrant workers (though the execution probably leaves out too much of the average reader). I recognize all the great and wonderful components of this novel, but I didn't enjoy it all that much. And that always makes for a difficult review.
The biggest barrier for me was the narrative. I was distanced from these characters, not because their experiences were vastly different from my own, but because I never understood who they were; I was never fully invited into their thoughts. Who was this unnamed woman? We're told about her endeavors, about her passion for others—but the woman we get on the page seems rather detached from everything that happens. We're told about her volatile marriage, but the marriage on page is boring at worst. We're led to believe the son is incredibly mature and intelligent—and this is actually shown in the narrative—but when the plot demands the son doing something really, really stupid, suddenly his common sense completely evaporates. Unfortunately, none of these characters are developed in a way to make sense of their actions (or inaction) in the story.
Certainly, my lackluster opinion of this novel reflects my own bias—I like character-driven stories. This novel fails in regards to creating interesting, multi-dimensional characters who possess a notable arc. Lost Children Archive definitely excels when it comes to language and delivers a satisfactory plot—readers who are turned on by language and plot will find more appeal than I did. In the end, I admire this book for its intellectual and artistic acumen, but I just don't think it fully delivered.
My feelings about the second book in the Timmy Failure series largely mirrors the first. In Mistakes Were Made, quite a bit of the book's first half is familiarizing the reader with the characters and their story. The narrative of the second half sort of rushes through things, yet has some of the story's funniest moments. In Now Look What You've Done Stephan Pastis doesn't take nearly as much time setting the stage. The result is that the jokes start right from the beginning, and these moments are Timmy's best in the novel. Once the larger story is established, it actually begins to drag quite a bit. There's a balance in there somewhere that I imagine will be found in one of the subsequent books in the series.
I shall press on as I want to see what other hijinks Pastis can invent, and I'm most curious what will happen with Molly Moskins.
Despite the way she's portrayed, Molly's actually quite endearing. Molly, if you're reading this, please listen: If Timmy doesn't ever catch on, know that I do. I love the smell of tangerines and I think symmetry is vastly overrated. You will always have a special place in my heart. -CB
In the 1920s, two aspiring writers roomed together while students at Stanford University. The first was an emigrant of Finland named Carl Wilhelmson. He sent out his first novel, Midsummernight, and had quick success finding a publisher. He might have written more books—evidence shows he did—but as the author and his work have nearly disappeared from all record, it's difficult to find proof. Today, no one seems to know of Wilhelmson. The second young writer didn't have the same success with his first novel, The Green Lady. He struggled with writing it and had no luck when sending it out, so he moved onto a second manuscript, which was published. It was a poorly received adventure tale about the pirate Henry Morgan. The writer himself hated the book. After years of starts and stops, he was eventually able to publish what had been his first novel, after many harsh rewrites. It was given a new title:To a God Unknown. The writer's name was John Steinbeck.
I learned about Wilhelmson from the massive Steinbeck biography by Jackson J. Benson, simply called John Steinbeck, Writer. I was curious. Who was this writer who found success where Steinbeck couldn't? And why has this one novel practically been lost to the world? I set out to find a copy of Midsummernight. I also did a little research on Carl Wilhelmson. Unfortunately, I was unable to learn much. In fact, I wasn't able to find a single review anywhere online. (I had to manually enter the book on Goodreads myself.) If this book wasn't sitting right in front of me at this very moment, I'd find it hard to believe it existed. Here's a thought: I may be the first person to read this novel in ten... twenty years. Possibly even longer. Certainly, it hasn't had very many readers in the last half century. There is a relatively small list of libraries worldwide, mostly university libraries, that still own this book. And that thought frightens me a little: a fine book, mass produced, can disappear in less than a century. I'm sure it has happened to many works, but none that I have been so close to.
I was able to find a brief description for the novel:
A mystical romance novel set in Finland, Midsummernight is the story of a boy who runs away from home at the age of ten, serves in the Russian navy, and lives the life of a sailor on the Seven Seas in many ships, and in many lands.
