Who's That Bookworm?

Book 6: Birds of America

2012-02-08T20:42:00.001-05:00

Birds of America
Lorrie Moore

Usually short story collections have ups and downs, but most do have a general level of quality, with a few stories rising above to enchant and a few being, well, less than memorable. Given my previous experiences with Lorrie Moore, I expected Birds of America to present a group of witty and endearing gems; what I got, however, was almost precisely the opposite: a group of disjointed, cloying, and boring stories with only one that seemed to justify the time put into reading it, let alone the rest of the collection. Don't be fooled by the abstract, too-long title, for "People Like That Are the Only People Here: Canonical Babbling in Peed Onk" is a moving tale of a parent's worst plight, and its impersonal manner transcends the plane of pretentious litfic experimentation on which it is built, becoming instead a universal exploration of pain and suffering, an oasis of meaning in a desert bereft of entertainment or, sadly, plot. This story has plot, and characterization, in spades, and almost- but only almost- makes one look more fondly upon the author. Unfortunately, the majority of the stories in this collection, while having their moments, meander along pointlessly until reaching a noncommittal ending that really has nothing to do with the preceding story. It's possible to read these as portraits, and while yes, they are in a sense rich and layered, they fail to captivate; these are still lives, not moving images, and one cannot blame readers for simply wishing that Moore would get on with it already. Too much in here bows to the litfic intelligentsia, appearing to work in profound subtlety but being instead almost unbearably boring. There are moments, of course, where Moore displays her searing ability to peer into the depths of the human soul, but these are quickly swallowed by the boredom that plagues each of these stores. Likewise, both "Which Is More Than I Can Say About Some People" and "Charades" each come very close to being meaningful, before eventually wandering off into the same meaningless, but critically beloved, territory of utter pandering. Lorrie Moore is, I believe, capable of much more than she shows in Birds of America, but the collection sags under the weight of its own assumed importance and never becomes, well, interesting.

Grade: C-

Book 5: The Relativity of Wrong

2012-01-28T13:32:00.001-05:00

The Relativity of Wrong
Isaac Asimov

It's hard to be one of the most productive authors in the English language without racking up some serious mileage across genres, and thus Isaac Asimov accentuated his science fiction work with numerous essays for various pulp magazines. Seventeen of these, primarily related to atomic-level physics and its variants in biology and astronomy, are collected in this slightly mis-titled volume, which comprises a just-beyond-introductory level look at various complex scientific concepts. The essays are arranged well, both on an individual level and within three larger sections (with the titular essay placed at the end), and integrate well as a whole, even on such diverse topics as the discovery of ATP and of the Andromeda Galaxy. Beginning with the discovery of the isotope, Asimov gradually explores increasingly difficult, yet intertwined, scientific concepts, always careful to place them within the context of contemporaneous scientific knowledge and development. This works well to bring the casual reader up to speed, but these essays by and large do assume a passing familiarity with high school chemistry, an assumption that is not immediately apparent and which may disappoint some readers who become lost along the way; though they form a coherent look at several aspects of scientific development, these are not for the fainthearted and are heavy in facts though, mercifully, not figures. It's fun, however, for even the casual reader to peer into the minds of scientific geniuses, even if the material can occasionally fly straight over one's head, and Asimov's writing is clear even if the ideas explored aren't. He also does a brilliant job tying everything together and, at the beginning of every essay, steps back to offer an amusing, and often entirely unrelated, personal anecdote. There is humor in this collection, and though detailed and rigorous it is rarely dry, somewhat surprising given the depth of its musings. Welcome, too, is the final essay, presenting Asimov's musings on the popular binary view of correctness, and though its implications are only explored at a surface level, it is a welcoming philosophical note that closes the collection on a level of self-awareness that services the preceding essays well. The Relativity of Wrong may occasionally overwhelm less scientifically-inclined minds, but its essays present well-reasoned and concise, historically-minded introductions to several aspects of modern chemistry and physics.

Grade: B+

Book 4: Lucifer's Hammer

2012-01-24T18:28:00.000-05:00

Lucifer's Hammer
Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle

As the title of this book suggests, Lucifer's Hammer is full of mayhem and just a hint of religious undertones, delivered as a comet violently smashes into Earth and destroys civilization as we know it (or knew it in 1977). Though we begin with both feet solidly planted in the technological world, readers can feel the mounting tension as the comet begins to capture the world's imagination, personified most specifically through various denizens of the greater Los Angeles area, with a United States Senator and his hot, slightly slutty daughter thrown in for good measure. Readers who don't know much about the geography of this part of California are advised to at least glance at an atlas beforehand, as the authors assume a working topographical and sociological knowledge of the area; without it, moments of the narrative can jar readers out of the otherwise enrapturing tale. And, though the scope of this worldwide disaster novel is somewhat restrained, the choice seems a good one; the hard science that drives the novel seems to suggest the mid-California mountains as a likely place for human survival, and at the very least this is a disaster novel that pays attention to the everyday men and women on the street, with nary a President to be found. The cast, large as it is, is admirably handled and well-enough juggled, though the list of "Dramatis Personae" at the book's front is a bit misleading, as it emphasizes some decidedly minor characters while leaving out some fairly important ones. Regardless, it is fascinating to watch a spectrum of people react to the news about the comet, prepare for or pretend to completely ignore its impending strike, and, eventually, react, though the cast is overpopulated with burly manly types and is sorely lacking developed, well-rounded women.

In fact, it's not simply the absence of strong women that may rankle some readers but, rather, the way in which otherwise powerful women are consistently dismissed as the authors' personal politics manhandle their way into the novel. For every ass-kicking moment of inspired driving, there is a female character all too happy to accept that she can be no more than a cook in the new, manly society of manly physical labor; worse, the men treat the women as afterthoughts and, in a brilliant display of macho sexism, as an outright prize. It is tempting to attribute this to the times (it may indeed be the authors, and not a character, who essentially say, "To hell with this women's lib nonsense"), but Niven and Pournelle go out of their way time and again to remind readers that women need to be put in their place, even when they know precisely what's going on; they are good for cooking, pushing paper, and introducing dramatic conflict as men jostle for their affections. What begin so promisingly as strong, independent women instead become relegated to the kitchen and the bedroom, creature comforts but, ultimately, not very useful; save, of course, for the Soviet doctor who of course renounces communism entirely. Perhaps this is a personal grievance, but the authors demonstrate throughout the novel that their political viewpoints can come across without use of the Obvious Hammer, then sadly allow the book's climax to be overtaken by an anti-environmentalist rant. This unnecessary proselytizing undoes the book at several otherwise powerful moments, and threatens to derail a thoroughly depicted, perfectly good apocalypse.

All is not doom and gloom, however, and it is possible to revel in this book despite the authors' occasional lapses in judgment. The first chapters of the book are thoughtfully interrupted by a look at the Solar System's first moments, and readers get a first-hand introduction to the planet's doomsday device; the effect is perfectly chilling, and brilliantly echoed at a key future moment. Otherwise, much of the book is standard disaster fare, with a plot that revolves around the (manly!) jostle for land, power, and survival (not necessarily in that order), with some surprisingly powerful, but too infrequent, emotional asides that ruminate on the true effects of apocalypse. Disaster scenes and post-comet visions of destruction are artfully realized, and though some of the cast is mysteriously dropped, referenced only by a throwaway line rather than a proper death scene, readers will come to care about the exploits of the remainder, and almost every thread is neatly tied, just not at the most efficient pace. Niven and Pournelle have clearly thought through the matter of the end of the world, and though their politics can dampen the novel's impact, there is plenty of heart to accompany the standard horror and some truly shocking reversions. Lucifer's Hammer is a satisfying novel of apocalypse that shows sparks of brilliance, particularly in its use of science, but which falls too often into political rants to be truly classic.

Grade: B

Book 3: Mother Tongue

2012-01-15T22:27:00.004-05:00

The Mother Tongue: English and How It Got That Way

Bill Bryson

This book bills itself as a funny general introduction to the history, and some of the resulting peculiarities, of the English language, and it serves this purpose well for the uninitiated, though those with any sort of background in the subject won't find much new information here. After beginning with some brief musings on the state of English in the modern world, and its rising importance, providing a good setup for what is essentially a series of quasi-linked essays about different facets of the language, including its ancient and recent history as well as some of its salient features. Though the history is brief and feels at times a bit rushed and jumbled, it flows logically enough and carries some of Bryson's trademark humor; most importantly, it provides sufficient background information without getting too technical, allowing him to make relevant observations later without alienating readers early on. Unfortunately, however, this lucid and entertaining, if brisk and a bit shallow, history is followed by a mix of wry observations and lists of illustrative terms that is far too greatly weighted to the latter. I enjoy a few good puns and appreciate examples as much as the next person, but Bryson devotes too much space to these, joyful though they are, and they make the text so unreadable that even I skimmed paragraphs filled with italics. The occasional lists are appreciated as a change of pace, but Bryson is sadly unable to weave these sufficiently into the narrative to capture, and much less hold, readers' wandering attention; after all, this isn't meant to be a textbook, rather an overview for general readers. To make matters worse, there is a surprising lack of consistency within the text, ranging from a change between parenthetical citations and footnotes (bafflingly split between the first chapters and the final few) and in the repetition of examples, to the point where the book's final section so closely echoes the first as to make it hardly worth reading. This is sloppy writing but, worse, sloppy editing, and at times can be so frustrating as to overshadow the book's clarity and, indeed, its fun. Chapters on wordplay and, yes, swearing are appreciated even though they seem a bit like an afterthought, and help highlight some of the fun of language, maintaining the book's lighthearted feeling and keeping it from feeling too much like a textbook. Likewise, the book holds up well 20 years after its publication, with the main problems coming from omissions impossible to foresee; it is indeed quite fun to note that Bryson's criticism of George Bush would be equally well applied to his son, who made the same nuclear/nu-ku-ler mistake the author himself cites earlier in the text. Bryson's clear delight in the contradictory, the absurd, and the British shines through here as in much of his other work, and The Mother Tongue is, despite its stumbles, a solid and entertaining introduction to the English language and its many charms and absurdities.

Grade: A-

Book 2: The Master and Margarita

2012-01-10T22:24:00.001-05:00

The Master and Margarita
Mikhail Bulgakov

It's not quite fantasy, it's not quite revisionist history, it's not quite a Faust story, and, well, it definitely is a satire, but The Master and Margarita is one novel that defies most attempts to categorize it and, perhaps to a lesser degree, to fully comprehend its nuances. Though the prose reads fluently (and here the work of translators Diana Burgin and Katherine Tiernan O'Connor must be commended, because they are nearly invisible, in a good way), the story occasionally stops and stutters, and it's probably best to sit back and let the narrative flow by on a first read. The quick interchanges between modern Russia and ancient Judea make some sense within the greater context of the book, but though the transitional sentences are well-woven into modern Moscow, everything comes crashing down when the two inexplicably meet toward the end of the novel. Strangely, however, despite the apparent difficulty of grasping the true Greater Meaning of the book, particularly given the layers of symbolism necessary to even consider writing a political satire in Soviet Russia, The Master and Margarita is an enjoyable novel, and achieves a balance between pretentious layers of inaccessibility, the slapstick antics of the Devil's cohort, clever jabs at Stalin's government, and a welcome realistic revisiting of the death of Jesus. Everything may not need to tie in perfectly, after all, and though some of the more fantastic elements and, indeed, the story of Margarita and the Master, may not seem to quite fit in, the chaos somehow holds together. We open with two Muscovites musing over the existence of Satan with the Devil himself, here slickly and convincingly portrayed as a sly sort of gentleman, part prankster, part high society, and part tired older man. Soon enough, he has announced himself through his own antics and those of his supporting cast of troublemakers, consistently amusing if a bit repetitive, and everything dissolves into surreal landscapes and an even odder plot, which is roughly when Margarita and the Faust motif appear. Throw in Pontius Pilate and the plot is a mix of disparate elements; yet, impossibly, the novel seems to work.

n some ways, it doesn't and it won't for many readers; this is the kind of book that makes it obvious that readers are missing several crucial pieces of information or levels of understanding, but it somehow manages to play to audiences at varying levels of comprehension, and if one can gloss over the parts that make the eyes gloss over, the book is incredibly rewarding. First and foremost, that Bulgakov even managed to write the book is a miracle of no small proportions, coming as it did in the midst of Stalin's notorious Purges, when the author was well-known to the dictator as a subversive. And the author conveniently displays as much talent as bravado, creating a Pontius Pilate subplot that is poignant among a backdrop of hellion arsonists and bizarre balls that somehow become more than simply silly. Likewise, there is a very real undercurrent of direct confrontation against the Soviet system, and it repeatedly bubbles to the surface in scenes such as a remarkable dream inside a theater that foretells with startling accuracy some of the horrors of Auschwitz and the German concentration camps. Yet life in the USSR carried on, and as foreign currency shops and speculators are ruthlessly parodied and subtly criticized, the novel exposes the very human reality of 1930s Moscow, complete with its schemers, frustrated artists, and those trying to just get by. For a novel that dabbles so much in the surreal, The Master and Margarita remains remarkably accessible, anchored by the realistic retelling of the death of Christ that may or may not be pivotal to, and connect with, its umbrella stories of the Devil in Moscow and Margarita's subverted Faust bargain for the Master.

Grade: A-

Book 1: Fail-Safe

2012-01-05T11:24:00.001-05:00

Fail-Safe
Eugene Burdick and Harvey Wheeler

Written and set just in the terrifying year of 1962, when the world seemingly teetered on the brink of nuclear destruction at the hands of the United States and the Soviet Union, Fail-Safe takes fears of nuclear annihilation and a perilously naïve trust in machinery to their logical conclusion. The prologue itself asserts that the novel's conclusions will most assuredly come to pass, if not in the particular way envisioned herein, and though the novel has become a bit dated because, well, that didn't happen, it is nonetheless strangely powerful and almost claims a sense of immediacy even fifty years after its publication. What holds it back, however, is its inextricable ties to its own time; with a United States president so thinly veiled they really may as well have called him Kennedy consulting with Nikita Khrushchev, the book hardly seems relevant at first glance. It becomes, instead, a brilliant look at the fears of the Cold War era, an interesting, if not perfectly executed, vision of the intricate mechanisms that somehow did not manage to combine and destroy us all. This is not to say, however, that the book is particularly well-written, or even well-plotted; indeed, the fact that it is entertaining, let alone emotionally effective, is shocking given the number of missteps that very nearly doom the book at every step along the way. Burdick and Wheeler begin in a somewhat mixed manner, offering an in-depth character portrait with a ticking clock nicely placed at its end. The instinct to pull back in the next chapter and re-set the stage is marvelous, and the authors almost pull it off before the reader realizes that we are not just seeing the main players but getting additional superfluous backstory that almost, but doesn't quite, work.

The suspense so strongly built and so deftly pulled back in the first few chapters dissolves entirely as the authors allow the plot and characters to stagnate, and the book grows stale, predicated upon the importance of mere minutes and seconds yet seemingly obsessed with decades and years, not to mention those clumsy, "Hey reader!" conversations that explain everything in some unrealistically blunt simplicity. By the time the plot returns to its suspenseful self, readers have to re-acquaint themselves with a strangely ill-defined, yet heavily explored, cast of characters, and the effect is choppy where slick thrills are really called for. Place this all in front of an excruciatingly dated backdrop and sprinkle it with awkward, overt references to the inevitable rise of the machines and you get…an entertaining and oddly moving testament to the raw emotional power of total nuclear destruction. I'm not sure entirely how this happened, but somewhere within the escalating tension the clumsiness made way and the immediacy of the problem subtly infused itself into my consciousness. A visit to the cockpits of the bombing squadron tasked with destroying Moscow (of course it's the largest of Russian cities) and to those of the fighters sent to bring them down helps, and there is a quiet desperation throughout the writing, lurking beneath the surface, a result of the same bravado and assuredness that makes the prologue seem so silly in retrospect. At some point, it becomes obvious that Burdick and Wheeler wrote what they considered to be an inalterable consequence of politics, and despite its punch it never becomes a desperate plea for peace. Instead, Fail-Safe is quietly resigned to its conclusion, foreseeable yet completely devastating, a warning that doesn't quite cast a shadow of lasting relevance but which throws the Cold War crisis into sharp, and somewhat terrifying, relief, even fifty years later.

Grade: A-

2011 Year in Review

2011-12-31T11:57:00.001-05:00

2011 Year in Review

This year, I tried to direct some of my reading via a series of book challenges, and they yielded some surprising results. First things first, I always attempt to read 52 books, roughly one per week, and this year required, as you may have seen, some scrambling within the past week, and though it was difficult and a tad stressful, I enjoyed always having reading to fall back on as a downtime hobby. So my first challenge, the one that started this whole blog enterprise, did not fall short in its sixth(!) year, something for which I'm grateful. Moving along, I joined a LiveJournal community dedicated to reading the 1,001 Books You Must Read Before You Die, though my overall efforts at the list have taken a severe dip this year, as I read fewer than ten from that list. Yet I'm coming to realize that the list really is more of a guide than anything and, as I discovered by logging my progress through 10 books that have won 10 different awards, sometimes these things fall into your lap. One list I should, however, pay more attention to is certainly my general reading list, which seems to expand without ever losing any entries. I need to start just going for books that I hear about, rather than shuffling them into the list; I'm also working on describing those books better so I can find something I'm in the mood for more regularly. In terms of the books I read in 2011, graphic works proved a very pleasant surprise, and I hope to continue sprinkling some in here and there; the range of the medium is truly huge, and while I haven't read enough of them to really be qualified to assess their quality, I'm starting to get a better idea of what I do and don't like, so cheers for that. Elsewhere, I again managed a balance of fiction to nonfiction, and read both within and outside of genres, and I hope to maintain such a range in the foreseeable future. 2011 ended in a bit of a frenzy, but at the end, I had a lot of fun and, really, that's what it's all about. See you in 2012!

Book 52: Great Escapes of World War II

2011-12-31T11:37:00.000-05:00

Great Escapes of World War II
George Sullivan

I've owned this book since my elementary school really-into-World-War-II phase, and both then and now I find it an inspiring, well-written, and age-appropriate account of seven daring prisoner-of-war escapes on both sides of the battlefield. Though the accounts of German and Japanese escapes are told with a slight slant toward the Allied point of view, that they are included is admirable, and together the collection of stories illuminates several different means of escape, as well as paying tribute to soldiers of several nationalities. Each account is crisply written and easy to understand, with Sullivan providing appropriate background information on the war and, when appropriate, the prisons, without glossing over crucial facts. The soldiers are profiled based on their own words, and though the dialogue is almost certainly fictitious, it helps break up the mostly-prose accounts, each of which includes follow-up information on the success of each attempt. From the horrors of the Bataan peninsula to the famous Great Escape from Stalag Luft III deep in Germany, Sullivan covers tunnels, impersonations, and one very daring, but deadly, mass breakout, all with a muted, but evident compassion. Throughout the stories, the book weaves a greater narrative about the impulse to escape, hinting at deeper psychological motives but never straying from its core audience of late-elementary school readers. Often dripping with suspense and with the palpable threat of discovery or, later, re-capture, the stories in Great Escapes of World War II are excellently molded to enlighten and entertain kids interested in this facet of the war.

