Truman Brown

Annie Dillard's Holy the Firm is a uniquely pleasant and simultaneously jarring read. The language and imagery pays a graceful homage to earth—nature—and life, while stringing along with it a loose narrative of thought that braves questions and ideas too large for promise of a single answer.


Favorite passage:
Part 3, Holy the Firm

“I see a hundred insects moving across the air, rising and falling. Chipped notes of birdsong descend from the trees, tuneful and broken; the notes pile about me like leaves. Why do these molded clouds make themselves overhead innocently changing, trailing their flat blue shadows up and down everything, and passing, and gone? Ladies and gentlemen! You are given insects, and birdsong, and a replenishing series of clouds. The air is buoyant and wholly transparent, scoured by grasses. The earth stuck through it is noisome, lighted, and salt. Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? or who shall stand in his holy place? ‘Whom shall I send,' heard the first Isaiah, ‘and who will go for us?' And poor Isaiah, who happened to be standing there-and there was no one else— burst out, ‘Here am I; send me.'”

“Now the trouble about trying to make yourself stupider than you really are is that you very often succeed”

Adam Johnson's The Orphan Master's Son, is a creative telling and interpretation of what life may be like in the DPRK. As not much is known about the day-to-day lives of the North Koreans, Johnson sensibly weaves enough fictionality (loosely based on real experience) to communicate to the reader one person's interpretation of life in the DPRK, rather than attempting to communicate it as fact.

While many aspects of the book led to my “mildly-disappointed” 2-star rating, my strongest dislikes came from 1) a lack of strong, authentic voice, 2) an overly congested plot line, and 3) an emphasis on corruption in the DPRK with no “normalcy” to balance it out—a missing theme that could have provided meaningful dissonance when pinned against the symptoms of dystopian decay.


Favorite passage:

“‘A name isn't a person,' Ga said. ‘Don't ever remember someone by their name. To keep someone alive, you put them inside you, you put their face on your heart. Then, no matter where you are, they're always with you because they're a part of you.' He put his hands on their shoulders. ‘It's you that matter, not your names. It's the two of you I'll never forget.'”

Housekeeping was hauntingly beautiful. I was moved at every page and impressed with Robinson's ability to take such control of the reader throughout. The book felt like the kind of overcast day that blocks all color from even sunset and sunrise—yet I found myself wanting to experience more and more of it, despite its dark tone.

Favorite passage:
Chapter 2, page 34

The town itself seemed a negligible thing from such a distance. Were it not for the clutter on the shore, the flames and the tremulous pillars of heat that stood above the barrels, and of course the skaters who swooped and sailed and made bright, brave sounds, it would have been possible not to notice the town at all. The mountains that stood up behind it were covered with snow and hidden in the white sky, and the lake was sealed and hidden, yet their eclipse had not made the town more prominent. Indeed, where we were we could feel the reach of the lake far behind us, and far beyond us on either side, in a spacious silence that seemed to ring like glass.

I think what I enjoyed most about this book (warranting a 4-star rating, rather than 3) was the writing. Andrew Greer is very talented, especially in his ability to capture the unique and authentic voice of the protagonist. I enjoyed the wit and humor that peppered nearly every page without sounding overly forced.
Also, Arthur Less is just the most relatable guy ever. Peak imposter syndrome struggles; aversion to any change; hopeless romantic. Loved the relatability and rawness of the main character.

Ultimately, the plot took a little longer than it needed to (could have ended about 100 pages earlier) and I disliked the cliche ending. Cut the plot of the last 10 pages and it would have left a much stronger impact. Break the garden wall, The End. I understand that Greer likely ended the book the way he did so as to drive what he envisioned for book #2, but that was just a poor choice of direction in my opinion.


Favorite passage:
Chapter 7 “Less Indian”

“It was nothing like he expected, the sun flirting with him among the trees and houses; the driver speeding along a crumbling road alongside which trash was piled as if washed there (and what first looked like a beach beside a river turned out to be an accretion of a million plastic bags, as a coral reef is an accretion of a million tiny animals); the endless series of shops, as if made from one continuous concrete barrier, painted at intervals with different signs advertising chickens and medicine, coffins and telephones, pet fish and cigarettes, hot tea and “homely” food, Communism, mattresses, handicrafts, Chinese food, haircuts and dumbbells and gold by the ounce; the low, flat temples appearing at regular intervals like the colorful, elaborately frosted, but basically inedible sheet cakes displayed at Less's childhood bakery; the women sitting roadside with baskets of shimmering silver fish, terrifying manta rays, and squid, with their cartoon eyes; the countless men standing at tea shops, variety stores, pharmacies, watching Less as he goes by; the driver dodging bicycles, motorcycles, lorries (but few cars), moving frenetically in and out of traffic, bringing Less back to the time at Disney World when his mother led him and his sister to a whimsical ride based on The Wind in the Willows—a ride that turned out to be a knuckle-whitening rattletrap wellspring of trauma. Nothing, nothing here, is what he expected.”