Midsummernight
Midsummernight
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any
Midsummernight
Midsummernight
Midsummernight
Midsummernight
[Epic movie trailer voice] Once there was a world. A world where great lands divided the seas. A world where one could live and die without ever having seen the ocean....That world is gone. Humanity waged war on the oceans... and it lost....In a last ditch effort to save what precious little they have left, an entire nation has constructed a wall. A wall that keeps desperate marauders out. A wall that keeps a nation in....Before Waterworld, there was... The Wall.This film is not yet rated.
In this prequel to the 1995 film Waterworld, the water is rising, land masses are shrinking, and a technologically advanced island nation has built a wall. If only a big giant wall meant to keep outsiders on the outside had some real-world application. Really, you can quickly forget the connection between this book and Trump's wall. What you cannot unsee is the birth of Waterworld.
My biggest complaint about this book is simply that a well-meaning, relevant agenda does not make up for a story that is not compelling. The plot is thin—there's the part of the book on the wall; then there's the part off on the wall. The world-building lacks originality—it's 50% of our modern world; 50% of a post-apocalyptic water world; with the addition of a wall. And the characters do absolutely nothing to make me care.
I'm beginning to wonder why I gave this novel three stars. Maybe because I'm very reserved with one and two star ratings. A book has to be terrible to receive either from me, and though The Wall bordered this territory, I can say it had some redeeming qualities. Like that scene with the pirates—that was riveting and heartbreaking. What else? There was that concrete poem:
concrete concrete concrete concrete concrete
concrete concrete concrete concrete concrete
concrete concrete concrete concrete concrete
concrete concrete concrete concrete concrete
concrete concrete concrete concrete concrete
concrete concrete concrete concrete concrete
Waterworld
The Wall
The Wall
News of the World is a story about the way two very different people can change one another. It's a simple story—in fact, an old and familiar one—about a young girl who was captured by a Native American tribe and now is being forced to return to her old life. There's nothing new or surprising about this story, but it is told with such care and attention to details that the too familiar story has been given a fresh coat of paint.
The best part of this story is perhaps the details of Captain Kidd, a very old man who travels the country reading newspapers at public gatherings. It's such a fun idea for a character, giving readers a unique view of the time and steering far from the expected chaperone—an army general or a sheriff.
I'm a little surprised that this book was a National Book Award finalist. It's good. It's entertaining. But it never struck me as something particularly special. It's definitely one I would recommend to anyone looking for a fairly light, historical novel.
What is propaganda? I'd define propaganda as the dispersal of information that lacks objectivity in order to push an agenda. Modern society adds a negative connotation to the word: propaganda is the work of a sinister force—but this isn't the case. One can place the propaganda label on something they themselves support. The Overstory is propaganda, and though I love trees and agree with many of the sentiments expressed in this novel, such blatant eco-grandstanding has no place in my fiction.
As a novel, The Overstory is most impressive at the beginning. It is then when the stories are disparate, and yes, this means it feels more like a collection of short stories, but they were really good short stories. When I think back on this 500-page behemoth, it is these stories that I easily recall. These stories show a pivotal moment in each character's life, many at a young age, a moment that is genuine and often heart-wrenching. It is within these first hundred pages that I see Richard Powers' strengths as a writer. Here is where the seeds of a good story are planted. However, the story grows, and once the various threads begin to interact with one another, not only does the plot become tiresome, but the heavy-handedness of the theme weighs the story down. It becomes exaggeratedly sentimental. There are no strong opposing forces amongst our main characters. Everyone is willing to give their life for their friends shrouded in bark. There are no counter arguments worth any weight whatsoever. And that's called propaganda. The intentions are good, but the orchestration reeks of a not-so-hidden agenda.
It's all just a bit too much. No, it's more than a bit. It's overwrought. If The Overstory had ended as a collection of interconnected short stories, it would've been more delightful, conveyed its message more clearly, and saved a whole lot of trees in the process.
I'm sure the intended audience of Broken Places & Outer Spaces is fans of Nnedi Okorafor's fiction. Though Okorafor is one of many authors whose work I hope to get around to, I have yet to make that journey with her. So perhaps, by not being familiar with her work prior to reading this short volume, I have missed out on something I might have otherwise enjoyed. If only one could know these things ahead of time...