Grade: A

Book 51: Eats, Shoots & Leaves

2011-12-31T09:10:00.000-05:00

Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation
Lynne Truss

Lynne Truss, though perhaps a bit pedantic, is blessed with a British sense of humor, and though Eats, Shoots & Leaves is clearly for the nitpickers among us, the author's habit of scattering sarcastic, witty remarks among her many, many complaints salvages the book, which rises above the level of mere complaint and becomes a testament of sorts to the history and importance of punctuation. It is a dry subject, to be sure, and sometimes Truss's (note the discretionary 's) humor goes just a tad too far- particularly for a treatise on punctuation- but she is able to keep the prose entertaining throughout; this remarkable achievement is assisted in no small part by her abundance of entertaining, and occasionally self-referential, illustrative examples. Part of the fun of grammatical errors is, of course, their propensity to entirely alter the actual effect of an otherwise well-meaning sentence, and this book is replete with such occasions, though the silly sadly outweigh the serious and present a missed opportunity of sorts, as the litany of complaints that buoy the work sometimes make the whole enterprise seem a bit trivial.

Ironically, Truss's willingness to bend on some grammatical principles- and her corresponding acknowledgment that all is likely to come crashing down at some point in the reasonably foreseen future- does tend to hamper her argument that all of this is fundamentally important, disastrous examples and all. Likewise, she does allow some prescriptive nonsense to seep into her prose, and though her acknowledgment of the differences between British and American usages is refreshing and her outright mockery of esteemed Messrs. Strunk and White entirely admirable to this particular hater (O! Sing of the gloriously ironic naming of the Strunkenwhite virus!), she does occasionally slip into the prescriptive mode. And while she is fully aware of the mutability and, indeed, adaptability of punctuation, her exploration of differing stylistic decisions is disappointing; though this certainly isn't meant to question the utility, purpose, or effect of, say, varying use of the commas, her treatment is almost entirely superficial, and she dismisses these phenomena as merely idiosyncratic or, worse, artifacts of historical paradigm shifts, rather than as perfectly legitimate ways in which to alter the style of a work. Nonetheless, and despite its minor annoyances, the book is a quick and fun read, utilizing history, grammar, and humor to make a rather elaborate, but also fairly welcome, point. Eats, Shoots & Leaves occasionally stumbles over its sense of self-importance, but remains more fun than didactic, and is a welcome read for those who fret over the seemingly deteriorating status of modern punctuation; for the absurdly specific, it certainly entertains throughout.

Grade: A-

Book 50: And Then Things Fall Apart

2011-12-30T10:25:00.001-05:00

And Then Things Fall Apart
Arlaina Tibensky

Now, I'm not- and never have been, really- the target audience for this kind of book, built on a teenage girl's angst upon finding her world falling apart absolutely at the seams, but while I respect the good writing and some of its specific insights, it mostly failed to make an impression upon me. Heroine Karina ("Keek") is a refreshingly honest, deep, and highly literate teenage narrator, but her annoyed tone very precariously straddles the line between justifiably upset and obnoxiously self-centered, and Tibensky seems unable to lift the narrative much beyond an uninteresting retelling of the frustrating events which, in turn, mar Keek's summer. There are touching moments, to be sure, such as a surprisingly revealing conversation between the teen and her grandmother, who herself knows disappointment and depression, but these seem to be fewer and further between than they should be in a novel devoted to psychological (re-?)discovery. And while the author's efforts at exploring the psychology of a fifteen-year-old are certainly to be commended, the story, such as it exists, unfolds at a positively glacial pace, and while the lack of chronology doesn't hurt the story, the order in which events are explored doesn't particularly seem to assist in Keek's character development, and the book feels less like an exploration than a litany of complaints, a meandering not-quite-rant that doesn't develop so much as stagnate. Clearly there is something more to the book, yet it remains inaccessible as readers trudge through surface-level comparisons between Keek's situation and her favorite book, The Bell Jar. The use of Plath's novel is odd, and while I don't begrudge the idea of an advanced teenager reading the book, I hardly think it's a popular pick for Tibensky's target audience, and something about the choice seems cloying and rings false. Though blessed with a strong-voiced narrator who is often insightful, as well as decent writing, And Then Things Fall Apart lacks narrative and character-building momentum, and just falls a bit short.

Grade: B-

Book 49: Around the World in Eighty Days

2011-12-29T12:45:00.001-05:00

Around the World in Eighty Days

Though Verne is perhaps best known for his science fiction, the sense of adventure so pivotal throughout his books is equally alive in the far more realistic, nearly madcap Around the World in Eighty Days. The story, dated though it is in the days when eighty days can take you from the Earth to the Moon nearly four times, is a fun adventure story that works in a fair amount of suspense and a funny, scientifically-based, and only occasionally telegraphed twist ending. The reader follows enigmatic, unflappable Englishman Phileas Fogg as he attempts to cash in on a bet that he can travel the world's circumference in the titular time, utilizing various means of transportation and dodging the efforts of slightly bumbling detective Fix, convinced there is a darker motive behind Fogg's otherwise highly eccentric excursion. As can be expected from a European writer in the late 1800s, the book is full of patronizing racism, often less offensive, however, than informative on the contemporary viewpoint. It is hardly surprising, for example, that the Indian beauty the group encounters along the way is incredibly fair-skinned, and it seems odd that Verne wouldn't bother to give a pivotal "Parsee" character a proper name, but these slips, occurring as they do in such an obviously dated work, hardly seem out of place and while properly horrifying to modern readers do not overtly detract from the book's own universe. Indeed, Verne was hardly a friend to the English, and inserts plenty of snide jibes at the British character, with the main hero being, of course, Fogg's intrepid, and conveniently multi-talented, French manservant. The story is, at its heart, simply fun, told in a matter-of-fact prose that mirrors Phileas Fogg's own reserved manner, playing it straight throughout some absurd, though never madcap, circumstances. Despite its modern political incorrectness, Around the World in Eighty Days is a fun work of suspense, poised between detective novel and adventure story and retaining a subtle 19th century charm.

Grade: A

Book 48: It Was the War of the Trenches

2011-12-29T11:52:00.000-05:00

It Was the War of the Trenches
Jacques Tardi

The First World War may be largely forgotten in the United States, but it still looms large over the French mind, or at least the mind of graphic novelist Jacques Tardi, whose brutal, stark It Was the War of the Trenches explores the plight of those suffering in the madness of the French trenches throughout the war. The nonlinear narrative is effectively composed of several brief stories, several only a few panels long and many occasionally interconnected through layers of association. Tardi mixes narrative voice and style both in the text and in his visual language, with wordy panels often accompanied by a run of silent, evocative panels, and though he jumps around in time, location, and theme, any incoherence seems born of the utter confusion and nihilism the war itself brought to western Europe and to the world. Each of the stories is personal, haunting, and ultimately effective, often told through reminiscences, though many are tragically broken by an omniscient voice offering details of the previous narrator's death. The tales are stark and often intoned in a dry manner, as devoid of emotion as the faces who offer them. These faces, poised between cartoons and more complex portraits, stare blankly ahead, offering a muted despair and haunting air of nonchalance to the reader, as a grayscale palette effectively sets the tone for a bleak, depressing conflict. The author intrudes occasionally with overtly political comments, but even these could plausibly come directly from his soldiers themselves, forced to fight in a war they never even believed in and facing execution for a display of the far-too-sane survival instinct. Both authors and characters are appalled at the circumstances of the war, yet trapped in a mess of illogical and inhumane decisions, the tragedy of war invading every line of every panel.

Tardi's drawings are crisp, but often portray a kind of confusion, a jumble of shell holes and barbed wire strewn across a desolate landscape, often punctured by impressionistic scenes of newly exploded, flying dirt, motion often appearing in brief bursts, perhaps in only one of the three large horizontal panels that dominate the book's pages. Yet the photographic quality of the work, sparse though it is, somehow heightens the emotion of the moment, allowing the story to feel as stagnant as the western front became. Transitions are scarce but never missed, as Tardi glides from one experience to another, the soldiers given names and acting in very specific scenes yet still retaining an everyman quality, representing the millions of tragedies of the war without overwrought moralizing or dehumanizing generalities. These are very human, very sincere stories, all the more tragic when played against a relentlessly gray landscape and with the futile desire to escape what readers know to be almost certain death, often delivered heavily in a single, brutal panel. Tardi knows how to render the bleak scenes of war, utilizing just enough gruesome details to be effective while focusing most of his imagery on the people and on the front; the book is never graphic for its own sake, and instead uses those panels sparingly, accenting the illustration of war as hell rather than composing it alone. It Was the War of the Trenches is a complete package, not quite a collection of short stories but also not a history of the war; instead, it is a brilliantly composed meditation on the horror of the First World War, at once intensely emotional and brutally cold and removed.

Grade: A

Book 47: Steel and Other Stories

2011-12-28T16:12:00.001-05:00

Steel and Other Stories
Richard Matheson

I often find short story collections fairly hit-and-miss, with a few gems, a few clunkers, and a bunch of stories that fall contentedly among the middle. This collection, however, seems to fall almost entirely within the realm of mediocrity, with nothing glaringly terrible but only a few hints of magic. The story selection seems a bit uneven and, at times, downright odd; while the collection displays Matheson's remarkable range with convincing attempts at science fiction, fantasy, and westerns, each morsel appears suddenly, and the effect can be a bit jarring when any two offerings are read in sequence without a break. Again, however, the failure is only partial, and the collection's last story, "Window of Time," while a bit awkward in itself, provides a fitting ending, tackling the emotional state of a man traveling through a window of time to his younger self. This kind of introspection pops up occasionally throughout the collection, most notably perhaps in "Steel" and rather frustratingly in "Dear Diary," which has an interesting core concept but which plays it as a joke rather than exploring its potential as a penetrating glance at contentment and desire. The twin themes are similarly dealt with at only a surface level in most other stories, with the exception being "Descent," an absolutely brilliant story that blows the remainder completely out of the water, excelling in ways that the other serious tales do not and achieving a complex emotional effect while taking a slightly different tack than the reader might expect. Here the simple language displays despite its simple fashion a complex longing, and a simple portrait expands to consider some elements of what makes humanity tick- all without desperate moralizing or the distinct thuds of the Obvious Hammer. The story, though brief, is achingly complete despite the plot's seeming irresolution, offering but requiring only few specific details, appropriately chosen and well-deployed.

Much of the collection, however, appears to consist of elaborate jokes- amusing, sure, but somehow pedestrian and often failing to achieve any kind of depth or greater meaning. While Matheson mercifully avoids the overt moralizing that would seem appropriate in a story such as "To Fit the Crime," it feels nonetheless a bit empty and fleeting, though cute. "The Wedding" and "The Splendid Source" suffer from the same ailments, with the former offering a tantalizing hint of meaning or even deeper humor, but sadly failing to capitalize on its own potential; the latter plays as a farce, but the satire misses the mark and the story just kind of exists, memorable and with some chuckle-inducing puns but sadly without actual substance. The most infuriating of these half-realized visions is "The Conqueror," an otherwise convincing western that seemingly aims to tackle the role of carpetbaggers in the Wild West, but which falls flat as an otherwise intriguing and well-written story abruptly ends in an entirely expected manner, rather than attempting a character study or even a particularly thrilling climax. The disappointment is almost palpable, particularly when other stories such as "The Doll That Does Everything" and "Lemmings" can come so close to actually exploring a theme, only to wade off into the expected and retain a surface-only level of interest. Aside from "The Descent," the only one that comes close is "A Visit to Santa Claus," which is well-constructed, offers unexpected plot twists, and maintains an effective air of clouded suspense until the expected, yet strangely effective, ending. Likewise, "Dr. Morton's Folly" demonstrates that even the sillier stories, meant to be digested quickly and only on a most basic level, can be filling without being base, a mark most often missed here. Much in a similar way, the majority of Matheson's stories entertain but fail to enthrall, the science fiction satisfying but rarely revealing, and Steel and Other Stories usually close to, but not quite hitting, the mark.

Grade: B

Book 46: Nothing to Envy

2011-12-26T16:35:00.001-05:00

Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea
Barbara Demick

Oral histories are, of course, always to be somewhat suspect, but in a country as paranoid and aggressively secretive as North Korea, they may be the only way to even come close to a realistic depiction of the country. The results, as presented in journalist Barbara Demick's Nothing to Envy, are indeed grim as expected and, in some ways, far worse. It is easy for Americans to presume that the country is full of automatons who praise the Dear Leader(s) with every ounce of sincerity, but these stark accounts will force readers to re-assess their own preconceived notions of life in the oppressive dictatorship. Though these stories, which originate from defectors, naturally represent the viewpoints of those who grew disillusioned with the regime, Demick approaches her task with an eye toward journalistic credibility, and for the most part avoids sensationalism. The account, based on the experiences of six defectors now living in South Korea, does rely heavily on an elementary human interest angle, but it is hard to find true fault in this technique when the story concentrates on a famine that ravished its characters' families and the homeland they show a lingering affection for. More importantly, Demick's eye for tenderness, though occasionally deployed with an unnecessarily heavy hand, forces readers to put themselves into her subjects' positions, to peer into their lives and to realize that, even for a society relentlessly pounded with brainwashing propaganda and other stuff of Orwellian nightmares, there are simple human emotions like hunger, skepticism, and love. It is no accident that the main story here revolves around two lovers pursuing a romance made impossible by the strictures of society but enabled by the persistent blackouts simultaneously grinding the economy to a halt and allowing the lovers to maintain the requisite level of secrecy and concealment.

Just like the line that explores this arrangement- and fiercely challenges Americans' convenient ability to dehumanize the residents of the country- there are points in the story where the raw emotion overpowers the often pedestrian prose and unnecessarily tangled narrative arcs. Though their stories through time more or less collectively, jumps between them are frequently jarring, offered with no transitions, leaving readers suddenly immersed in only vaguely familiar waters, reacquainted only after some vital points of the story have been missed. Likewise, some of Demick's prose reads in a stunted, simple-sentence, simple-sentence cadence that quickly becomes tiresome, though there are moments of deft insight that break through the tedium. For all its simplicity, the prose does allow the story to shine through nearly unimpeded, and what a story it is, told with compassion and bolstered by incidental information and history that, while sometimes awkwardly located, helps flesh out North Korea from both bird's eye and street-level views. Nothing to Envy is a moving and detailed account of life in a seemingly impenetrable land, hampered occasionally by slight authorial missteps but retaining an insightful humanity throughout.

Grade: A-

Book 45: The Amber Spyglass

2011-12-17T19:16:00.001-05:00

The Amber Spyglass
Philip Pullman

Alas, the momentum begun within The Golden Compass and The Subtle Knife, interrupted as it is by sometimes botched love stories and wanderings, comes to a halt in the beginning of the final His Dark Materials book, The Amber Spyglass, which seems to suffer from a kind of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows syndrome, wherein the characters wander around in the woods awaiting the plot to advance. Though the second installment, like the first, ended with a cliffhanger, Pullman is again unable to adequately recover the thread of the plot, and flails around with his main characters either encountering convenient plot device characters who can conveniently fill in the missing pieces of the books' philosophical core or sleeping endlessly in a cave. And while, yes, Lyra oscillates between annoying and charmingly brave, to have her doing nothing is a bit maddening, particularly when the other stories of import move at similarly glacial paces. This is a shame, because the story is well-plotted, if a bit transparently anti-religious even for the most fervent of atheists, and does have philosophical depth, making some interesting points if blatantly so and unabashedly attacking the role religion plays in human affairs. Pullman is clearly full of interesting ideas, but seems to be somewhat lacking in his prose creation, or consistency, or even in bringing these elements together. Regardless, The Amber Spyglass satisfies overall on a page-turning basis, even if it takes a while to really get going, and though pivotal battle scenes are related in jumbled confusion, the adventure will keep readers hooked through the end, even if the character development is, again, sorely lacking. An unsatisfying, unconvincing conclusion mars an immediately preceding moment of heartfelt honesty that shines through and forgives much of Pullman's authorial missteps, but The Amber Spyglass is a perfectly adequate final volume in a highly entertaining, surprisingly addictive, and competently, if not wonderfully, written series.

Grade: B+

Book 44: The Subtle Knife

2011-12-10T10:59:00.000-05:00

The Subtle Knife
Philip Pullman

Though The Golden Compass, the inaugural offering in Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, ended with a cliffhanger (nearly literally), The Subtle Knife picks up the strains of the story in a different world altogether, embodying the central literary conflict within this book. Though all is explained as Pullman's heretofore fantasy story becomes a work of science fiction, the switch is handled a bit clumsily and the book seems to grope a bit in the dark before finally finding its footing, though it is simultaneously evident throughout that Pullman does have a plan. The story itself, though a bit of a departure from the first novel and occasionally seeming jumbled, plays out predictably enough, offering more surprises in its specific locations, fantastic elements, and philosophy, if not its characters, who are unconvincingly pulled through a familiar hate-to-love arc. Despite the frequent clunkiness of Lyra and newcomer Will's relationship, however, Pullman does achieve a few moments of subtle clarity, particularly when the pair come to realize the similarities between their experiences; the effect is surprisingly powerful in a series otherwise plagued with the Obvious Hammer in all of its facets. Though the Hammer makes its frequent cameos, however, some elements of the story are unexpected, such as a modern science angle that oscillates between being cute and insightful, and Pullman's imagination more than makes up for his lack of serious literary talent. The book, like its predecessor, certainly has many flaws, but it is nonetheless endlessly fascinating and will captivate all but the pickiest of readers. The characters, narrative, and scenery rise above the sufficient prose and predictable plotting, and when the book does connect to the overall narrative of the His Dark Materials series, it provides a nice centerpiece, neatly setting up several elements of the third book while explaining and expanding upon confusing pieces of the first. The Subtle Knife is far from a great book, but it is a wonderful, fast-paced read.