I decided to read Broken Places & Outer Spaces because I thought it would be an inspirational and eye-opening look at the creative process. I was looking for something to spark my own creativity. Unfortunately, Broken Places & Outer Spaces doesn't offer much in this regard. Instead, what it offers is a very honest and articulate look at Okorafor's struggles related to a surgery that left her paralyzed for some time, a paralysis that detoured her from the path she had chosen, to that of being a writer.
Okorafor's ordeal is written about with such painful candor and splendid prose. It's a very well-written account of this time in her life, and in that regard, the book succeeds. But as anything else, it falls flat. If other parts of Okorafor's life had been explored, or if she'd put as much heart and soul into her transformation as a writer, I think this book would've worked for me. It's a wonderful account of the loss and grief one experiences from a life-changing event, but it's only one chapter in the author's life and Broken Places & Outer Spaces feels like only one long chapter in a much bigger book.
I've a longstanding interest in Malcolm X. There were many aspects of his character that fascinate me. One is the transformation he made in the final year of his life—his second awakening, the birth of el-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz. In these days, el-Shabazz embraced the idea that there were other factors that went into making one “a devil,” not merely one's ethnicity. His overnight change of heart opened up considerable possibilities, a movement with a more unified front. I always wondered where el-Shabazz would've taken us had he been given the chance. I imagine he'd have taught us a few things, even if most of us would've been unwilling to listen.
It may be presumptuous of me to make such a comparison, but I see a lot of el-Shabazz in Ibram X. Kendi. Kendi is a brilliant, open-minded scholar who, unlike many of his contemporaries, fesses up to a history of hatred. Too many well-intentioned people deny ever having (or being capable of) a racist thought; by acknowledging his own racist past, Kendi puts himself on equal footing with those he's trying to instruct in the ways of anti-racism. The approach makes all the difference. Guaranteed, some will read (or glance at) this book and see nothing but another black man who hates white people—these are the same people who knew this would be the case before even turning the cover. I imagine they're not the ones Kendi wrote this book for.
In his previous book, Stamped from the Beginning, Kendi tackled the history of racism from its relatively unknown beginning, presenting a thorough and scholarly exploration; in How to Be an Antiracist he breaks it down into a contemporary format, highlighting the complete spectrum of racial hatred, addressing the question of what it means to be truly anti-racist. By presenting his own personal story, Kendi puts his victimization and vulnerabilities in full view, a move that makes him infinitely more accessible to the reader. The result is a book that is incredibly inspiring.
How could a book about racism be inspiring? By being informative, hopeful, and prescriptive. By not hiding behind platitudes. By keeping the tone instructive, not reactive and not incensed. Kendi shows that he has a very strong grasp of the subject—and though readers may disagree with a point or two of his from time to time—no one is dissecting the issue quite as thoroughly, and certainly no one is presenting a means to dismantle the racist system one mind at a time, as Kendi strives to do here.
All the time, I read reviews where people say “everyone needs to read this.” We have our personal interests and biases—one man's treasured book is another's kindling. So take my recommendation for what it's worth: I believe that every open-minded individual, whether they blatantly embrace racist thought, hide behind “not racism,” or strive to be anti-racist, can benefit from reading How to Be an Antiracist. Maybe you won't be as touched by this book as I was. Maybe you won't underline nearly as many passages as I did (something I never do, by the way, emphasizing how much this book impacted me). But I do think most of us will get something worthwhile out of it.
Lanny is an intriguing, brilliantly constructed little novel. It starts off with a poeticism that really grabs the reader, pulls them into the pace of this village, the voices of the individuals as well as the hum of the hive. It's lyrical without pretentiousness. The imaginative range of the narrative is both ominous and magical.
As far as story, the first two-thirds of Lanny are wonderful. I was pulled into this village, and into the mind of the mythical creature known as Dead Papa Toothwort. The third part of the story lost me though, enough so I disappointingly felt the need to drop a star. I lost the thread of the story and the rhythm of its telling. Those with a more substantial attention span than I have may have a better appreciation for this section. I didn't follow.
Lanny is oh so comparable in subject and tone to several previous Booker Prize nominees. I don't know if that means it's more or less likely to receive a nod this July, but I won't be surprised if it's on the long list.
Detective stories are not, have never been, and never will be “my thing;” however, I don't want to grow stagnant as a reader, guilty of not trying to branch out from time to time. The Alienist came with high marks from many friends, so I thought it might be worth venturing into this uncomfortable territory. As my opinions on mysteries are probably not worth paying much attention to, I'm just going to quickly highlight what I liked and what I didn't.
What I liked:
1) Caleb Carr clearly put ample research into the period and the setting. The details are an impressive collection.
2) Carr introduces some wonderful characters who fall into some stereotypes, defy others, but never fail to be interesting.
3) The introduction of historical figures I was unfamiliar with (e.g., Jesse Pomeroy), forcing me to conduct some good old-fashioned research (i.e., Google).
4) When the plot moves, it's very fast paced.
5) It's more psychological and cerebral than I expected.
What I didn't like:
1) Well researched—yes, but painfully so. The story is bogged down by the inclusion of so many details.
2) Carr ignores the best characters for the majority of the novel. Though they're major players, the bulk of the second half of this novel focuses on Moore and Kreizler—fine characters, but lacking magic.
3) The shoehorning of historical figures (e.g.,Theodore Roosevelt) that I could've done without.
4) It's far too long. When the pacing slows, it really slows.
5) It's still a plot-based mystery and well... as we've established, that's “not my thing.”
At its best, The Alienist exceeded my expectations—and I must give it credit for that—but too often it was mediocre at best, largely the result of too much detail, too many pages, and not enough of knowing when to quit.
Know when you're finished, and when you are, put your pencil or your paintbrush down.
- Stephen King Duma Key
I may not be your average Stephen King reader. I'm not enamored with the author, but I have thoroughly enjoyed some of his tales. Others have left me cold. The stories I tend to like are not the ones most of his readers go for—the only two I thought worthy of five stars were “The Body” and The Long Walk. Despite what some in the literati might say, King has some talent. He also writes to sell. That's a combination that can bring very mixed results.
Duma Key shows the author at his best and his worst. Well, maybe not his absolute best and worst—the complete, unedited version of The Stand did that. Duma Key shows the King who is a masterful storyteller and who can get in the mind of a broken man, as well as the King who has no internal editor (seemingly, no editor at all) and no understanding of how humans speak to one another.
The first two-thirds of this novel are not bad. The dialogue from Wireman is continually cringy, but otherwise, the tale of broken people finding a new life on an island in the Florida keys is satisfactory. Most of this novel is based on some version of reality. Sure, there's a little bit of strangeness, but it feels more like magic realism than King's signature paranormal horror. It works. It's not the author's most gripping or well-written tale by any means, but I think had it ended earlier, been given an ending where the magic had some beauty or relevance, I would've been happier.
Instead, King steers the final hundred-plus pages into the horror-filled paranormal. I know, it's Stephen King: it's to be expected. I just didn't think it worked for this book. It's in these pages that King loses any connection with reality. Suddenly, characters are able to pull the most outlandish conclusions from the sky. Terrible events occur that should emotionally destroy these characters, but they jump right up, quoting movies and attempting to outwit one another. Characters in a story should not act like characters in a story, unless we're talking metafiction (sadly, I somehow got the idea that this was King's foray into metafiction and I was disappointed with its exclusion). Finally, the “scary stuff” just wasn't all the interesting. For a Stephen King novel, that's damning.
I was excited to start Duma Key, but I must say I'm very disappointed in the end. There's just not much here in these 600 pages that made an impact. And yet, because I know King is so hit and miss, at least for me he is, I'll pull another one of his novels off the shelf in two or three years, and I'll find a sloppy narrative, some juvenile dialogue, and the possibility of a very engaging story.
Mistakes Were Made is not the sort of book I'd normally pay much attention to. I'm not a huge fan of children's lit and this one looked a bit too juvenile for me (not that I'm not very childish at heart). I picked up this novel for one reason: Tom McCarthy, genius behind such movie gems as The Station Agent, Win Win, and Up, is adapting the novel to film. McCarthy isn't a filmmaker who deals in adaptations, so I was intrigued with what this book was all about.