Grade: B+

Book 43: The Golden Compass

2011-12-07T16:33:00.000-05:00

The Golden Compass
Philip Pullman

This book presents a conundrum for me, and not just whether it should properly be termed science fiction or fantasy; rather, it was one of those books whose writing left a bit to be desired, yet became immediately engrossing that it proved nearly impossible to put down. Though Pullman throws readers unapologetically and at once into his fantasy world, its revelations are seldom overwhelmingly disarming. Instead, he throws a world-explaining mystery into the heart of the plot, and while his revelations could be more slick and better-timed, they are fascinating nonetheless and draw readers into a plot that otherwise seems like a normal coming-of-age-discovery-type-deal. And while he is, again, far from subtle in his clearly anti-Church approach to knowledge and humanity, he at least presents a compelling case, though fans of autocratic strangleholds on free speech and thought may not appreciate his thinly veiled disdain. Alongside this backdrop of a familiar, yet clearly distinct world, Pullman keeps the plot reasonably unchallenging yet oddly compelling, complete with a few too many acts of deus-ex-machina that are almost justified by some aspects of the Big Reveal. He also manages to work in some nice references to the real world's more accepted fantastic creatures, such as witches, and adds in other sly nods to our shared reality. Despite his penchant for over-writing and conveniently explaining huge plot points with a wink and a carefully-overheard, improbably detailed speech (and this from an occasionally omniscient narrator, to boot), he can also be quite effective and, at times, downright disturbing. Though the complete implications of the book's dæmons aren't quite set at this point in the trilogy, the idea of rendering them from their humans is horrifying, conveyed with an unlikely subtlety. The Golden Compass, then, isn't terribly well-written but, despite awkward plot revelations, sometimes over-wrought prose, and a mostly unlikable main character, it does have an intriguing, if frequently transparent, ideology behind it and makes for compelling and adventuresome reading.

Grade: B+

Book 42: Atlantic

2011-11-27T22:16:00.000-05:00

Atlantic: Great Sea Battles, Heroic Discoveries, Titanic Storms, and a Vast Ocean of a Million Stories
Simon Winchester

I picked this up both based on the author's reputation and on my own belief that it would be a nice, well-written history of the remarkable Atlantic Ocean from a number of different perspectives and, to some extent, that's what Simon Winchester delivers in Atlantic. To another, however, he talks about this bit without actually defining what it is about the Atlantic Ocean that makes it, well, the Atlantic and not the Pacific or Indian or either of the polar seas; his text is littered throughout with references to a kind of Atlantic-ness, but never once does he address this contention, and the book suffers, condemned to flail rather than cohere. Without the appearance of this much-needed overarching theme, the chapters, arranged in a somewhat bizarre homage to Shakespeare's "All the world's a stage" speech (no, really) make little sense in relation to each other and even less within themselves. The idea of casting the waters as a being with several stages of life is less clever than cutesy, and while grouping developments such as exploration, war, and environmentalism into their own chapters makes sense, the cuts Winchester makes between them are divisive, and the individual parts are never allowed to coalesce into a single, intricate picture. He misses the ocean for the individual molecules of di-hydrogen monoxide. Even these, however, frequently become misplaced, and the book is littered with irrelevant anecdotes and irredeemably uninteresting, disruptive, and downright pointless footnotes that often have nothing at all to do with the subject at hand.

A lack of greater strategic planning is evident on a paragraph-by-paragraph level, as well, as the author seems to introduce an idea only to discard it entirely after the next indent, without so much as a line break or, heaven forbid, three dividing asterisks. All of this makes the book slightly maddening before its information is even digested, and repetition, likely borne of the deceptively haphazard organizational scheme, makes the book even more cumbersome. With all of this said, however, the book isn't all bad; it certainly contains quite a lot of interesting, if not entirely riveting, information, and Winchester does touch on several different aspects of life in, around, and on this mighty ocean. For all its faults, the book has a sense of grandiose perspective, and when the author turns his attentions to geology or the effects of modern industrialism, this sense of magnitude helps him create a persuasive argument for respect; it is also quite evident that this is, fundamentally, a love story between man and water.

Unfortunately, however, these pure instincts are also corrupted throughout the text, which is woefully anglocentric. While it seems a reasonable bet that the reason the Atlantic so captivates our intrepid author and, indeed, his intended audience, is the fact that European and North American countries (currently) exert such international prowess, there seems little excuse to ignore Africa when it isn't, you know, spawning civilization or, more criminally, the Spanish- and Portuguese-speaking Americas when Great Britain isn't fighting to retain that shadow of its former empire cast in the Falkland Islands. Even worse, he makes assertions that are patently untrue and which offended even my far-from-delicate sensibilities; at one point, Winchester seriously suggests- no, asserts- that the Atlantic was the first of the world's oceans to be crossed. This is mind-numbingly stupid at its very best, as the Pacific Islands were discovered, explored, and settled long before Columbus. And it is not only this galling lapse that betrays a myopic devotion to the Atlantic that hampers Winchester's ode and actually works to diminish the Atlantic as readers frantically search to undermine the author's interminable single-mindedness. Here, then, is a case of tragically wasted potential, a book that I wanted to be engrossed by but which only served to frustrate and actively foil my attempts to like or engage with it. There is good information here, to be sure; there are excellent stories, and despite Winchester's mishandling, the idea of telling the story of the Atlantic as a, or perhaps even the, formative ocean of the modern world remains compelling. It's just a shame that Atlantic can't quite do the subject justice.

Grade: C+

Book 41: Wishful Drinking

2011-11-11T09:48:00.000-05:00

Wishful Drinking
Carrie Fisher

After spending a month on the battlefields of the Civil War and enjoying a rip-roaring ride through the fanciful catacombs of Bookholm, I figured it was time for something of a different, er, caliber: the celebrity memoir! And after finishing the Star Wars star's look at her own inner turmoil, I find myself in two minds; but first, a word of warning. If you've seen the stage show, there isn't much that's new in the book, and unfortunately the oral nature of the original work comes through clearly; so clearly, in fact, that many of the jokes fall flat because the comedic timing peculiar to live performance loses its pace in print. Within the book, this has the effect of making the jokes come by at such a rapid pace that they are often difficult to properly digest before another bombardment begins. It's a shame, too, because the material is often very, very funny, as Fisher pokes fun at her star-crossed, substance-fueled life with remarkable honesty, though she does tend to lose the plot occasionally and the last few chapters are a confusing jumble of anecdotes rather than a deliberate narrative. Regardless, however, the book is a lot of fun; there may not be anything earth-shattering within, but for a tell-all celebrity memoir the book is a light and fun read, a refreshing change of pace from more calculated moves. After all, as Fisher says, if life wasn't funny, it would just be true. Wishful Drinking is, despite some missteps, funny, and basically accomplishes what it sets out to do without any particular exceptionality.

Grade: B+

Book 40: The City of Dreaming Books

2011-11-08T21:50:00.001-05:00

The City of Dreaming Books
Walter Moers

There are books, the rare few, that so sharply and irrevocably shape our worldview that we can rightly say we were not the same person at page 1 that emerged, forever changed, on the other side of the back cover. The City of Dreaming Books is not that book; nor, dear readers, do I think it aspires to be. This is a book that is unapologetically and relentlessly fun, a true joy to read that only rarely becomes entangled in its own cleverness, a book that can take willing readers along for a hilarious and thrilling ride while offering just a bit of depth behind its otherwise trivial pursuits. The plot itself, along with the fantastic setting and the characters that populate it, is filled beyond the brim with fantasy clichés and tropes that transcend genre, and sometimes it can be difficult to see the distinction between Moers playing with these ideas and relying too heavily on them. The delightfully named Optimus Yarnspinner, a budding author and narrator of this tale, receives some lovely advice from his authorial godfather (on his deathbed, naturally) about the lovely cliffhanger created by a mentor imparting advice while on his deathbed, only to have that same situation arise, overtly commented upon by Yarnspinner himself, at a pivotal point in the novel. The whole thing is certainly well executed, and the joke enjoys a long, effective setup, but readers still leave with a clichéd deathbed hangover, however metafictional it has become in the author’s hands. Self-awareness, then, becomes the book’s greatest strength but also ultimately represents its most glaring weakness; it’s smart, but it may be too smart, too cheeky, to really be effective. The book’s many anagrams are, for example, occasionally executed with a stroke of sheer brilliance (see Perla la Gadeon’s hilarious pastiche of “The Bells” or Gramerta Climelth’s Gone with the Tornado), but lengthy lists of cleverly-named authors very perilously tread the line between amusing and indulgent.

This tendency toward the overwrought does not, strangely, prevent the book from being fun. Though some plot threads get inexplicably dropped at various points within the story, the novel just barely manages to hang together, and though the ride is predictable its fundamental silliness allows willing readers to sit back and, much like Yarnspinner, be carried along for the ride. There may be a suspension of serious literary criticism that must accompany the traditional suspension of disbelief, but readers willing to provide Moers the benefit of the doubt will be richly rewarded. Some of the recycled ideas in the book also shine with a ripe freshness, as his Fearsome Booklings become much more than a borrowed extension of Bradbury’s famous ending to Fahrenheit 451- along with memorizing the works of famous authors, they absorb the relevant personality traits, subtly asking deep questions about literature disguised as unimpeachably lovely little characters. This, too, is an overriding theme throughout the book, a tension between seriousness and play, between a loving satire of the literary world and serious critique of humanity’s relationship with art. The idea of long-buried tomes dreaming of their resurrection is coupled with the terrifying feats of the often-illiterate Bookhunters, bounty hunters for a city absolutely obsessed with literature.

These ideas, and more, prove that there are some deep philosophical underpinnings to the work, but the extent to which they are explored can easily be debated, as they are often buried under a mess of overly-polished humor or lost amongst a tangled web of side-plots. Then too there is the plot’s utter predictability, which can become as wearing as it is playful (a character endowed with divination showing up at precisely the right moment is either a hilarious subversion of the deus ex machina or an unoriginal re-hashing of it), and the swashbuckling plot becomes inexplicably boring even in the midst of rapid-fire action. It’s hard to gauge what this book may be going for either at any given moment or as a whole, but overall the experience is a good one, buoyed by a plethora of appropriate cartoons and a stunning use of immersive illustration. It is not a book for all readers or for all moods, but it does offer a rip-roaring getaway plan from the humdrum- clichés and all, it is anything but boring. The City of Dreaming Books may not permanently change your life, but it will likely improve the time you spend reading it.

Grade: A

Book 39: The Last Full Measure

2011-11-02T19:24:00.002-04:00

The Last Full Measure
Jeff Shaara

From Gettysburg to Appomattox (and a slight ways beyond), thus concludes the Shaaras' Civil War trilogy, and the younger of the pair has penned a fitting conclusion, though overshadowed by its predecessor. Because, by now, the general idea of the series is familiar, and because the book follows successfully enough the example of its predecessors, there is little to add. This particular installment of the series displays many of the problems evinced in its opener; that is, the timeline is unevenly spaced and occasionally poorly marked, with the additional frustration of misplaced maps appearing far before, or slightly after, their optimal position with regard to the text. This can make everything a bit confusing for non-Civil War aficionados, but the in-depth portraiture continues throughout the novel, and Shaara truly excels when channeling the emotions of Robert E. Lee as his army inevitably embarks on a disastrous final cat-and-mouse chase across central Virginia. This is some of the most effective, riveting, and moving characterization in a series who takes personalization as its, well, point, and because of this the novel is one of the most effective looks at the final excruciating days of an excruciating conflict. That said, however, there are some grammatical quirks that mar Shaara's emotional achievements. His over-use of ellipses is only rarely effective and more often simply becomes…stunting, as does the unfortunate application of "gotcha" gimmicks (on the day of his death, Lincoln makes a point of telling Grant he's going to the theater- cute, but poorly executed). The deliberation this evokes is even more striking in contrast to the author's near-religious avoidance of the use of "and" when describing several actions undertaken by a person. The effect can cause the action to become unnecessarily jumbled and, at its worst, makes the writer seem inexperienced and can dull the reader's ability to clearly picture what is taking place. This, then, is the embodiment of the crucial contradiction within the series: while it so clearly portrays character and emotion, it still must rely on action, and Jeff Shaara's contributions miss some crucial pacing both within the technical aspects of the prose and across the larger movements of the army. Regardless, however, the Shaaras' Civil War series is a remarkable achievement, and in both its strengths and its flaws, The Last Full Measure creates a fitting conclusion and solidifies the books as an important tribute to those who witnessed the horrors of the nation's worst days.

Grade: A-

Book 38: The Killer Angels

2011-10-23T22:51:00.001-04:00

The Killer Angels
Michael Shaara

This book is the second installment of the Shaaras' Civil War trilogy but, though it covers the pivotal events at Gettysburg in July 1863, it was actually the first to be written. And, though Shaara's son Jeff pulls the trick off admirably in his own work, The Killer Angels does an impeccable job of getting to the hearts- and souls- of leaders both in blue and in gray. Even readers with little previous knowledge of the battle itself or even of military strategy can jump directly into the heart of the action, and despite the meticulous research that makes the book so plausibly realistic, it is immediately accessible. Accented with the occasional map, the narrative clearly traces both larger strategies, primarily through the eyes of Robert E. Lee, and the terrors of direct combat. Indeed, though it is truly moving to sense Lee's achingly portrayed heartbreak, the most emotionally riveting scenes belong to corporal Joshua Chamberlain on the Union's extreme left flank, who experienced the horrors of war firsthand. Shaara has taken events that are seared in to the popular American memory and has thoroughly reinvigorated them, and while the book is certainly a novel and contains some speculation, it presents a readable history that reminds us that history is not the work of predestined events but, rather, reflects the outcomes of an impossibly tangled web of human actions. The prose reads nearly flawlessly, completely subservient to its narrative, a technique particularly apt for this story, the scene is set with crystal clarity, and the characterization is believable, consistent, and sympathetic. Beautiful and moving, The Killer Angels is a powerful testament to the humanity of history.

Grade: A

Book 37: Gods and Generals

2011-10-18T21:02:00.003-04:00

Gods and Generals
Jeff Shaara

This is the book that made Jeff Shaara famous, a chronologically-minded prequel to his father's famous intricate look at the Battle of Gettysburg, and though it has some missteps, it is easy to see why the Shaaras are many historians' dirty little fiction secret. To start, however, this is not a book for those uninitiated to the events of the Civil War; indeed, for readers new to the conflict, a primer is almost certainly necessary to make any sense out of the jumbled events at hand; this confusion, however, is also one of Shaara's greatest strengths, as Gods and Generals provides a personal, close view of pivotal figures in the Virginia campaigns leading up to Gettysburg. That the action can sometimes become a bit frantic reflects not a fault of the author, but rather his ability to bring the fight down to the individual level, focusing on the commanders at the thick of the action, placing words in their mouths and thoughts in their heads until they become as real as any fully-fictional character. The approach may seem a bit disingenuous, as it sticks as closely to the facts as possible, but overall it makes the somewhat abstract concepts of old-timey warfare a bit more palatable for modern readers more used to, say, bombing raids than the antics of Jeb Stuart's cavalry. Shaara concocts an interesting mix of strategic scheming, hard-fought battle scenes, and introspection, and keeps the plot moving even as the armies aren't; strangely enough, some of the most interesting scenes in the novel take place away from the battlefield, while the author slowly probes the minds of American history's eminent figures.

While Shaara's talent and approach are no doubt commendable, the novel does suffer some hang-ups. It is often difficult to tell what, precisely, is happening at a given moment, and though this may accurately reflect some of the fog of war, readers can become confused and may benefit from a handy reference volume. Additionally, Shaara can occasionally become hampered by the actual flow of the real events he represents in his novel, and his cast of main characters feels uneven as he focuses on Lee and Jackson, the South's brightest lights, and resigns himself to less important Northern counterparts. It is not so much that the book biases itself toward the South, though Shaara's opinions about the highest echelons of Northern generalship are strongly and repeatedly stated, but rather that the preface sets up a more balanced vision of the conflict, one that is not matched by the contents therein. Perhaps the author's greatest accomplishment is to so deeply humanize each and every one of his characters that battles seem almost incidental to the grander narrative of the book; and, like the faults of the book's triumphant realism, this grand achievement also ultimately hampers the work by focusing exclusively on those in command. Even the great and terrifying battle scenes are relayed, with a few excellently executed exceptions, by those removed from command, and though readers are up close and personal with the war, they are safely shielded from battle, making the book seem unfocused and choppy. Shaara's depictions of Joshua Chamberlain's exploits at Fredericksburg showcase his undeniable talent for relaying the terror of battle, and his prowess at psychological profiling, but ultimately the book rings a bit hollow. Gods and Generals is satisfying and a very competent personalization of the Civil War, but it does not consistently reach beyond the grasp of cold fact that can, at times, dampen its effects.

Grade: B+

Book 36: Battle Cry of Freedom

2011-10-10T19:30:00.001-04:00

Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era
James McPherson

The task of writing a one-volume history of what is almost certainly the most talked about period in United States history can't be a particularly enviable task, and to do so without being rigidly polemic, insufferably academic, or unremittingly dense seems nearly impossible. James McPherson's Battle Cry of Freedom defies all of the odds and presents a readable, informative, and comprehensive tome that manages to remain interesting and accessible despite retaining an extremely high educational value. Perhaps the best and, sadly, most distinguishing feature of the book is McPherson's reluctance to use it as a self-aggrandizing platform or a sharpening block for any particular axe; though he obviously advocates slavery as the leading cause of the conflict and takes other critical liberties throughout the text, he does not allow a particular thesis to dominate his work. Moreover, the author is keenly aware of his purpose, and makes a special point of noting where numbers are estimates and, much more vitally, where scholarly opinion differs upon a particular point. This book is very much in conversation with the long and contentious, varied histories of the Civil War in its many aspects, and as a standalone, introductory volume this self-awareness raises it to heights of great achievement.

Nor is the text boring, or the prose labored; indeed, I had nearly given up hope on decently written intellectual books, but McPherson balances his intricate knowledge of the topic with a view of the larger picture. Though the narrative thread can become admittedly knotty at times, particularly in discussions of mid-century politics (yikes!), that is more an inevitable facet of the historical period than a fault of the author, and McPherson does an admirable job making a party system that continues to baffle bonafide historians almost understandable to the layman. Strictly military folks may be disappointed in the book's lengthy focus on the build-up to the war, as may those new to the complicated politics of the antebellum era; though it takes up a healthy portion of the book it still feels abbreviated, and McPherson would have done well to include more concrete explanations of, say, the provisions within the Compromise of 1850 rather than resting so heavily on tangled, incomprehensible implications. And while McPherson does a brilliant job adding chapters examining developments and effects on the respective home fronts during the actual war, these occasionally break up the narrative and the effect is not quite as seamless as one could hope. For what it is, however, this history is incredibly well-executed, a historical overview of a complex, overwhelmingly studied, and vital period of United States history, perhaps its most important test other than the initial push for independence. In Battle Cry of Freedom, James McPherson has created an ideal one-volume history for academic and more casual readers alike; though it necessarily has its flaws, the book deservedly takes its place as the go-to single volume history of the Civil War.