Frankly, I'm a bit surprised that McCarthy has taken on this project. It's quirky, which is right up McCarthy's alley, but it has a different tone than McCarthy's usual “quirky with heavy underlying dramatic weight.” But enough about a film that doesn't even exist yet.
This is a hilarious book. The humor is fresh and often unexpected—even though Timmy's lack of common sense is established early, the disconnect is so absurd and finely drawn that I laughed out loud every time he reached a conclusion. This is the kind of humor that can be understood by children and adults alike, but may at times be lost on some children.
The narrative was great and the plot worked fine for the style. I was very much engaged for the bulk of the story. At the point where the story begins to wrap, however, the plot sort of fizzled. The conclusion was very rushed and not all that entertaining. For a novel which spent so much time setting up the dynamics of the narrative and the setting, as well as introducing us to a myriad of wonderful characters, I guess there just wasn't enough room to build a satisfactory ending. Hopefully, now that the stage is set, the following books in the series provide a stronger story arc. (And, yes, I do plan on continuing this series.)
The Timmy Failure movie is schedule for release in 2020. I'm sure given McCarthy's handling, it'll be a fabulous movie—though one cannot forget (and maybe not forgive) The Cobbler.
Raise your hand if you've heard of Percival Everett.
I imagine a few hands raise. Only a few. By no means is Everett a well-known or widely-read author. Why is this? We'll get to that shortly.
If you're one of the many not yet familiar with Everett, let me introduce you: Percival Everett is the award-winning author of more than thirty books. His first was published in 1983—his most recent 2017. Throughout his career, he's received dozens of honors for his work. What does Everett write about? Whatever he feels like—whatever has captured his attention. He's covered mythology and westerns on several occasions, with stops to explore poetry, baseball, and even philosophy as told by a four year old. The Washington Post labeled him as “one of the most adventurously experimental of modern American novelists.”
So that's Percival Everett. Also, it's important to note for the sake of discussing Erasure that Everett is black.
Now let me introduce you to this phenomenal work of literature. The protagonist, Thelonious Ellison, is a brilliant and acclaimed author who is having trouble selling his most recent novel. There have been complaints from the publishers that Ellison's writing is not “black enough.” Ellison writes about a wide range of topics—one of his favorite subjects is mythology. Frustrated with the remarkable success of a novel titled We's Lives In Da Ghetto, Ellison scribbles an angry response, a parody that is thoroughly embraced by the literary world.
So why is Everett largely unknown? I think Erasure addresses that question. As a reader, I cannot say how much of this novel is truly biographical, but I don't think I'm completely off by drawing a comparison here. As an author of tremendous talent, Everett's frustration after twenty years of relative obscurity surely must parallel that of Thelonious Ellison. If only these authors would write something about what it means to be black, they'd find success.
In this one novel, Everett tackles the duplicity of the publishing industry. Though more authors of color are being published in recent years, there still exists some degree of expectation that these authors “stick to what they know,” even if it's not actually indicative of their experience. Erasure addresses this hypocrisy in a way that is both comical and heartbreaking in equal measures. It is a brilliant exploration of identity, a multi-layered look at what makes a person. Joining Ellison on this journey—a mother suffering from Alzheimer's, a brother discovering his sexuality, and a sister firmly committed to her pro-choice convictions.
Whatever the subject, Everett is an intelligent author with astounding insight and a knack for language. His work may not have achieved the status it deserves, but I believe that day will come. I know that I will be revisiting his work sooner than later.
This novel is as lyrical, engaging, and wonderfully charactered as you've heard. The epilogue is also as terrible as you've heard. (You have my permission to skip it.)
I have nothing to add, other than I would've loved to have seen more internal strife within the group and within the characters than we were provided after the initial set up. Some complacency is expected, but I thought this was a bit too relaxed.
Sometimes you go into a story with a certain expectation. I approached Light from Other Stars this way. Somewhere I'd gotten the impression that this was novel was going be the mind-bending what-the-hell-just-happened I found in James Renner's The Man from Primrose Lane (if you want your mind blown, read that novel.) Light from Other Stars isn't what I expected, but it's still intriguing, intelligent, and sometimes a little fun.
Light from Other Stars takes place largely in Florida in the days after the space shuttle Challenger explosion. Eleven-year-old Nedda's father is a scientist working on an entropy experiment at the time of the accident. Enter science. Science was never one of my stronger subjects in school, so consider my ignorance when I say that for me this was big-s Science fiction. The narrative occasionally switches to a space craft in the future, but I'll just leave that part a mystery.
Even though Light from Other Stars is heavy on the science, it's also a very effective in showing the human condition. Love, grief, birth, mortality, individuality, and family are all explored in quite some depth. The characters and the plot both show expert craftsmanship, but they probably do get a bit lost in the technical jargon. That said, Swyler is not an author who talks down to her readers. The explanations for the more scientific elements of the story are done in a largely organic way.
The one thing that I think would've made this book stand out more is if the big reveal (don't worry, no spoilers here) had been less obvious earlier in the novel. Now we're dipping into questions of Authorial Intention versus Reader's Interpretation. Perhaps Swyler was not seeking a big reveal. Maybe she wanted it to be obvious from page one. That's a possibility, but she also never comes right out and says it, so it gives the impression that she's trying to hide something. This results in high expectations for what will be a letdown for many.
Light from Other Stars is certainly one of the more imaginative Literary novels I've read in recent times. I would've gladly embraced some more surprise in these pages, but the exploration of time and the human heart made for an excellent journey.
Zoo Nebraska is the captivating story of a zoo in Royal, Nebraska (pop. 81 75 59), a town likely forever associated with the zoo and the events that led to its downfall and eventual liquidation. It is the story of a dream impeded. It is the story of a community with bonds stronger than travesty, and prejudices harder than stone.
More than any of that, Zoo Nebraska is the story of Dick Haskin's passion, and that is what makes this book so fascinating. Author Carson Vaughan does an amazing job of displaying Haskin's passion from the beginning. Even though there are aspects of Haskin one may not like, it's difficult not to root for him. Here's a guy on the fringe of society who truly has a noble idea in mind, an animal lover who compromises and compromises until little of his original intent exists. Out of a big heart set into motion in the 1980s comes a heartbreaking disaster twenty years later. What a great story!
Somewhere in the middle, Zoo Nebraska does get bogged down by the minutiae. Haskin's role is reduced, and in comes a parade of incompetent leaders, all fighting for small threads of power. (It probably sounds more interesting than it is.) As each character grabs ahold of and pulls on their respective threads, the fabric of Haskin's dream, and the pride of a community, is unraveled.
Wonderfully researched and expertly told, Zoo Nebraska is the kind of story that almost seems better off as fiction. It's hard to believe this zoo really existed, let alone was the center of the stories that followed. I'm glad this story has been told, and that it has been told in a way that seems to respect the vision without delighting in the crimes.
I'll say this, The Girl in the Tower nears perfection.
The Bear and the Nightingale was a fine novel, but I felt it was laying the groundwork for the setting and the characters. Whimsical magic was on full display, immersing the reader in a world that was likely very foreign to them, but it may have been too much. The result was a good story, but it didn't quite have the cohesion that this follow-up does.
I'm not a big fan of Fantasy, but Arden sells me completely with The Girl in the Tower. The setting is as gorgeous as it was in the first book; the author really brings this frigid landscape to life. The characters are well defined. I especially love how Arden displays her protagonist as a strong woman, but one who still has some flaws. The language is engaging and navigable. The plot moves along at a great pace. With the characters well defined, the fairy tale established, and the story evolved, The Girl in the Tower is given the room to just be fabulous. It really does come close to being perfect.
Now here's where I deviate from the mainstream: I find action incredibly boring. I generally enjoy stories for their characters and their dialogue, sometimes their language or devices, but almost never for their action. When a fight breaks out, I tune out. (Strange, right?) That's exactly what happened when I reached the climax of this novel—my attention waned considerably. I stopped caring. It's no fault of Arden or this novel—I'm the abnormal one—but its inclusion did leave me wanting. And if you've read either of the first two books in this series, then you likely know action plays a big part.