Grade: A

Book 35: Down and Derby

2011-09-23T18:37:00.001-04:00

Down and Derby: The Insider's Guide to Roller Derby
Jennifer Barbee and Alex Cohen

With leagues forming rapidly not only in large cities but also in smaller markets such as my two hometowns of Grand Rapids and Ann Arbor, Michigan, there is no question that roller derby is a cultural phenomenon. Down and Derby, written by two members of the Los Angeles Derby Dolls (whose alter egos are, respectively, "Kasey Bomber" and the delightful "Axles of Evil"), displays a do-it-yourself ethos and aesthetic that mirrors the twin driving forces of modern roller derby, and is an endlessly enthusiastic introduction to and, to a lesser extent, shill for, modern roller derby leagues. The authors take readers on a comprehensive and appreciated history of roller skating races and the various 20th century incarnations of roller derby before launching into a more thorough description of the current movement, which began in Austin in the early 2000s. This historical context is much appreciated and sets up a rich societal context in which to examine the current popularity of roller derby and its cultural importance, and while the authors do not seem to ignore these important aspects of the rising sport, often alluding to its more overtly feminist aspects, their focus shifts instead to a depiction of the modern rules and proceeds to become an evangelical narrative of sorts.

Though there is nothing inherently wrong with this approach, and indeed the book is set up as an introduction for interested parties rather than an at all scholarly narrative, the authors almost seem to gloss over the importance of the success of such a ferocious, paradigm-challenging, all-female enterprise. Instead, the authors merely express their gratitude to be part of it and encourage others to consider the sport. Despite the blatant ulterior motives however, which admittedly may alienate those who just want to know about the sport rather than to join up right away, the enthusiasm seems borne of true passion and dedication rather than more selfish motivations; indeed, the all-consuming power of this hobby is a frequent topic of discussion. Constant humor makes the book more tolerable for less injury-inclined readers is the constant humor, with the authors willing to take a few good-natured swings at themselves and at the movement, and the entire package seems like a bit of good-natured fun. Sprinkled throughout with interviews from various derby personas (including "Jackie Daniels," a founding member of the Grand Raggidy Roller Girls whom I have witnessed in a live bout!), the book is reasonably comprehensive as a how-to text, if not as a philosophical exploration, and ultimately that's okay as it comes from the most reliable of first-hand sources and thus will prove a valuable document as derby diverges from its formative years. An appendix provides a welcome list of movies and television episodes to feature roller derby, and altogether the book holds up rather nicely with no-nonsense, yet easily readable prose. Down and Derby is, as advertised, "an insider's guide to roller derby" meant primarily for those who might strap on some skates, and serves its target audience superbly despite failing to find much resonance for a more detached, wider readership.

Grade: A-

Book 34: Animal Farm

2011-09-21T20:08:00.000-04:00

Animal Farm
George Orwell

his book's status as an accepted classic of anti-totalitarian literature makes it difficult for me to presume I have anything novel or interesting to say about it, but I will add my voice to the chorus that believes Animal Farm to be an important, readable, and enjoyable fable. That the book directly takes on the post-revolutionary chaos of the "communist" USSR does not make it less powerful, and indeed may add to its efficacy; after all, it appears that Orwell's goal was not only to draw a portrait of early 20th century European socialism, but also to illuminate the ways in which any totalitarian government becomes laden with hypocrisy. By drawing upon a cast composed of animals rather than humans, Orwell is able to comment more generally upon trends rather than specific circumstances, and his mixture of historical example and Aesopian extrapolation serves his critique well. Also brilliant is Orwell's dry sarcasm, and though his tale is rather dogmatic and his political sensibilities rather obvious, the matter-of-fact narration adds a bit of cynical humor to what could have otherwise easily become distastefully polemic. It is clear throughout the book that Orwell put a good deal of thought into constructing his take on the shift from Leninism to Stalinism, complete with its own Trotsky, and the almost sarcastic telling prevents the story from going too far off the rails. Animal Farm, a surprisingly humorous and fittingly succinct, if not particularly subtle, critique of ideological revolutions fully deserves its fame, and remains relevant in the post-USSR era.

Grade: A

Book 33: The United States Constitution: A Graphic Adaptation

2011-09-18T22:14:00.001-04:00

The United States Constitution: A Graphic Adaptation
Jonathan Hennessey and Aaron McConnell

The United States Constitution certainly cannot be considered underrepresented in nonfiction literature. Upon reflection, then, it is perhaps not so surprising to discover that it has been adapted- or, more accurately, interpreted, in a graphic format. Regardless, I was stoked to discover the book, and did not hesitate before picking it up; shame, then, that for all its good intentions The United States Constitution: A Graphic Adaptation doesn't quite succeed in elucidating, or even illustrating, its source material. Writer Jonathan Hennessey certainly displays good instincts in attempting to provide historical context for the revolutionary document, but seems unable to understand the benefits of a consistent, coherent narrative throughout the book. The number of non-sequitur jumps both in the historical background (which not quite explicitly purports to deal with the Preamble) and between different clauses, articles, or amendments within the body of the Constitution is bafflingly high and makes comprehension at times impossible. Though I am by no means a serious constitutional scholar, I do have a background in the subject; at times even I had to read or re-read entire pages just to catch up or to attempt to understand a leap in logic despite my own familiarity with the source material. And while it's true that the Constitution is not at its heart a narrative document, that fact does not excuse its would-be adapters, who raise very large, complex topics in a single panel and, one panel later, move onto explaining the next article. This makes no sense, is disorienting, and actively discourages any actual understanding of, or interest in, the Constitution, making it more inaccessible than it may at first appear.

Though the script is admittedly thin and the subject matter naturally difficult to illustrate, the art in the book is not disastrous; neither, however, does Aaron McConnell create a particularly riveting graphic aspect to this graphic work. While I personally enjoy his rougher, almost harsh drawing and inking styles and his tendency toward monochrome images, there is a certain schizophrenia to the artwork within the book. McConnell's use of recurring motifs is hit and miss: the incomplete portrayal of African Americans is a clever and effective illustration of the implications of the Three-fifths Clause, but the portrayal of each branch of government as a (male) suited figure with a representative building for a head is a bit bizarre. Other illustrations bear an uncertain relationship to their accompanying text, or attempt to introduce artistic tropes in odd and ultimately disorienting ways. Moreover, page and panel design seems only half thought-out, and while the authors show some intent towards innovation, text boxes seem misplaced and reading direction is often unclear. One page, for example, shows two three-panel stories side by side, though there is no indication that they should be read as two columns rather than more traditionally left-right and up-down. The clutter of too many text boxes only adds to the discord, and illustrations with speech bubbles are more often redundant than illustrative.

The visual cacophony of the book, combined with over-zealous text that alternately provides too much and too little detail, makes it a far less effective teaching tool than it otherwise could be, and ultimately this adaptation of the Constitution tends to make matters unnecessarily complicated. The United States Constitution: A Graphic Adaptation is an encouraging attempt at making American governmental structure accessible to a new audience, but unfortunately cannot create that harmony between pictures and text that is necessary in creating an effective, enjoyable graphic narrative.

Grade: C

Book 32: The Dispossessed

2011-09-13T22:28:00.000-04:00

The Dispossessed: A Novel
Ursula K. Le Guin

While I am admittedly a sucker for utopian and dystopian literature for the unique, detached views it provides of modern society, it is often difficult to separate the author from what often becomes a polemic. Given the relative absence of plot in The Dispossessed, the nuances and balance inherent in Ursula K. Le Guin's novel are remarkable, and the book is a powerful force of literature that successfully taps into deep, fluid characterization both of individuals and of two disparate, disconnected societies to create a satisfying, if slightly aimless, story. Le Guin turns her anthropologically-oriented attentions to lush Urras, a blatant stand-in for the dual-superpower Earth of the 1970s, and its barren moon Anarres, home to a self-exiled colony of anarchists. The plot, such as it is, revolves around Shevek, an Anarresti physicist traveling to Urras, though the chronological interweaving of his unprecedented journey and the life that led him there clearly illustrates the importance and interconnectedness of past and future. In this book, as in Shevek's pseudo-physics (which seems to this Terran mind to be much more mythologically and philosophically oriented), time is like, well, a book, and the thematic unity between its seldom-disorienting structure, its content, and its primary themes is remarkable for any work of fiction, let alone one so firmly and unapologetically written in the oft-maligned genre of science fiction.

This novel is remarkable not for its simplistic plot and somewhat maudlin ending, but for the ideas it so seamlessly explores within. Le Guin extrapolates the future of an idealistically anarchic society, describing not only what it might look like but also examining those elements of power that might necessarily manifest themselves in such a community despite, and perhaps because of, the lofty ambitions of its people. The setting is clearly well thought out, as are the practical implications of anarchist philosophy as applied in an unforgiving and nearly uninhabitable environment. Yet more realistic than the setting of the novel is its people, who range from the dogmatic to the schemers to the outcasts, those who dare to think differently but who run into walls even in the most ostensibly free systems. Walls, both visible and invisible, are a recurring theme within the book, which deals with barriers to communication and, more importantly, to truth. Though the book's plot denouement is clunky, the ideas it explores are potent and relevant both to the worlds of Urras an Anarres and to our own. The allusion to U.S./Soviet conflict in Southeast Asia is a bit thin and can make the book appear dated, but Le Guin's concern with feminism, though clearly predicated on the concerns of her era, remains (sadly) relevant to contemporary readers, as does much of the social criticism. This novel is brilliantly composed, told in beautiful prose that, even at its most flowery, only serves to illuminate its beauty and the simplicity of its meaning; though Le Guin spins artful sentences, they are never indulgent, instead representing simply the best ways to convey their implicit ideas. The Dispossessed fulfills the greatest promise of science fiction, getting away from our Earth and our present to explore the philosophies that drive us, presenting a grand thought experiment that is always enlightening yet rarely heavy-handed, driven by an adequate plot, keen observations, and realistic characterization.

Grade: A

Book 31: The Forever War

2011-09-02T20:11:00.001-04:00

The Forever War
Joe Haldeman

Science fiction is notorious, perhaps, for tackling difficult subjects under the guise of fantastic narrative worlds, creatures, and situations. This makes the genre uniquely suited for rich, absorbing, and effective satire, and Joe Haldeman utilizes the power of science fiction to its full force in his exploration of the effects of bureaucracy on war and, to a larger extent, on the nature of humanity. On first glance, The Forever War may seem too expansive, tackling not only the intricacies of an interstellar conflict but also dealing with the implications of relativity and, therefore, with centuries of projected human history. Haldeman, however, manages to craft a pivotal, lasting novel that rightfully deserves its various accolades for its vision, satirical impact, and, though to a lesser extent, for its engrossing story. Though his anti-military stance is anything but subtle and warrants comparisons with Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, Haldeman is able to throw readers immediately into his narrative world, offering details of the near future’s normality in short, effective asides from William Mandella, his narrator. Though the science is soft and details relatively scant, readers are quickly engaged and comfortable enough with their temporal surroundings that the quick-moving story begins and continues with few unnecessary interruptions.

While Haldeman certainly isn’t a master of the literary arts, his prose is serviceable and sits, for the most part, out of the way, allowing the story and the world he constructs to take prominence and to envelop the reader. This, in turn, lends power to the satirical aspects of the story and builds the credibility so necessary to successful science fiction. The Forever War doesn't, however, drown its readers in overly political messages- while they're there and ripe for the taking, they are woven into Mandella's firsthand narration and ring true as the opinions of a drafted, enlisted man. While I'm not sure quite what to make of the homosexual aspects of the book, which include a future humanity composed almost entirely of gays and lesbians, I found them significantly more intriguing than offensive, particularly for the era in which the book was written. Most importantly, while these extracurricular elements are all in place, they exist within the framework of an engrossing, fast-paced story that feels like far more than its relatively small number of pages. Mandella travels throughout time and space with lightning speed, yet the story hardly ever feels rushed; nor does it suffer lulls. And while the love story feels forced and a bit odd in the overly sexed army ranks, it does anchor the story in human emotion (if not entirely convincingly) beyond Mandella's cynicism. A thoughtful and thought-provoking story rooted in the horrors of Vietnam, The Forever War is a brilliant work of military science fiction with an emotional core, and while it is never particularly spectacular it well deserves its status as a science fiction classic.

Grade: A

Book 30: Go Blue

2011-08-27T18:56:00.001-04:00

Go Blue
Jack Beam

It should be obvious to anyone who knows me why I picked up this particular book, and the book's author, Michigan Law graduate Jack Beam, certainly plays up the glory of both the institution and its state. Unfortunately, that devotion to Michigan and his choice of an interesting environmental issue to drive his pseudo-thriller are the only two redeeming qualities of the book, and the former is so overdone even I had to groan aloud at times. It is evident that Beam has a deep love of Michigan and of the Great Lakes that so define the state, and his chosen plot (evil desert corporation wants to drain the lakes) is timely and definitively evokes a sense of place within the novel, but absolutely everything about his handling of the English language is a bit off. Beam's mistakes range from the trivial ("allude" for "elude" forced me to re-read the passage about four times before I figured it out) to the grievous (horrifying racism masquerading as respect). Sometimes, bad writing can be masked by a swiftly moving plot or by intriguing character portraits but, alas, our intrepid lawyer here settles for a disturbingly blatant pair of Mary Sue maverick- ahem- lawyers and a cardboard-cut Star in the Making, fresh with awkwardly revealed details that utterly fail to round her out. The characters' motivations are baffling and their relationships impossible to understand; so much in this novel is esoteric that readers are forced to take every clumsy, omniscient revelation for truth due to the lack of supporting text.

Yet it is not only the grammar and the (lack of) characterizations that make this novel…difficult. These are, in fact, rather minor when compared to the over the top, fresh out of writing class structure and the innumerable unhelpful similes that dot the text. The latter are frustrating not because they are inapt, but because they are inept: when Beam compares a flare to a firework, his description of I-69 near the Indiana border is terrifically accurate but entirely unnecessary. At one point, our omniscient narrator notes that there is "nothing relevant" about an action, and then abruptly ends a chapter. Yet, again, these may not be the author's greatest sins: the poor writing certainly does not aid reader comprehension, but the structure seems designed to hamper understanding rather than foster any semblance of coherent plot. The brisk chapters are surely drawn from the breakneck pace of the thrillers this book aspires to match, but breaks are poorly calculated and the brisk shifts in action would be nauseating if they weren't so completely bizarre. One second, we're in an Indian casino in Manistee; the next, in a Christian Reformed Church in Grand Rapids, and while Beam (along with his characters) appears to be convinced there is a deep-seated connection between the woefully exaggerated (and far beyond satirical) portrait of west-side evangelicals, a water-grubbing casino development company based in Nevada, and the "bad" sect of Ottawa Indians (his language, not mine), readers may not be so easily convinced as the whiplash from the ever-changing scenery causes their heads to spin.

Despite the many, many mistakes that litter this novel, however, I found myself strangely intrigued. Perhaps it is a bit like watching a train wreck, but I do truly believe that Beam created a compelling, deeply intertwined, and theoretically well-constructed story; he just wasn't able to tell it. Though his portraiture of Native Americans is so faux-respectful and ignorant it could arguably be construed as more offensive than blatant racism, somewhere in the muddle he does raise an important point about environmentalism and about the impact that casinos have both on their communities and on those who run them. Some of the ever-present similes are thoughtfully constructed, if idiotically reported and burdensome, and if the plot would have been a bit more clear throughout I believe it would have been fairly intricate. At the end of the day, the book needs an editor; passages carry on too long, extra characters and pointless details litter the text, and parts of the book are simply incomprehensible. This book is needlessly- and distractingly- harsh in its "satire," its characters are simply impossible to believe, the frenetic plot is barely held together by an author grasping at straws, and the writing is the work of an absolute hack. Yet Go Blue is, nonetheless, a loving (if misguided) tribute to my own home state, and might make a good tale in the hands of a more competent teller.

Grade: D+

Book 29: The Answer Is Never

2011-08-20T18:15:00.001-04:00

The Answer Is Never: A Skateboarder's History of the World
Jocko Weyland

Perhaps it is the decidedly non-academic air of skateboarding that keeps its mysteries isolated largely to a select in-group of its own practitioners, or perhaps it's the defiant anti-authoritarian attitude long associated with the lifestyle, or even its relative newness, that has kept skating largely from the prying eyes of academics and the other upper class suburban types it so alienates. Regardless of the cause, it's remarkably difficult to find a good book on the subject that doesn't fall into the "how-to" genre, a tricky charge regardless due to the esoteric nature of skating's most potent tricks. Longtime skater, bona fide insider to skating's adolescent 1980s, and the pleasantly literate Jocko Weyland does his part to trace the history of the sport from its origins to the beginnings of its current superstar, X-Games incarnation. The fact that Weyland's own coming of age period mirrored that of his chosen passion adds the solidity of firsthand reliability and an air of forbidden insider's knowledge to the volume, which makes The Answer Is Never accessible to outsiders but at the same time renders it a passionate history of the sport for its current crop of riders and devotees. Everyone knows who Tony Hawk is, but Weyland may be onto something when he laments the fade of pivotal skaters such as street-style founder and genius Natas Kaupas into the mists of history. Skating and the inherent alterity of its culture has never, as Weyland points out, been a particularly literate endeavor, and his attempt here to recapitulate its beginnings rings with an air of necessity paired with its labor-of-love vibe.

Weyland begins not with Dogtown and the rise of pool skating, but instead offers a look at the rise of surfing and the myth of Southern California as the true historical birthplace of skate culture and its many spin-offs. Though some illustrative specific stories are plagued by an infuriating lack of last names (though it is unclear whether they are meant to typify different kinds of experiences or refer to specific individuals, some guidance would be much appreciated), they blend in well with the greater narrative and help elucidate the unique pull skating (and surfing before it) have had over their most devoted practitioners. Weyland's insertion of his own skate history also ties in nicely, but the non sequitur oscillations between information and memoir can rock readers a bit and lend the book a bit of a schizophrenic air. These are, however, the book's most lucid exploration of the influence of punk culture on skating (and, to a more limited extent, vice-versa) and illuminate the idea of skating-as-lifestyle like no amount of removed anecdotes ever could. Though his reminiscences could be better integrated into the text at large, Weyland's instincts were in the right place when he decided to include them, and they personalize the book as well as lending it credibility.

Despite Weyland's obvious passion for the subject, his understanding of the skateboard as both object and phenomenon, and refreshingly literate prose, the book does take some missteps. The author explains in the books' afterward that he intended The Answer Is Never to terminate its story just as street skating began to dominate the scene, but the cutoff isn't made nearly as obvious at any point before this postscript, and Weyland's focus on vertical skating can seem at times myopic. Though this accords with his own experience, a better initial definition of the book's scope would serve readers far better than the existing declarations of love for the sport. Nonetheless, and despite some heavily opinionated anti-BMX and anti-inline banter for which he only offers the minutest of explorations, Weyland has put together a brilliant history of the first- and perhaps most dominant- "extreme sport". The Answer Is Never: A Skateboarder's History of the World is, in many ways, exactly that: it is a lucid and personal examination of the formative years of skateboarding that can be enjoyed and appreciated by both those within and without skating's strange magnetic hold.

Grade: A

Book 28: Understanding Comics

2011-08-10T16:44:00.002-04:00

Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art
Scott McCloud

It's nice to see the much-maligned genre of "comics" becoming slowly reinvigorated as the far more mainstream "graphic novel" genre, but it's equally refreshing to have a bona fide fan- and notable practitioner- of this misunderstood art form create such an unapologetic and informative introduction to the craft. Scott McCloud's Understanding Comics is a classic in the comics world, and for good reason, as it offers an accessible theory of comic art, complete with an operative definition and examples drawn from fields as diverse as Egyptology and post-modern "high art". What's best about Understanding Comics, however, is that the book only asks its readers to do so after presenting the inner workings of the medium in the guise of the medium itself. McCloud, a veteran comic artist fresh off of his brilliant independent project, Zot!, is able to define and explain comics using a plethora of direct examples. That this kind of explanation is necessary fits neatly and intrinsically into his argument that comics represent a form of art with its own language, standards, and possibilities is only a bonus, and allows for clarifications far beyond those which could be provided in text alone. Though his argument can become somewhat abstract at times, and he often repeats simple panels of himself that are not particularly edifying, McCloud's ability to describe, explain, and show sets the book apart and makes it not only particularly compelling but incredibly elucidating as well. Understanding Comics takes a look at this pairing of words and visual art from both an intellectual and a fan's point of view, and readers of this accolade-deserving classic are unquestionably well served.

Grade: A

Book 27: Rainbows End

2011-08-07T15:23:00.000-04:00

Rainbows End
Vernor Vinge

The near future is an incredibly difficult thing to attempt to predict, and it is likewise tricky for science fiction authors to create a compelling vision of this future without it seeming, somehow, silly. It must be said, however, that Vernor Vinge pulls the trick off nicely in Rainbow’s End, a book perhaps more notable for its realistic- yet fantastic- extrapolation of current technological trends than for its somewhat schizophrenic plotting. Vinge’s roots in computer science show, but not too blindingly, in his pet future, which emphasizes spatial projections and wearable computer interfaces as two of its main developments. While some of these same developments are a bit unsettling (the possibility of being hijacked, for example, presents incredibly steep consequences regarding the definitions of identity and trust), many seem to flow fairly directly out of our own present, and if they are not always immediately believable they do take on a grudging plausibility as the novel unfolds. Indeed, Vinge’s cardinal sin in the book is perhaps the very completeness and complexity that lies underneath his vision; it is easy to become quickly lost among the gadgets and the book requires a tad too much adjustment time from readers, who may leave the book just as confused about a certain gizmo or capability as when they embarked.

If the technical aspects of the book are thus defined, at least in large part, by the failures of excessive complexity, the plot’s difficulties are utterly dominated by them. Set against the reasonable enough premises of a miracle Alzheimer’s cure and longstanding family drama, the book’s plot quickly takes the shape of a political, high-tech thriller; it is not, however, a hat Vinge wears particularly well. Part of this shortcoming can be attributed to character development that only comes in quick spurts, or which is based too prominently on trusting the author rather than viewing the characters themselves. There are hints of subtlety, but hints alone, and one suspects that Vinge may have initially had the goal of developing a character-centered tale, only to get lost in his world of technical wonderments. And what a world it is! A book-altering bit of technical possibility regarding its most elusive character is deployed at just the wrong moment, screaming "Deus Ex Machina!" while credibility is cast aside. Yet even this crucial piece of the puzzle cannot connect the tangled twists that often pile confusion upon confusion. It’s near impossible to attempt to sort out motives, and thus make real sense of the plot as it reaches its head, and it is here that the lack of delicacy with regard to the characters really hampers the novel’s possibilities.

This is a shame, really, because Vinge does display some very intriguing talent, and deploys some interesting concepts. Ultimately, however, the book is just too slightly complicated for its own good, though Vinge deserves utmost credit for wrapping it all up with just a hint of not-so-neat ambiguity that is absolutely delicious. Geeks will find much to celebrate within the story as well, and the possibilities Vinge explores certainly pave the way for important conversations about the role digital media forms currently play in our lives, and the ways in which they can morph for better and for worse. Thus, despite failing somewhat seriously on the more traditionally literary fronts, Rainbows End is, to my mind, a novel worth reading. The maddening confusion I often felt was unable to assuage my curiosity, and the book is so rife with possibilities that it is difficult not to feel a kind of affection, or at least to hold out some hope that things can be wrapped up neatly with a little bow, after all. Rainbows End is not a great novel, nor is it a great failure, but it rises just above the mediocre due to its possibilities, both in a literary and a technical sense; it is so Almost There that it can’t quite succeed or fail, and readers are left to happily soak up its potential.

Grade: B

Book 26: The Simpsons: An Uncensored, Unauthorized History

2011-07-28T00:44:00.001-04:00

The Simpsons: An Uncensored, Unauthorized History
John Ortved

It is difficult, if not impossible, to sum up a zeitgeist, and so it comes as no surprise, perhaps, that The Simpsons: An Uncensored, Unauthorized History falls a bit flat on arrival. Its shortcomings, however, should not entirely color reception of the book, and it does stand successfully as a history of one of the most important- and popular- shows in the history of television. The Simpsons was absolutely revolutionary, and Ortved should be admired for his courage in tackling a show with such a rabid fan base and with such depth behind it. Unfortunately for some readers, Ortved looks at the history of the show more as a history of its initial development than of its impact; though this story is fascinating in its own right, the book is bound to disappoint those looking for an exploration of its popularity or a look at its structure. And while Ortved does pay lip service to the wider impact of the show, his analysis rings hollow and his chosen quotations of support irrelevant. In this way, he is both enabled and limited by his chosen genre: the interview-heavy, oral history format allows the show's pivotal creative figures to speak for themselves and to reveal in depth, behind the scenes glimpses into the show's history both recent and ancient, but it also limits the scope of the book in such a way that the author's attempts to instill deeper meaning in his work come across as clunky and lifeless.

The difficulty in successfully structuring a work that pivots around interviews lies in linking them together, and it is here that Ortved's work falls the flattest. Though his skepticism toward the later seasons may be appreciated by long-time fans of the show, it comes across here as unprofessional and entirely unsupported by evidence; it is as though these jabs at recent episodes are made so the author can build his credibility, but in the book's final chapters they simply come too late. Transitions are equally clunky, and in the end the book has the feel more of a collection of anecdotes than of a single, coherent history. Ortved does get to the heart of the matter on some subjects, and he does a remarkable job situating the show in the cultural context of 1989 and within the greater landscape of the family-driven sitcom. His skepticism towards official histories and particularly the cult of Matt Groening is appreciated, and one of the aspects of the book that does come across as more academic. Ultimately, however, this history just can't shed its fanboy aura. The stark promise of the miraculously brilliant cover design (a great, ironic allusion to the show's opening credits) is belied by the more or less family friendly contents therein. At the end of the day, however, chronicling the rise and initial creation of TV's most lasting scripted series is quite a daunting task, and though The Simpsons: An Uncensored, Unauthorized History doesn't quite deliver on all of its promises, it's worth reading for die-hard fans of the show who really want a glimpse at the business side of its inception.

Grade: B

Book 25: End Zone

2011-07-19T22:50:00.001-04:00

End Zone
Don DeLillo

Current concussion debate and lockout woes aside, football is in many ways the great American pastime, symbolizing for many not only our resistance to world sports but also a kind of brash, flashy violence. Given its seeming spontaneity at the whistle and the general brevity of even the most complex of football plays, for Don DeLillo to forge a connection between football and nuclear violence seems, if not natural, reasonably plausible. Unfortunately, other than having a small Texan college's running back become inexplicably fascinated by nuclear conflict, DeLillo is unable to draw any meaningful parallels between the two, nor to use the juxtaposition in any elucidating way. Sure, there are moments of humor within the book, but DeLillo is too unsure of his characters to create anything in the story that is truly lasting. Readers may leave with a decent, half-fuzzy picture of narrator Gary Harkness, but the rest of the cast is a revolving door of meaningless caricatures who show up to spout uncharacteristically sophisticated philosophy when DeLillo believes it convenient. When the most evocative, truest characters in a character-driven book are those who play the smallest parts, readers are going to find it exceedingly difficult to care, let alone to enjoy the book.

DeLillo hints at greater meaning several times throughout the story, and it is certain that Gary learns something during his semester in a small-town Texas college football program. What this is, however, eludes the reader, and I'm not convinced that it's worth digging through the book to find. The reader isn't helped by the sheer brutality of the football characters who occasionally pop in to offer bits of wisdom. Readers may be willing to accept that college football players are, as a rule, capable of achieving the kind of philosophical and intellectual depth that eludes most college students (full stop), but DeLillo bounces his characters around like so many ping-pong balls that it's impossible to glean any true meaning to their words. This book is, from start to finish, the author speaking, and it is perhaps not a coincidence that the book's most nearly infuriating (for nothing within is interesting enough to be truly maddening) passage has the author quoting a later part of the book and oh-so-cleverly-and-he-believes-subtly berating readers for finding a 31-page play-by-play of a football game intensely boring and exceedingly pointless (and I notoriously love football). In the end, however, the effect is just one of indifference. There may have been substance had the subject matter been treated with care or a modicum of thought, but End Zone just peters out at the end, content in its pointlessness but not making a show of it. What Don DeLillo has done in End Zone is, indeed, a remarkable achievement: a nearly meaningless book that, somehow, is neither amusing enough to be rightfully called terrible nor terrible enough to be considered a slog; this is the truly mediocre.

Grade: C-

Book 24: Shades of Grey

2011-07-11T19:22:00.003-04:00

Shades of Grey: The Road to High Saffron

Jasper Fforde

The difficulty in inventing and convincingly portraying an original dystopian landscape in this cynical age lies in the fact that it has been done so many times before. Indeed, a firm sense of the we've-been-here-before persists throughout Jasper Fforde's Shades of Grey: the Road to High Saffron, but the novelty that the author introduces carries the book and makes it an enjoyable foray into the genre. With its future colortocracy resting on (what else?) color blindness, Fforde introduces a genetically engineered future whose ideas about conformity and rule-breaking are dangerously similar to modern precedents. What colors this novel, however, is a generous splattering of good humor throughout, making the somewhat depressing prospects of this future a bit more bearable; that Fforde succeeds in doing this with a touch that tends toward the subtle is a bonus to the book. The fantasy/almost sci-fi hybrid premise that drives the book is crafted with a tint of lightness to it, though it takes its main character, Edward Russet, on a twisted and familiar path of corruption and of lost innocence and cynicism. For its predictability, Fforde has added enough of his own touches to his Man vs. Evil Dystopian Power Structure to make Shades of Grey engaging; for example, a rigid hierarchical caste system is reflected in highly practical, literally colorful family names (i.e., deMauve, McMustard), with lowly Greys relegated to numbers. Other novel touches include a rigid adherence to the prophet Munsell's every word despite (im)practicalities that arise, such as a perplexing inability to manufacture any new spoons. As one would expect, a beigemarket flourishes in such circumstances, and Fforde's offering would not be complete without a critical examination of those along the boundaries of legality, evinced here in Apocryphal humans whose existence cannot be acknowledged despite their routinely trolling society for food...naked.

Hapless hero and narrator Eddie Russet is serviceable, if not particularly endearing, and represents one of the book's efforts that falls a bit flat. While readers will welcome Eddie's ready explanations of his society's norms, he does not seem to pick up so quickly on aspects of his life that readers are quick to grab onto. Eddie also displays a maddening inability to grow throughout the novel, and his eventual (and inevitable) turnaround seems less genuine as a result; Fforde tries to cram character growth into his protagonist in fitful, perplexingly ineffective bursts and only really succeeds at one or two pivotal points in the novel. Yet despite this, the other characters in the book are engaging and realistic: we have the prankster, the unattainable girl, the corrupted and cynical underground operatives, and a whole host of unsavory characters in power. It is the book's continued assault on formal leadership that makes it such a rousing success, in fact, carried by an exaggerated (yet terrifyingly believable) leadership team whose willingness to flaunt the rules stupefies the maddeningly ignorant Eddie while forcing readers to apply their faults to our own world. And as more of their deceit and greed is revealed, so too comes the plot, a fairly conventional revelatory bildungsroman with a requisite number of mini-mysteries that services the novel ably without being particularly excellent. Fforde takes too long to answer some questions about his narrative world, and though he does a good job of setting the scene readers will likely be disoriented for some time; indeed it is still unclear to me how the supposedly colorblind can distinguish different shades (the very strongly Red Eddie, for example, can apparently discern a green door). Regardless, and despite its conventionality, Shades of Grey is an amusing, if predictable, addition to the dystopian fantasy/science fiction genre and uses its unique premise to a high degree of its potential.

Grade: B+

Book 23: The Devil in the White City

2011-07-04T17:56:00.002-04:00

The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair That Changed America
Erik Larson

History, just like our own times, can hardly be accused of being boring, and it is beyond refreshing to come across a writer who understands not only that the past is composed of billions of stories but also that these deserve to be related with energy and vivid prose. Quite simply, Erik Larson gets it, and The Devil in the White City is a carefully researched, well crafted, and extremely engaging history of the United States on the verge of the 20th century. The story is told through two tenuously connected personalities and the visions they represent: serial killer Herman Mudgett, whose hotel of horrors operated just a short train ride from the 1893 Chicago World's Fair, and Daniel Burnham, the fair's chief architect. Though Larson treats the connection between the two very sparingly, the stories are told parallel to each other and occasionally intersect. This has both good and bad effects on the book, and while each story is well told and supported by a strong body of research, sometimes the organization of The Devil in the White City can make it tricky to follow the not-always-interlocking strands Larson weaves. That chapters usually alternate makes it easy enough for readers to keep the two stories separate, but the author has a nasty habit of offering tantalizing little hints that dangle uselessly, often forgotten by the time their particular threads are picked up again. The most egregious of these can take nearly 100 pages to be resolved or, if one counts some parts of the introduction, the entire book.

That Larson insists on doing this so often is frustrating, particularly because the book is exceptionally well constructed in its other aspects. Though some of the bits about Mudgett can become a bit repetitive, as much of that is due to his development of a modus operandi as to elements within the author's control. Indeed, Larson does a great job rendering Mudgett in rich detail and three-dimensional characterization, attempting to get inside his mind but retaining in his prose a feeling of humanity and sympathy for the victims. Likewise, though he often gets ahead of himself and dots the text with occasional non-sequitur half-paragraphs, Larson's account of the development of the 1893 World's Columbian Exhibition is thorough and entertaining. The book is humorous, and though it glances over the dedication ceremony (an odd lapse given the author's focus on the severely limited timetable for the fair's construction), it provides other welcome asides that help readers gain a sense of the historical context in which the fair was planned, constructed, and visited by millions. Information about landscape and building architecture, the seediness of Chicago and its rivalry with New York City, and about criminal pathology do not linger so long as to wear out their welcome, and it is one of Larson's great achievements that he sets the scene so vividly without the necessity of a prolonged contextual introduction. Despite some repetition and the annoying half-revelations, Larson's prose is readable and his account gripping, a truly enjoyable work of popular history that is engaging from start to finish. The Devil in the White City is an excellent vision of a world on the brink of change, and encapsulates the end of the 19th century in the brief, glamorous perfection that was the White City of the 1893 World's Fair, in stark contrast to the madness of Herman Mudgett and the coming century.

Grade: A

Book 22: The Gum Thief

2011-06-28T16:43:00.001-04:00

The Gum Thief
Douglas Coupland

Douglas Coupland has made his name studying the inner workings of ordinary people, those of us who live humdrum lives at the margins of society, who may or (as is usually the case with his characters) may not buy into the latest hype or trend. While The Gum Thief is a continuation of Coupland's ongoing exploration of generational mindset(s), its fondness for metafiction tends to cloud the main storyline rather than enhance it, allowing the book-within-a-book to take over the novel without necessarily enhancing readers' understanding of the character writing it. In fact, for a writer whose view of his characters is usually so astute, Coupland's inability to distinguish them or to allow them to speak for themselves is remarkable. Though the ambition evident in the book's mixed viewpoint structure is admirable, every character's epistolary voice carries the same tone and makes the same kind of observations that seem hackneyed rather than pointed. Indeed, Coupland's problem here may be that he has done too well in depicting the kind of detached, wry, wannabe ironic observations that made Generation X and its successors so poignant. Here, it feels as though the author is striving just a bit too much for authenticity, and what remains is a thinly disguised attempt to channel the voice of a cynicism the author himself may not fully comprehend. Readers get the overwhelming feeling that, ultimately, people just don't talk (or think) this way.

The overt ambitions of the novel are also evident in its chaotic narrative structure, which relies far too heavily on the main protagonist's authorial pet project, a truly wretched novel. While Coupland does an admirable job channeling Roger's angst throughout the invented Glove Pond, that angst remains self-pitying and, ultimately, uninteresting. Instead of gaining a better understanding through a subtle handling of narrative nuance, readers get backstory in large, frantic gulps that ring hollow more often than inspiring sympathy. Coupland has not created unlikely or unrealistic characters, but he has made his traditional cast of outcasts boring and difficult to care about as their tedious observations about the modern world fall flat. The book also squanders a glorious opportunity as the office superstore setting falls by the wayside rather than providing what should have been an ideal breeding ground for the kind of cynicism that springs here from other sources. Instead, Coupland relies more and more heavily on Glove Pond and its transparent cast, concluding the book in a truly unsatisfying ending that seems borne of the same malaise that colors the rest of the book. The book is not without its humorous moments, and shows promise at its beginning and, indeed, throughout; there may in fact be poignancy hidden herein, though it is difficult to pry out from the tenor of self-loathing that makes the book so tedious at times. Yet, despite this, the book is difficult to put down and it is only at the end that the reader is left completely disappointed; this is a book that seems capable of so much more than it delivers. The Gum Thief shows promise in its setup and at moments during its execution, but too-lofty ambitions and high reader expectations make the book fall sadly flat despite, or perhaps because of, its desperate desire to be witty.