Even considering this one hiccup—something most readers would probably embrace—I felt The Girl in the Tower was one of the better stories I've read in the last few years. I cannot think of one Fantasy novel I've ever enjoyed nearly as much as this one. I'm already anticipating the third, but I may have to wait—novels such as these are best enjoyed when the windows are frost-touched.
Essays aren't really my thing, and political essays are definitely not, so this wasn't the best choice for me.
We Were Eight Years in Power is collection of essays Coates wrote, one from each year of the Obama presidency, a time which paralleled Coates's own rise from novice columnist to acclaimed and authoritative author. Not every essay in this collection is political, but many of them are. Coates is a tremendous writer regardless of the topic he tackles, but he best holds my attention when the subject is more societal or historical.
As a complete collection, We Were Eight Years in Power is a bit too wandering and repetitive. This is like an album which purports to be a collection of the artists “most loved songs,” but leaves out some of the true “greatest hits.” A thoughtful collection overall, but one best suited for lovers of government.
It was the cover of Bloom that reeled me in: the subtle but finely drawn art with the equally hushed blue. I imagined a graphic novel that was intelligent and touching. The final product was much lighter than I expected it to be, definitely one written for a younger audience, or for those who prefer simple storytelling.
There just isn't much depth to the plot—and that's okay. What's perhaps less forgiving is the same lack of depth in the characters. The reader never gets much more than a surface impression of Ari and Hector, even less of their respective friends. I think this is the story's greatest failing. With a story such as this one, the characters have to be more than cute or fun—they have to engage a reader.
What this novel did well? The buildup is good. You know where the story is going—it's obvious—but the author saves that component so that the story moves at a natural pace. It never felt rushed or unnatural. Also, the illustrations were good. They were simple, but convincing, never scrimping on the details of backgrounds and textures.
Overall, Bloom is a very simple, but well rendered love story. I recommend it for fans of graphic novels who prefer simple stories, love displays of affection, or who think in emoticons.
Three stories into Bangkok Wakes to Rain, I had a bad feeling about the “novel.” You see, there's been this trend in publishing lately where “novel” can mean many things. David Szalay's Booker nominated All That Man Is is an excellent example. It's a collection of short stories. (Publisher: No, it's a novel.) It may center on a theme, but that doesn't make it a novel; it's still just a collection of short stories. But short story collections do not sell as well as novels, nor do they get nominated for the Booker Prize, so I guess the publisher was (deceptively) smart.
Initially, it appears that Sudbanthad is going down the same path with Bangkok Wakes to Rain. Here are stories that have absolutely nothing to do with one another other than their connection to the setting. The first story focuses on a missionary in the 19th century. The second deals with a jazz pianist in the post-Vietnam-war era. The third of a photographer who'd emigrated to the U.S. And so on... Represented as circles with shared similarities, each story looks a little something like this.
I liked the writing, but again I felt duped and disappointed because this was not a novel.
Then a wonderful thing happens—one of the stories overlaps another. I held onto hope there'd be more. Then there is another connection. Slowly, the connections begin to build upon one another so that some stories are only lightly connected to one another, but others share so much. It could look something like this.
I was intrigued. It became a fun exercise searching for all the connections. It reminded me of a device David Mitchell might employ. This association with Mitchell was even more so made concrete by the fact that the book stretches from the colonial era into a future where cities are under water and AI plays a large role in daily living.
The writing is superb and the characters are memorable and well designed. Sudbanthad is a wonderful author who has earned a spot on my growing list of authors I will invest in in the future. Bangkok Wakes to Rain is an intriguing and intelligent novel overall, but the implementation is a bit off. Using such a device is tricky, and while I think Sudbanthad pulls it off well, it is not solid enough to sustain itself. It's close and an admirable effort, but it just doesn't quite gel. Nonetheless, I look very much look forward to the author's sophomore effort. Here is an author who knows how to use language, plot, character, and setting to form a nearly perfect novel or collection—call it what you want.