Grade: C

Book 21: The Opposing Shore

2011-06-20T11:29:00.000-04:00

The Opposing Shore
Julien Gracq

Military defeat can loom large in the memory of a nation, and the lingering effects of World War II upon France are evident throughout Julien Gracq's The Opposing Shore, a deeply introspective novel considering the effects of long-term peace and looming conflict. Set in the fictional, but distinctly Mediterranean, city-state of Orsenna and its outlying territories in a period just before industrial mechanization, the novel recalls, in its way, the dominance and eventual collapse of Rome. A far lesser empire, Orsenna grapples with a centuries-long history of stagnation, exemplified not least in an ongoing cold war with Farghestan, which lays on the opposite shore of an unnamed sea. Though the novel's long and introspective passages do an excellent job of portraying the somnolence of Orsenna and its officials, seemingly endless passages unbroken by significant events, they are equally likely to provoke the same reaction in the reader. The ratio of action to introspection makes the novel somewhat difficult to grasp; though, again, the tone and the mood of Orsenna and its Syrtes outposts are suggestively rendered through Gracq's prose. That the book is dominated by a kind of narrative haze is a bit frustrating, as the author shows an ability to raise the level of action without greatly deviating from the general tone of the narration; even the simple act of displacing some observations by couching them in conversation lightens the onus upon the reader. While Gracq's dialogue is certainly not the crackling sort, or particularly true to life, it does have an ability to force the reader to think more than the long, boring descriptive passages that dominate the prose.

That said, the book holds some valuable insights and a fair bit of philosophical entertainment for those willing to engage it with a certain level of intellectual depth. Indeed, The Opposing Shore asks much of its readers but does provide ample rewards in its exploration of political drowsiness and death. Though the action of the novel takes too long to get going by most standards, its pace (once begun) is appropriate, its constituent events serving to illuminate the book's well-established themes. Its characters, however, are a bit ill-defined and have obscure motives that do not suffice to explain occasionally puzzling actions. Readers are indebted almost solely to narrator Aldo's descriptions of character, given Gracq's hesitancy to insert dialogue into such an overtly philosophically-minded story, and his insistence on certain traits sometimes appears distractingly at odds with characterization evinced by observed action. Richard Howard's translation, while (apparently) admirably maintaining a tone and weight throughout, occasionally becomes distracting, as in the absolute overuse of the word "somnolent" and its derivatives. Hardly a page passes by without this word, however appropriate, occurring at least once, and while it may be the most befitting lexical choice its constant appearance serves more to distract than to enlighten. Even the sleep/wakefulness metaphors that dot the book tend to lull the reader into an occasional stupor, and though the book is undoubtedly a fine work of literature it fails to sustain significant interest at a consistent level. The Opposing Shore is an interesting exploration of a nation's long sleep and gradual awakening, as well as a convincing exploration of the power of artificial boundaries, though its focus on introspection over plot makes it slightly inaccessible and, perhaps, more demanding on the reader than is really fair to ask.

Grade: B

Book 20: Super Sad True Love Story

2011-06-10T01:07:00.003-04:00

Super Sad True Love Story: A Novel
Gary Shteyngart

While I am not inherently predisposed to believe the seemingly universal fawning praises of the mainstream book reviewing media for certain books, neither am I wholly opposed to its opinions. Never, however, can I recall reading a book that received such high reviews but which was so disappointing and, in fact, just plain bad. Such is the case with the way overzealous, way too self-indulgent Super Sad True Love Story which, of all these words, really only contains a "story." This story, however, is underwhelming at best and ruthlessly disturbing at worst, predicated on a whiny older man's creepy obsession with a nearly anorexic 20-something in a thinly disguised dystopian "America" that consists solely of New York City. That Lenny, the book's primary (and alarmingly unsympathetic) protagonist and narrator, is a fairly obvious stand-in for the author, a circumstance that explains his ridiculous and otherwise entirely bizarre obsession with his Ohio-shaped bald spot (no, literally), in no way excuses the entirely wayward attempts of the book's hapless author. Shteyngart seems to confuse excessive, too-much-information detail and whininess with good, evocative description and daring character development; instead, Super Sad True Love Story is, like its disturbing and obsessive main character, a complete and insufferable mess.

There are redeeming qualities to the book, though they are few and far between. There are times when the author does show a true gift for the English language, although these gems are often lost due to the banality of the plot surrounding them or readers' disgust with the characters writing or participating in them. Some of the elements of Shteyngart's self-indulgent stab at dystopian satire are illuminating, such as his half-baked, pseudo-Bradburian vision of a post-book (but not, as the disarmingly false jacket copy so enthusiastically announces, illiterate) near future (one that cannot, despite the enthusiastic protestations of the jacket copy, ever conceivably occur "next Tuesday," given its own internal chronological reference points) and his keen perception of immigrants' affection for an adopted United States, but where the book goes for funny it inevitably falls entirely flat. Jokes and winks, such as they are, are wielded with as blatant an Obvious Hammer as I've ever seen, to the point where any satire in the book becomes completely ineffective as the author's obvious lack of talent for tact or subtlety overrides any poignant points he might actually make given a hint of restraint. Instead, the book reads like the product of a spoiled, indulgent, ne'er-do-wrong, holier-than-thou literary hack whose preoccupation with The Big Questions overrides concern for sympathetic characters, a sensical plot, and/or a setting that could, when treated with any degree of narrative talent, be painfully revealing. Likewise, anything interesting the author may have to say about society is swallowed in woefully self-aware and self-laudatory prose dripping with a look-at-me-I-am-a-literary-darling inaccessibility and pointlessness. The book has unlikeable characters: how daring! No. How insufferably stupid, vapid, and unreadable.

Where, exactly, does Shteyngart go wrong? While an author certainly shouldn't be faulted for attempting to explore what an extrapolation of our current digital-driven communication habits might mean, his attempt at describing an äppärät-driven word is as exaggerated as the unnecessary umlauts, and any salient points he makes about over-sexualization are surely lost in the book's prurient (and, frankly, disturbing) obsession with things like see-through "jeans" and synonyms for a woman's nether regions and unmentionables. Nor is the treatment of government much more cleverly drawn, Shteyngart appealing instead to the rabid anti-Cheneyism that may have worked in 2006 but which now seems laughably out of place. This is a shame, because some of the fears raised in this novel seem legitimately based on a cynical view of current trends, an Orwellian future disturbingly well-linked to our current situation but whose punch is lost in its pure absurdity. Cute little tricks the author seems to find clever, such as representing mega-conglomerations in nearly-unreadable and frankly untenable mashups of brand names (AlliedWasteCVSCitigroupCredit is an impossible name even after the requisite, and unlikely, mergers) or having non-black characters refer to each other as "Nee-gro" with no discernible context, are instead bulky and lazy, drawing attention to the author's brazenly displayed need for recognition.

That Shteyngart is receiving this desperately-sought recognition is disheartening, because among the poorly contrived satirical elements and disgusting main character, the plot and writing are full of holes, the plot holding less weight than the collapsing dollar holds relative to the surging yuan. There is no explanation given for the current political situation above a lazy attempt to scream at readers, "You're all morons! Look what you idiots are doing to yourselves!" and an attendant, implied, "I am the only one clever enough to see this coming! And look at the hip umlauts! Welcome to the future, we're Scandinavian here!" Moreover, though the book's conceit as a dual narrative between creepy Lenny's diaries and messages from object of his unbalanced affection Eunice Park is clever and does balance their two voices, it is inconceivable that any diarist writes in such flowery language. And if, indeed, readers believe dear Lenny does use such elegant phraseology and incorrect tenses in his daily writing, they must be forgiven for despising him even more strongly in the book's epilogue than at its onset, a seemingly impossible task for which Shteyngart must be lauded.

One particularly clumsy oversight has Lenny reflecting that someone who has not at this point in the narrative died, and whom he interacts with on a daily basis, as "always having had" a certain personality quirk, the implication being that the aforementioned party has died. Only someone with extremely severe egomania would ever write this way, and the worst part of the mess is that this is indeed shown to be possible for Lenny in the book's horrific epilogue, in which Shteyngart (in the guise of older, wiser, and thinly disguised (and, don't forget, bald-headed!) Lenny) oh-so-cleverly dismisses his own book as being written without forethought for publication. In doing so, the author not only fails to justify his own overwrought prose but also makes Lenny even more unlikeable than he already is; again, an almost unfathomable achievement.

Not all books must have entirely wonderful characters to be good or to be respectable, but a focus on such relentlessly, egregiously terrible human beings, who are supposed to be sympathetic, simply will not endear readers to a work. Lenny is whiny and dense, and when Shteyngart attempts to cleverly drop hints to readers he forgets that he is having his lead say things like, "Oh, it's odd this other character would talk this way…so suspicious," only to remain completely clueless about the revealed possibility until the post-action epilogue. There is nothing wrong with an author allowing readers to stay one step ahead of characters, but to have narrating characters openly and unambiguously disclose this information, only to seemingly forget it mere letters later, is just terrible and reeks of the laziness that plagues this book. Even the slang, which at first seems clever (not, of course, counting the bizarre and bizarrely äppärät-specific umlauts), is overdrawn by book's end, and more than one gaping plot hole is left to insinuation where some scraps of meaningful societal criticism could still be salvaged. This, of course, discounts the black whole gaping where the promised love story belongs, replaced with a flailing excuse for "love" so feeble it can't even pass for one of Shteyngart's frankly stupid attempts at satire and criticism.

In the end, the boat sails on Super Sad True Love Story the minute it opens, the book a self-indulgent mess masquerading as incisive social commentary. Within its jumbled pages are a series of half-baked ideas and wholly unlikeable situations, painfully rendered in prose stilted not by the deliberate misspellings of its writers (which, surprisingly, musters the closest thing to realism within this book) but by the insistence of its overbearing and ever-present author. In the end, the book fails on every promise offered in its offensively inaccurate jacket description and in its title: make no mistake, this is a flailing, unsympathetic, utterly unbelievable tale that mistakenly equates disturbing and disgusting sexual obsession (and a healthy amount of emotional abuse) with love and, worse, congratulates itself for doing so. Gary Shteyngart's Super Sad True Love Story is not even elegant in its failure, instead representing a terribly self-indulgent literary cesspool receiving admiration for its uncreative pandering to the modern literati rather than for any inherent merit.

Grade: D

Book 19: Glitz

2011-06-04T09:53:00.000-04:00

Glitz
Elmore Leonard

I enjoy novels rich with intrigue and multiple levels of allusion, classics upon whom praises cannot be sufficiently bestowed. Sometimes, however, I just want to read a good book, one that immerses me in its story and characters and in its world. I have found the mystery genre particularly good for this kind of quasi-escapist reading, and within the genre Elmore Leonard is undoubtedly a master. In Glitz, he introduces us to a wide range of characters who occasionally come dangerously close to the stockroom but who are, at any rate, far from cardboard. The opening is a bit clunky as Leonard tees off with an expository back story, but policeman and protagonist Vincent Mora's recent brush with death is retold in a kind of pensive, stop-motion manner that becomes quite effective. Leonard has a good knack for scene-setting detail and infuses a good deal of irony into his character descriptions, an appreciated subtle touch in a genre that often reverts to the overt. Though he can linger too long on scenes that are not integral to the plot, Leonard's ear for dialogue rescues many wayward passages, which come alive despite seeming somewhat unrelated and which further serve to build rich narrative scenes in both San Juan and Atlantic City, the book's two main locales. Even though the book's focus lies squarely on its characters, with fortunate choices of location that tie in perfectly, these cities come alive through the dialogue of their inhabitants and in the implications raised by the events that drive the novel's plot.

Despite an ear for dialogue and an ability to tweak stock characters enough to make them come alive, Leonard's plotting leaves a bit to be desired as some changes come too quickly and the background to one pivotal early character meeting remains implausible at best at novel's end, entirely unexplained and making no sense though greatly influencing the later plot. Leonard does, however, have a gift for rotating points of view, juggling and presenting several characters' stories with a high rate of success and a low rate of confusion, though it must be said that some of the junctions can be a bit difficult to follow at times from a plot perspective. It isn't that the book is particularly intricately plotted, as the connection is rather simple and in fact fairly amusing, but occasionally it can be difficult to determine just how everything is slowly being pieced together. The connection is, however, quite clever and comes complete with some red herrings, no mean feat in a novel where the main antagonist is clearly known from the outset and is one of the book's most engrossing characters. Though the book's denouement and climax are surprisingly lacking, Glitz offers an enjoyable ride, taking readers through the seedy world behind the fading glitz and glamour of Atlantic City without resorting too much to stereotype and stock plots. Vincent Mora's unofficial investigative methods deliver a punch while reflecting some of the best features of a traditional procedural, and everything comes together nicely, if a bit predictably, at the book's conclusion. Glitz is a fully satisfying, if slightly less than perfect, character-driven mystery that makes for a fine, reasonably quick literary companion.

Grade: A-

Book 18: Empire By Default

2011-05-31T23:32:00.002-04:00

Empire By Default: The Spanish-American War and the Dawn of the American Century
Ivan Musicant

One of the reasons I spent much of the latter end of my undergraduate career studying English, and not history, is because historians are incomparably proficient at making the amazing strands of the past fall flat. My love for history and its most human of stories has not, however, ceased, and a recent work assignment processing the papers of one Russell Alexander Alger (embattled Secretary of War at the beginning of the McKinley administration) led me to pick up this weighty, but promising, book on the Spanish-American War. Author Ivan Musicant's refreshingly accessible, informative, and enjoyable history of the under-appreciated conflict has not solely redeemed the Hobsbawms of the world, but nonetheless illustrates that popular history can indeed be well-researched, competently written, and far more effective than the thesis-chasing strains enjoyed in more erudite circles. Strangely, however, the thesis offered in the book's first and final chapters, though scarcely (if ever) alluded to in between, may have actually helped drive the book, though it does not lack for momentum and indeed navigates well between multiple theaters of war and tangled webs of diplomacy and international negotiation.

Regardless, Musicant seems to believe, undoubtedly rightly so, that the Spanish-American war dropped empirical concerns into America's lap, but offers little support throughout his story of the war. While a lighter touch is much appreciated around these parts, and the book seems to travel along just fine without an overbearing thesis, it is interesting to see how the author's perception of his argument differs from a consistent tone that initially seems to be just-the-facts, ma'am. Let this not prevent you from reading Empire By Default, however; the book is far from dry and offers an engaging account of war on the precipice of the calamitous quagmire of 1914 and under the increasingly important auspices of the navy and intra-military cooperation. Indeed, all of the pieces are here for the enterprising reader to chew on and digest at will, and Musicant subtly drops several hints throughout the narrative that will entice those interested in looking at the larger tides of history. It is perhaps no accident, given this subtle drive that pulses quietly beneath the surface, that the emergence of the United States Navy is the opening shot and steady ammunition of the book, which traces the history of a single, small-scale, and brief war while subtly considering the implications that would resonate to the present day. Much appreciated is the contextual background Musicant provides, which takes up a healthy chunk of the opening book and reads, at times (and one must believe accidentally), almost as a thriller while readers wait to discover just how and when the final straw is dropped upon the soon-to-be belligerents.

Also appreciated is a healthy attitude of amusement taken up by the author, which stops gracefully short of becoming either patronizing or downright silly but which colors the narrative nicely. Readers may be forgiven for shaking their head upon finishing this book, which tends to highlight with the slightest of literary smirks the very WTF nature of the whole enterprise. The overall effect is, in a nutshell, "How did anyone ever win this war?" with neither Spaniards nor Americans receiving exceptionally kind treatment (though Spain does get by far the worse of the blows). Yet this attitude does not hijack the narrative, and instead serves in its way to highlight the impossibility of objectivity in the historical narrative while delivered amongst an obviously well-researched and thorough outline of events both at the front and behind the scenes. Aside from a lack of a strong, permeating thesis (which does the book both good and ill, I believe), the only major complaint to be levied at the author may be his tendency to allow sentences to get away from him amid a flow of commas and dependent clauses that lose original meaning. These, however, are reasonably infrequent, can usually be parsed, and do not greatly mar the reader's experience. And it is truly strange that this history, placed so well in the context of the 1890s, seems to outright ignore the following decades as the implications of the war are either ignored, dropped (as in the baffling disappearance of the Philippines after a series of tantalizing hints and implications), or lost in a short series of sweeping, thesis-like generalizations. Though its conclusion does the foregoing 650 pages little justice, Empire By Default represents a superb effort to reconstruct the woefully neglected and immensely influential "splendid little war," one that will reward both casual readers and those who will look beyond the text to imagine the conflict's lasting implications upon the upcoming 20^th century.

Grade: A

Book 17: Maurice

2011-05-20T20:59:00.002-04:00

Maurice
E. M. Forster

Some novels easily stand the test of time; others, less so. But there is a third category of dated books, books that illuminate their chronological surroundings though they have become, in a sense, aged and difficult to relate to. Maurice, which traces the story of a homosexual man through pre-Great War England's traditional middle class life story, is not exceptional as a work of literature, but as a contemporary work focusing positively on homosexuality it exposes in ways retrospective literature cannot how this facet of one's personality affected life and love in a previous era. Unfortunately, this accident of nature is seen through the experiences of the titular character, a far less than loveable cad whose confusion is reasonable enough given his circumstances but whose personality is constructed with little consistency or care. Forster makes clear in an afterward that he originally had a clear picture of Maurice when he set out, but the most consistent aspect of his hero is a kind of petulance that does neither character, author, nor reader any favors. Maurice slips at will from being a raging dynamo to a tender lover, and emotional confusion alone does not elucidate or explain the behavior. That the main character is weak, impressionable, and distinctly nasty does the novel's difficult subject matter few favors, and indeed other characters come across just as poorly, though less acidic in nature.

One reason for this failure of Forster to create likeable characters is his reluctance to let events and conversations run their course. While writing axioms are generally to my distaste and are of course far from universal, there is no question that Forster's writing would improve considerably were he to relax his grip a bit and let the characters wander a bit. Maurice is a novel that tells without showing, and readers who are left one time too often to take the author's word for it can be forgiven for becoming frustrated with the entire enterprise. There are moments when the author's added insights are welcome and indeed serve to make poignant observations about the nature of love and about the way in which homosexuality was viewed in Forster's time; indeed, there are good times to be had in the novel and there are moments when the narrative drives ahead in an almost gripping manner. Inevitably, however, the author comes crashing back in, making his presence known and swooping in to save readers from the tedious task of construction a judgement of character for themselves. Buried within this overbearing authorial focus is an interesting novel about love and, if nothing else, an amusing story of self exploration and discovery that just manages to cut through the bluster and emerge both subtly and through Forster's less delicate efforts. The ending, even after a number of miscues and relentlessly uneven pacing, feels proper and retrospectively unites some elements of Maurice's character and love affairs despite coming after a particularly rushed portion of the plot. Overall, Maurice is, despite its faults, an interesting (if not entirely enjoyable) artifact of an era that is happily, if gradually, receding into the distance and provides insight into homosexuality and into love that remains relevant today.

Grade: B-

Book 16: Starburst

2011-05-16T12:05:00.001-04:00

Starburst
Frederik Pohl

Science fiction often gets a bad rap from the more erudite literary crowds, and may be accused of concentrating on fanciful ideas rather than character development or a steady plot. Of course, much work in the genre manages to surpass low expectations, but the fact remains that some science fiction, like some work in all genres, simply misses the mark; this, unfortunately, is the case with Starburst. The book has several elements that should make it a success, starting with an interesting, sufficiently knotted plot and a host of fervent, intriguing ideas driving both the science and promising some rich character development. Pohl, however, seems unsure how to actually develop his ideas, and instead flails as he gives away interesting elements of the plot too early, too late, or in muddled prose that confuses his ideas even as he's attempting to work through them. While there are times when the book becomes quite readable and almost enjoyable, Pohl's choice to utilize the first-person voice of doomed space crew members as they report back to Earth often backfires as neither reader nor the message's in-story recipients know quite what is happening aboard. Worse, when Eve Barstow takes the reins of the story, it is almost impossible to slog through her woefully low (and unsympathetically rendered) self-esteem issues to get to the heart of the story at hand, which is often hidden among unnecessary self-pity masquerading as character development but ultimately fooling no one. The unreliable narrator can be a powerful literary device, true, but alternated here with the kind of overbearing omniscience that ruins any narrative surprises it merely serves to confuse and to make readers feel as though they have missed a crucial reveal.

The story of Starburst is in other ways a story of missed opportunities. Despite its slim size, the novel seems to be at least two, and possibly more, novels crushed together asymmetrically: herein lies a doomed space mission, a civilization rebuilding itself, and a post-apocalyptic future, and though each part seems to consistently demonstrate a kind of them about self-sufficiency they appear to be ripped out of different novels. The vast differences between these three acts mean that Pohl's choice to have the United States on the verge of civil war is bizarre and incongruous at first, but makes perfect sense at the end of the book. But by beginning with it as mere background without a hint of explanation or even the promise of future relevance, Pohl loses readers at the outset, making it less impressive and far less redemptive when, suddenly, the setting becomes thematic in the book's final third; by this point, readers may not care. Again, there is the hint of a good authorial instinct in simply having the setting begin as it irrevocably is, but an inability to integrate it or to spin it into a robust story. The same, sadly, is true of the narrative arc of the book, an interesting inversion of redemption that, too, falls flat after being placed in the hands of unlikable and horribly underdeveloped characters. This, however, only occurs after sex strangely hijacks the narrative, leaving more completely bizarre elements of Pohl's imagination dormant until he deigns to explain them chapters later. These authorial failures render the book frustrating at best, and mask what is at heart an interesting premise and story. With some character development, tighter appreciation of plot development and revelation, and more exploration (rather than trite explanation) of the satisfyingly intriguing scientific ideas that pop up unexpectedly, this novel could have been an interesting examination of what makes us human. Instead, though the question is asked throughout, Starburst is plagued by too many problems in construction and execution to be a satisfying read even within the sometimes suppressed (though inherently unfair) standards placed on science fiction.

Grade: C

Book 15: Bossypants

2011-05-12T18:49:00.000-04:00

Bossypants
Tina Fey

Ah, the high-handed celebrity memoir. Yes, usually I attempt to stay as far away from these (usually) ghostwritten, (often) clichéd (and occasionally) train wrecks, but a continuing flurry of positive reviews for Tina Fey's Bossypants combined with my natural love for the comedian and led me to pick this one up. And let me tell you, like the blurb given by Trees on the book's back cover, it was "Totally worth it." From the blurbs to the dustjacket and author biography, this book is end-to-end hilarious, and the text isn't bad either. Part autobiography, part essay collection, and part memoir, Tina Fey proves that her wit, charm, and intelligence are genuine as she successfully wears a variety of hats beyond the carefully cocked bowler she sports on the cover (assuming that the book is not ghostwritten). While some jokes fall a bit flat or seem slightly out of place, as may be expected, Fey is so often spot-on while joking about everything from feminist-rage-inducing clueless college boys to the joys of motherhood, and what is most remarkable is her ability to allow opinions, genuine and beneficial cultural criticism, and insightful observations about life and society to shine through her humor. Indeed, her thoughts on Photoshop and the unrealistic expectations placed on women's bodies are rendered even more powerful through her hilarious side-notes and non-serious, but still urgent, treatment of these topics. The constant barrage of jokes only occasionally becomes old, but more importantly serves to diffuse any potential tension and might hopefully help to provoke actual thought about an array of important ideas.

But let's be honest, here, Fey's elucidating thoughts on gender are a pleasant bonus and supplement to the meat of the book, which is a charming rendition of the author's life and experiences. Nestled between jokes are accounts of the joys of working a crap job while Pursuing the Dream and the importance of perseverance and loving oneself, though the Obvious Hammer is, despite the humor and somewhat surprisingly, deployed extremely rarely, if ever. One of the most interesting examples of this is Fey's recollection of the series of skits in which she portrayed Sarah Palin prior to the 2010 presidential election, rife with hilarious anecdotes and incisive commentary on that most bizarre of democratic processes. The memories of that strange period will be fresh in the mind of most of Fey's current readers, and her thoughts actually add to and elevate the conversation in surprising ways. What is best about Bossypants, however, is that the author never wears, well, bossy pants in her writing, allowing her to remain hilarious and effective while offering readers the option for a deeper experience. The book could benefit from a bit more organization, sure, but what Fey has created in a book that functions successfully on several different levels, from anecdote to political manifesto, while maintaining a genuinely happy face and always bringing something interesting to the conversations that arise. Fans of Tina Fey have probably already read this book, but anyone who takes a mild interest in the star should read this funny and insightful memoir/humor tract/manifesto-y thing, and hopefully Bossypants will make many both think and laugh as hard as I did.

Grade: A

Book 14: Infinity in the Palm of Her Hand

2011-05-10T17:33:00.000-04:00

Infinity in the Palm of Her Hand: A Novel of Adam and Eve
Gioconda Belli

It is obvious from the beginning that this book comes from the pen of a poet, and its continued lyricism is even more striking for the fact that the book comes to English via the translation of Margaret Sayers Peden. My own unfamiliarity with Spanish makes a comparison impossible, but this edition of Infinity in the Palm of Her Hand reads so smoothly, aside from a few minor blips that usually seem more the work of typos than mistranslations, that one can't help but wonder whether translation was in this case of assistance rather than the usually assumed hindrance to art and interpretation. Regardless, the prose in the book is beautifully wrought and suitably adapted to evoke the inner emotions and confusion of the world's first couple in the impossibly difficult days after The Fall. The subject of Adam and Eve's first post-Garden experiences is one of almost numbing precedent and weight, encompassing quite literally the history of humanity and assuming importance in religions beyond those who hold Genesis sacred. The simplicity of the language and Hemingway-quick sentences illuminate and deepen understanding in what is, essentially, a simple story in which not many extraordinary things actually happen. Yet in its sparseness, Infinity in the Palm of Her Hand loads each action with meaning and invests the story with a proper sense of gravity. Here, those essential firsts (the first attempted return to the Garden of Eden, Adam's first time killing for food, the first artistic impulses) achieve that gravity they rightfully deserve as eye-opening precedents for all future generations.

It is perhaps unsurprising, then, that the book's less charming aspects come when the pace accelerates or when the language outpaces the deliberative introspection that makes the book work. While it is understood that the (interestingly female gendered) Serpent speaks in theologically philosophical riddles that twist her forked tongue as she illustrates timeless conundrums (and these indeed are one of the book's foremost charms), other complex words and constructions serve not to deepen understanding but, rather, pull the reader forcibly out of the story. Likewise, as the pace of understanding accelerates toward the end of the novel, and quite rapidly at that, the tone feels rushed yet strangely drawn out as the author somewhat clumsily handles the story of Cain and Abel. Likewise, there is a strange resorting to presumed gender roles between Adam and Eve, which makes an odd bedfellow with a story that is so obviously revisionist and uses an only recently possible feminist lens to view the story. It is difficult to decide whether one should be praising Belli for her obvious care for the story and grappling with its implications or being frustrated at the forceful way in which the Serpent informs Eve that she will take the blame for sin in the world. While Infinity in the Palm of Her Hand is not the kind of book that is meant to offer any answers to the great philosophical questions of theodicy, it does provide a noble, intellectually honest, and religiously sensible effort to provide a new twist on the Adam and Eve story, raising questions in a thought provoking manner and using beautiful, sparse language to fully populate her newly created Earth. Despite some missteps that may make reading a bit frustrating, Infinity in the Palm of Her Hand is a brilliant launching point for theological discussion and will satisfy the intellectually inclined if not totally entertain readers looking for an all-encompassing and internally consistent story.

Grade: A-

Book 13: Like You'd Understand, Anyway

2011-05-05T22:33:00.000-04:00

Like You'd Understand, Anyway
Jim Shepard

Single-author short story collections can do a variety of different things, from encapsulating several points of view on a theme or showcasing the diversity of an author's talent. Jim Shepard's offering, Like You'd Understand, Anyway, does a bit of both, exploring a range of individual perspectives across geography and time in a series of intimate character portraits. While Shepard clearly has- and displays- a keen ear for voice and style, however, some elements within the stories in this collection arise often enough to become repetitive rather than uniquely elucidating and enough stories offer too little in the way of closure to make the collection resonate as powerfully as it could. The great poise and potential of Shepard's work are clear from the outset, and "The Zero Meter Diving Team" serves as an excellent opener with its moving depiction of one man's guilt following the meltdown at Chernobyl. As in "Eros 7," Shepard subtly evokes the inner lives of Soviet citizens, paying attention to those differences in societal upbringing that offer degrees of internal differentiation but carefully avoiding a lazy resignation to their Soviet-ness as a sole defining characteristic. Indeed, it is main character Valentina Tereshkova's relentless and unsympathetic immaturity that sinks "Eros 7," just as the brilliantly rendered and almost bewildered familial guilt of nuclear engineer Boris Prushinsky, combined with a sense of beautifully desolate hopelessness, that allows "The Zero Meter Diving Team" to soar.

It is not merely a matter of unlikable protagonists that might make readers hesitant about Shepard's stories. While Parisian executioner and narrator Charles-Henri Sanson waxes self-piteous in "Sans Farine," the story nonetheless achieves an emotional impact other stories only grasp for, often desperately in final sentences. One can feel Shepard's Serious Literary Instincts fighting, and unfortunately beating, common sense as one story after another ends with interesting poetic strains but without any hint of true resolution. There is much to be said for subtlety, and it is certainly not always desirable for an author to beat theme into readers' heads with the Obvious Hammer, but Shepard's elusiveness almost becomes insulting as he bows to the gods of Serious Literary Merit. His stories suffer for this pandering and sadly become inaccessible for all but a select group of readers, a true shame given the clear depth and quality of Shepard's talents. Using first-person narration throughout his stories, Shepard deftly navigates everyone from a Nazi-funded anthropologist ("Ancestral Legacies," though said scientist's story ultimately comes across as silly for a lack of narrative thrust) to troubled American seventh graders during the Vietnam Era ("Proto-Scorpions of the Silurian" and the tragically close to meaningful "Courtesy for Beginners"). It is these latter two that make the collection become truly onerous, however, each displaying a similar enough story and narrative voice that readers will become distracted from the matter at hand and merely think, "Wait, didn't I just read this?"

Despite its flaws, however, there is significant merit in Shepard's stories, from his unceasing sympathy to his short, effective sentences. In fact, when the author allows himself to unwind and become engrossed in particular narrative territory, the stories shine and attain far more meaning than the groping ambitiousness of their Serious Literary counterparts. "The First South Central Australian Expedition" even manages to pull off the lyrical ending while offering closure and maintaining an air of ambiguity and nuance, proving that the best literature can successfully combine both intimate character portraiture and, shocker this, an actual story. Nonetheless, none of the stories in this collection are for the weak of heart, and while some will reward due attention others remain just a small step away from the lack of self-consciousness that would make them truly resonate. Each offers a rare complexity of character more remarkable for the range of personas Shepard tackles in the collection. Particularly worth reading are the aforementioned "The Zero Meter Diving Team" and "The First South Central Australian Expedition," as well as the very timely look at the brutality of high school masculinity and (not, as one may expect, wholly unrelated) high school football in "Trample the Dead, Hurdle the Weak." A failure to evoke Ancient Greece in "My Aeschylus" is countered by the success of "Hadrian's Wall" and "Sans Farine," and in its first half even the painfully immature "Eros 7" has a few moments of insightful observation. Though father and family issues are beaten to death by the time "Courtesy for Beginners" rolls around, as a standalone story it offers an interesting perspective on these issues, even if it cuts out just before becoming truly powerful. Like You'd Understand, Anyway is, in its way, a tragic collection, bursting with ambition and showcasing an immense talent hampered by conventions of style and woefully inadequate standards for determining merit; regardless, the stories within offer a range of carefully rendered psychological portraits that will evoke in readers sympathy and the feeling that Jim Shepard is so close to crafting something truly magical.

Grade: B+

Book 12: Crusader Nation

2011-05-01T21:26:00.004-04:00

Crusader Nation: The United States in Peace and the Great War, 1898-1920
David Traxel

This book is admirably presented as a broad-reaching antidote to the plague of specificity that so threatens readability in history and other, related fields, and to some degree it succeeds in distilling an under-appreciated and overly simplified era in United States history. Unfortunately, however, though these ambitions for a broad scope are appropriate and occasionally successful, Traxel's effort is marred by often horrid writing, an inexcusable lack of any remotely discerning editorial eye, and an often myopic obsession with anecdotes that more often detract from, rather than strengthen, the seemingly salient points at hand. This complete misunderstanding of not only generally accepted conventions of English grammar but also of ways in which to construct, support, contradict, or even display rudimentary understanding of an argument makes the book almost unreadable at points despite unmistakably good intentions and some very good and important pieces of information buried in the muck. Traxel's attempt at a general history of the Progressive Era is appreciated, but the book lacks sufficient focus to maintain either a cohesive argument or a consistent level of exploratory depth, rendering its attempt to speak for the 22 (or so) years it covers absolutely moot and making its epilogue a truly laughable attempt at retroactive concision.

Traxel's primary problem is that the text is at several levels nearly unreadable. Most substantial works can be expected to have a number of mistakes that simply slipped by copy editors, but the level of grammatical error in Crusader Nation truly transcends reasonable levels. The book often becomes contradictory or, worse, incomprehensible on a sentence level when prepositions are woefully mishandled or missing. In the book's final chapter alone, there are at least five sentences whose conclusions were surely meant for far different assertions than those with which they began, and that these leaps occur in two- or three-clause sentences puts the oversight of author and editor(s) alike beyond reasonable explanation. The confusion engendered by this book's clumsy mishandling of narrative structure echoes Traxel's numerous lexical missteps and omissions, with the use of section and even chapter breaks particularly baffling. While some line breaks are indeed used to shift the course of action or facet of historical development being explored, others seem to be conjured of nowhere and disrupt wholly reasonable lines of inquiry; that these breaks appear in a book where so many incongruous ideas are linked in endless incongruous passages makes the entire idea of consistency laughable and will frustrate readers hoping for a glimmer of consistency. Worse still is an utter lack of understanding regarding the importance and/or use of transitions of any sort. In one particularly galling instance, one chapter's last page included a section break properly used to precede a brisk geographic and chronological departure…that was wholly ignored in the next two(!) chapters and returned to far later. It is certainly not easy to juggle a number of interrelated thematic narrative threads while maintaining a sensible timeline, but though there is no one universally efficient and desirable method for doing so Traxel ably demonstrates a thorough grasp of several terrible ways to attempt the same.

Worse still than these mistakes in general flow are those made by Traxel when deploying his facts, and the number of contradictions in this book is beyond absurd. It is to be understood that a book of this breadth, and particularly one so heavily reliant on anecdotal illustration, may concentrate on providing opposing primary source viewpoints, and the appearance of such in Crusader Nation is certainly encouraging. Here again, however, Traxel manages to take the interesting and intellectually stimulating and turn it into the incomprehensible. Historians may argue over Woodrow Wilson's opinions on balance of power in the government, and likewise his own views may have changed over the course of his lifetime; regardless, to call Wilson a firm states' rights advocate only to laud his belief in a firm, strong, and centralized national executive branch in the same paragraph is careless at best. More likely, given Traxel's enthusiasm for lending partisan credibility to a range of views, is that this and the book's numerous other insane contradictions represent a kind of hedging; what the author does not seem to grasp, however, is that a broad history may carry a certain kind of argument or viewpoint (see, for example, Howard Zinn) or may actually elucidate specific contradictory viewpoints rather than simply presenting them as equally credible and correct.

The text of Crusader Nation is similarly marred by unfounded accusations and an inconsistent use of endnotes and attribution, and though the book's representation of a number of important issues across a broad historical era will necessarily need to make some omissions, the author's choices are often bizarre. Why, for example, concentrate so heavily on journalist Jack Reed? Better yet, if the reason is, as I suspect, Reed's involvement in a number of important battles throughout the era, why not explain this in a brief introductory note or throughout the text? Rather than illuminating his decisions, Traxel inexplicably returns to the same man's experiences time and again, frustrating readers who are unaware of the reasoning behind this decision and who indeed may be justified in thinking it an accident borne of what appears to be a disorganized mind. Subjects appear and disappear with disarming rapidity, and while some subjects get marvelous treatment, other crucial events and movements of the era are neglected entirely or dismissed out of hand. Prohibition and women's suffrage are two particularly notable absences, often alluded to as the author flails away during scattered attempts for argumentation but never explained or given half of a fair shake. Why women's suffrage is only alluded to in a book that often emphasizes the increasing social importance of the gender and of some of its luminaries is, simply put, beyond this reader's understanding.

And yet, amidst the terrible writing and utter lack of organization on any discernible level, the book does have some redeeming qualities. Early attempts to represent various business and political interests surrounding the trust-busting era are handled well, if not particularly so, and treatment of some subjects is particularly illuminating. Workers' history and oft-forgotten struggles of menial laborers to unionize, often with deadly results, arise consistently throughout the book and are placed (though perhaps accidentally) in a larger context of reform and, later, patriotism. Also appreciated is an examination, however clumsily handled, of the importance of Mexican affairs on American interests during the mid-1910s, a subject not usually examined in the context of the First World War but which likely warrants far more attention than is currently afforded it in general public understanding. Nor does Traxel shy away from contentious issues, though the absence of African-Americans, rare mentions of the arts or culture, and a gross oversimplification of speech suppression after the nation's entry into the war will rightfully induce some misgivings. Most illuminating and actually worth praise is Traxel's handling of the opening of World War I as seen via Europe; rather than discarding the first weeks of the conflict as irrelevant due to geographic displacement, the book provides an engrossing description of Europe on the brink and at the onset of the most unimaginably horrifying four years the world had seen. Likewise, a focus on American neutrality remains engaging despite the familiar flaws in Traxel's authorial skills and, while certainly biased and problematic, at least provides a general framework for understanding Stateside opinion and action during the nation's (quasi-)neutral years.

Crusader Nation that are particularly illuminating, and their quality remains at a low enough level that the rest of the text is simply not worth slogging through to find them. A balance of anecdote and more strenuous analysis is well-intentioned but also fails to gain traction as the scales are inevitably tipped toward the irrelevant and overly detailed on one hand and the far too broadly sweeping on the other, proving again the author's good intentions but inability to make good on any of them. Moreover, gross errors and contradictions will appall seasoned historians and do a disservice to readers looking for a more general introduction to the period; even those like myself who are largely unfamiliar with the era and looking for a good general introduction will find many logical and editorial faults. Readers who make it to the book's epilogue will be justified in believing it terribly inconclusive as it provides running commentary on future historical trends that is not particularly tied to any coherent arguments in the foregoing text. Traxel appears to believe that a few allusions to arguments he could (or should) have constructed will provide acceptable substitutions for the arguments themselves, and the book is a failure judged by this epilogue. Plagued by bad writing and an immeasurably insufficient editorial process, Crusader Nation presents a reasonably thorough but poorly constructed and ultimately inadequate view of the Progressive Era that might appeal to the most forgiving of interested readers but whose scant successes are overburdened and far outweighed by a catalog of missteps.

Grade: D+

Book 11: American English: Dialects and Variation

2011-04-22T11:56:00.000-04:00

American English: Dialects and Variation
Walt Wolfram and Natalie Schilling-Estes

Ah, textbooks. Those semester-long providers of endless drudgery and dry, condescending, and repetitive information, with page after page of endless examples and dull prose, will soon be dead to my required reading lists, but here is an example of the good mixed in with the otherwise dominant bad. As a textbook, American English: Dialects and Variation can be expected to run a bit on the dry side, and dry it is indeed, though there is a sly humor that meanders its way through the book and occasionally pops up in unexpected places. Though it is not a book most would choose to read for fun and is certainly not meant for a general audience, the book is engaging and informative, with an exceptional glossary and indispensable appendix of grammatical features discussed throughout the book, making it useful as a reference book beyond the initial run-through. Nor is the prose, dull though it may be, quite a slog. There are plenty of places where it could be more lively, but the authors are careful to introduce new concepts with plenty of illustrative examples and relevant academic studies that clarify potential questions while providing suggestions for further reading. In fact, one of the most useful aspects of the book is the bibliographies and suggested reading that accompany each chapter, providing readers with a vetted list of the linguistic studies that provide the foundation for the book's assertion. This academic honesty and thoughtfulness for the audience is appreciated and echoed in the book's greater organizational scheme, which presents variationist linguistics first through a series of chapters exploring the nature of variation and its potential causes and then moves into specific aspects of variation (race, gender, or age, for example) and, finally, practical applications. These final two chapters, in fact, are the only part of the book that becomes cumbersome for interested readers, as a promise to explore applications of dialect study stalls instead on educational aspects. This follows a very intriguing (and more widely applicable) treatment of the linguistics of standardized testing, and while the information presented on teaching dialects is interesting enough for those particularly interested, the focus is too specific, too drawn out, and does not provide a fitting conclusion to the book. Instead, the authors insert an overt agenda that reaches far beyond the book's general, self-justifying, and reasonable assertion that variation is legitimate and which makes the final chapters not so much a summation as a slog. Regardless of its final failure, however, American English: Dialects and Variation is a remarkably useful and accessible introduction to variation and dialects for the academically inclined and, though dry, efficiently packs a wealth of information and examples into a reasonably slim and easy volume.

Grade: A

Book 10: Lysistrata

2011-04-19T22:31:00.001-04:00

Lysistrata
Aristophanes

It is difficult to enter the study of any ancient literature without a serviceable knowledge of ancient culture, and in that regard it is impossible to separate my reading experience of the Lysistrata from the work of translator Alan H. Sommerstein. Unfortunately, however, this thought occurred to me not afterward in a fit of particular gratitude but, instead, in the midst of reading the book. Sommerstein’s introduction to Aristophanes and his endnotes are immensely useful to readers who, like me, have little experience with Ancient Greece, but his work is sadly transparent throughout the work in numerous missteps and distractions. It is, of course, difficult to display the nuances of dialect, slang, and vulgarity in any work’s non-native language, and the supplementary material within the book indicates that Sommerstein has a firm grasp on the play’s context and creator. Nonetheless, the rendering of Spartan speech in a stereotypical and borderline offensive exaggerated Scottish dialect does not imply the general difference I believe the author was aiming for but, instead, simply makes the group sound, well, Scottish. Various Britishisms that appear throughout this particular translation are forgivable as the dialect is presumably Sommerstein’s own, but the silliness of the Scottish Spartans and of numerous awkward constructions will immediately and forcibly drag American minds away from the text at hand and will induce a pondering of the translator rather than the text itself.

That said, however, Lysistrata is a delightful and surprisingly vulgar play, humorous for modern readers and understandable despite a number of contextual references to Greek culture and history that may not be immediately understood by modern readers. Moreover, the play is at times uproariously hilarious, and its take on the ability of physical desire to trump all human evils is surprisingly cutting even in these enlightened times. Lysistrata is an enjoyable read for its own sake, and Sommerstein’s occasional inadequacy is significantly mitigated by his adeptness at translating the songs of the play’s various choruses, which absolutely shine. The play is well constructed, though the ambiguity of time leaves the plot seeming at times a bit disjointed, and the work is revealing about the context of its creation even if some of that context is obscured either by the fog of history or a particular reader’s own unfamiliarity with the topic. Generally speaking, each character develops his or her own voice, and though the plot can seem a bit silly and gets downright dirty, even for today’s standards, at some points the play contains what is necessary and few distracting embellishments. While some phrases are repeated too often and an undue emphasis is often placed on sex and the naked body, Aristophanes succeeds in creating a lasting play that is readable and relevant millennia after its creation. Though Lysistrata may suffer at the hands of overeager translators, it remains a quick, fun, and surprisingly revealing read for modern readers, though it is certainly not for the faint of heart.

Grade: B+

Book 9: Zot!: The Complete Black and White Collection, 1987-1991

2011-04-12T14:41:00.001-04:00

Zot!: The Complete Black and White Collection, 1987-1991
Scott McCloud

To call Zot! a graphic novel is a bit inaccurate, as this particular collection instead represents the complete run of the black-and-white comic series over a number of years. As a self-contained body of work, however, the collection does portray a number of narrative arcs and presents an addicting fusion of manga-influenced artwork, the classic American superhero tradition, and comics' late-1980s foray into the everyday problems otherwise relegated to more highly regarded types of literature. Though some oblique references to the series' earlier 10-issue color run may be a bit confusing, this particular collection is well-annotated to avoid confusion, and these references and in-jokes are generally of the kind that will enhance longtime readers' experience with the book without greatly hampering those new to the series. In fact, what makes Zot! so appealing across a range of audiences is an elegant mixture of a great historical awareness that contextually situates the comic in a particular point of genre development and a well-developed series of engaging storylines that are well-balanced and that engage a number of topics, themes, and storytelling tones. While there is nothing inherently revolutionary about the collection, it represents a successful attempt to fuse new storytelling styles and techniques in American comics with a delightfully old-fashioned superhero and classic teen coming-of-age angst.

Zot! is a series that is appealing and marvelous despite some very obvious shortcomings. Though McCloud's explanatory essays, which themselves are a welcome addition and are presented helpfully after the storylines in question rather than as spoilers, frequent self-derision regarding the artwork is distracting, though not entirely undeserved. McCloud does, however, call undue extra attention to the inconsistency in his art, which is apparent but which does not greatly hamper the general reading experience. It should be obvious to most readers that the comic is primarily character-driven, and though there is a bit of necessary nuance lacking in taut emotional scenes, his eye for perspective makes his futuristic scenery stand out, particularly as it is rendered in black and white. Moreover, McCloud clearly has a good grasp of the medium and its particular affordances and abilities, and series of panels meant to convey very small changes in expression or gestures may not quite achieve their artistic goals, but are nonetheless effective in representing the effect of what the author/artist is going for. This is, ultimately, what is important about Zot!, which is clearly not intended to survive solely or even mostly on artistic merit but which instead challenges boundaries and is more than sufficiently supported by its storylines, writing, and characters.

In fact, McCloud's constant apologies attempt to atone for problems that are often not even evident. Part of Zot!'s charm is its distinctive artistic style, and the resistance to color illustration allows the content to triumph over the use of superhero cliché. And while McCloud does utilize some character exaggerations that often make the comic seem too earnest, there are signs of author, artist, and character growth over the course of the series. Even the traditional-seeming supervillains are thoughtfully constructed to represent different possibilities for a future gone awry, and McCloud is able to utilize the superhero narrative as a critical device rather than as a narrative fallback. It also helps that he often displays exceptional talent, from an implicit understanding, if not complete mastery, of comics' potential as revolutionary narrative medium to a number of issues nominated for various accolades. McCloud displays an exceptional range. He nails effective political commentary, from the non-threatening De-Evolutionaries, who revert humanity back to monkeys with special ray guns, to the overzealous capitalism of the Blotch. Here, too, are more serious threats to humanity posed by once-human robot Dekko (whose visions are rendered in absolutely stunning artwork) and, most tragically, by technology itself, as personified in 9Jack9, a true "ghost in the machine." The story arc of the same title lingers, its haunting conclusion and surprisingly dark tone aptly setting the stage for the more mature second half of the series. The implicit darkness of Dekko and 9Jack9 will stay with readers, though their last hurrah comes as comic relief as Zot's worthy nemeses come together for a pitch-perfect battle that provides a perfect segway between the series' two main thematic halves while entertaining and rewarding fans.

The concluding batch of stories, which concentrate on our Earth and which do not utilize the portal that facilitates travel to superhero Zot's brilliantly retro-futuristic world, grounds the series and allows it to wrap up in such an effective manner. As the series opens, readers are left to wonder why we shouldn't, after all, want to live in a world whose perfection stems from favorite visions of Golden Age futurists. Early in the book, protagonist and Earth girl Jenny wonders why we might bother to appreciate anything about our world, but as these sentiments are echoed in the series' final lines, they display a depth made possible only by the intervening stories. McCloud is, in some ways, a genius, one who more than makes up for his own acknowledged shortcomings by presenting readers with the familiar in an unfamiliar context, forging meaning out of cliché and elevating comics to a new artistic respectability. Ultimately, Zot!: The Complete Black and White Collection, 1987-1991 has its awkward moments and growing, but the overall effect is a marvelous blend of traditional escapism and real-world relevance that transcends its own limitations to present a wonderful collection of riveting stories that is truly a joy to read.

Grade: A

Book 8: Eugénie Grandet

2011-03-31T22:31:00.001-04:00

Eugénie Grandet

Honoré de Balzac

This installment of Honoré de Balzac's Comédie Humaine promises a realistic look at rural France in the early 19th century, advertising a well-fought contest between two rival families for the hand of an unthinkably rich miser's eligible daughter. Surely this promise will maintain the slowly dwindling hopes of readers as they maneuver through the dense exposition that occupies a good deal of the book's opening stages. Rather than opening directly upon the action, or even alluding to action, Balzac takes readers through an agonizingly monotonous and just slightly tedious history of Felix Grandet and the acquisition of his millions. The lot makes for a fascinating look at post-Revolutionary French economics and certainly paints a story of a very keen, very cunning man, but without anything to break the tedium, readers whose strong suits lie outside economics may find themselves lost in the details. The story shows a bit more promise once events catch up to the present, but even then it seems unsettled and a bit unsure of what, exactly, the story is. Various framing devices suggest that the story centers around the potential suitors of Eugénie, and indeed this is initially borne out in some of the book’s funniest moments, but a series of events detracts from that narrative and makes the book seem to be something else altogether. This is, of course, fine if the desired outcome is a history of Eugénie Grandet, but readers are justified in feeling a bit misled by expectations of a different sort altogether.

For modern eyes, the book also suffers from its location in literary history. Balzac’s idea of a three dimensional heroine is rather flat, and though the injustices suffered by Eugénie at the hands of the various men in the book are effectively enraging, she is hardly a character to root for. Even Grandet himself barely transcends stereotype, relegated to the part of an uncompromising miser but somehow spared full indignation in a number of awkward moments. It is difficult to see where Balzac stands in all of this, and difficult to see what he is driving at as the novel time and again changes its tone and focus; the novel is undoubtedly about the history of a particular provincial family, but it is a bit more difficult to get a handle on what aspects of this family readers are meant to focus on. This overall incoherence masks a dry wit that is at times quite entertaining and which, one suspects, would be well-suited to some of the narrative paths the novel embarks upon, only to hesitate and retreat into a dull stupor. Within the jumble, there are also some interesting observations about money and miserliness, and about gender relations in early France. The book is undoubtedly a valuable historical artifact, but it can be tough going for some modern readers as it presupposes some familiarity with economic concepts and nuances of French society and, more importantly, as it dances around its themes without really settling upon a few to explore in further depth. At book’s end, it is difficult to tell what, precisely, readers are supposed to get out of the experience.

The experience isn’t all unpleasant, however, and there are some good points to the book, most notably when Balzac displays a bit of exasperation at a particular habit. Neither Parisians nor provincials are entirely immune from his barbs, and though they are small and easy to miss they break up what can otherwise be a dull or confusing narrative thread. Likewise, the hints of plot that emerge occasionally from the atmosphere induce readers to keep reading, if never quite paying off, and the book certainly illuminates many of the facts of life in both rural and urban France in the early 19th century. Abundant details, however, are lumped together and easily become meaningless, lost among the muddle. Ultimately, however, though the (male) characters (and, perhaps unsurprisingly, a female servant) are generally well-drawn and the plot threatening interest at various intervals, the book might prove more trouble than it's worth. Eugénie Grandet is an excellent historic artifact but the book's lack of pace may prove too dull and disconnected for many readers.

Grade: B

Book 7: In the Land of Invented Languages

2011-03-10T15:19:00.002-05:00

In the Land of Invented Languages: A Celebration of Linguistic Creativity, Madness, and Genius

Arika Okrent

Though it irks my inherent cataloger, the fact that this lovely book bears the library's "Fiction" sticker is quite apt, as it deals with that purest realm of fiction, the invented language. As much as our own natural language patterns evoke within us and to our conversational partners a sense of who we are, it quickly becomes apparent that life In the Land of Invented Languages is far from unbiased, much to the chagrin of the intrepid language inventors that form the core of Okrent's engaging, humorous book. Concentrating on broad trends in language invention but adapting a narrower focus to zoom in on particular iterations of certain larger schemas about language and, by extension, the world, the book neatly falls somewhere between historical survey and case studies. Though this form naturally suits the subject matter (it is, after all, difficult enough to grasp the basics of any given language, much less to understand its mechanics well enough to place it in historical or linguistic context), a balance is not always struck and the book seems to lack overall structure despite the author's clearly sound instincts. A desire to provide examples and to entertain betrays Okrent as each of the book's sections begins with an individual anecdote, often tracking a certain language inventor, a practice good for drawing readers into the action straightaway but which is executed here so effectively and to so much depth that the inevitable withdrawals toward the larger picture inevitably seem abrupt. There are few transitions between chapters within broader sections, and where they do exist they don't quite make sense; it seems wasteful, for example, for the second section to dive straight into Okrent's (hilarious) recollections of her recent stint at an Esperanto convention only to abandon that language for several chapters. The thematic threads that link each section's eventual redemptive chapter with its neighbors and with its opener are thoughtful and rendered well throughout each segment, but the transitions are apt to induce vertigo. The trick works for the book's introduction and concluding chapter, but the effect is, sadly, not scalable.

In the Land of Invented Languages actually is. The book is nothing short of delightful as the author proudly embraces the oddities that define those people crazy enough to invent languages, crazy enough to learn or use them, and the complete lunatics who find all of this intriguing enough to embark upon a book project. The scope of invented language history is massive, and though it the book's primary exhibits are obviously trimmed off of a far larger whole, its focus can be awfully specific, occasionally at the cost of greater elucidation. Okrent does, again, clearly have the right instincts in grouping trends together and placing them within their respective historical paradigms, illustrating them thoughtfully and peppering the combination with the truly weird anecdotes she seems to have a nose for and obviously enjoys. The book, however, feels at times like a loosely tied whole and is in danger of falling apart, united more by the author's enthusiasm than by some small, thematically-minded touches that would serve to make the book much more coherent for linguistic newbies.

Strange, then, that the book is a genuine pleasure to read. Okrent’s obvious enthusiasm for the material combines with an appropriately skeptical eye to create a book that is full of pep and which successfully deploys an array of zingers. It is obvious that the work is, to a large extent, a labor of love, but it is one deployed with a sense of underlying purpose and humor. Nor does it lack all technical sophistication; while the book is far from a dry academic exploration of language invention, it contains enough of a technical vocabulary to be useful to those more versed in the language of linguistics. Importantly, however, the material is absolutely accessible, with linguistic nods a bonus for interested readers and spanning a number of topics that should be of interest to audiences various and sundry. There is a bit of inevitable history that informs various linguistic choices, some geography and study of perceptions of Chinese scripts, and a range of sociological considerations. Okrent seeks to place invented languages in both the context of their historical era as well as the particular concerns and motivations of their creators, and in the process she delivers a thought-provoking collection of individual case studies that begs, but never desperately, relevant larger questions. In the Land of Invented Languages is a witty, engaging book that makes up for its organizational anarchy with interesting, well-delivered content.

Grade: A-

Book 6: If the South Had Won the Civil War

2011-02-16T21:42:00.000-05:00

If the South Had Won the Civil War
MacKinlay Kantor

The alternate history genre that arises from the everlasting intrigue of "what if" is, really, inherent throughout all manner of fictional stories, from those that project a certain understanding onto the otherwise "real" world to the tales of galaxies far, far away from our own. If the South Had Won the Civil War is, however, an example in the vein one would expect from the genre, as amply evidenced in its title. If ever it is appropriate to judge a book not by its cover but from its title alone, MacKinley Kantor's effort is the epitome of such easily-judged literature. With a point of departure originating from the game-changing Union victories at Vicksburg and Gettysburg in July 1863, the book traces the brief continuation of the war and its aftermath until the time of publication, 1961. While there is nothing particularly shocking about the book, as it seems to exist primarily as a series of interesting postulations rather than as an exploration of Kantor's own reality, it is clearly well-thought out and dressed wonderfully.

That the book is engaging at all speaks to its wonderful engagement with its central conceit, and those times when the book goes a bit off script are jarring but in the amusing, overly explained way peculiar to alternate history. Posed as a brief centennial history written in 1961 (a nod to Kantor's own publication date), the book is complete with occasional invented footnotes and little details that flesh out its reality and at its best when subtly dropping sly hints to its core audience of Civil War aficionados. Unfortunately, the book does include the familiar, stereotypical traps of the genre, and while the posing of historical immutability at its introduction successfully and immediately lures readers with its camouflaged irony, the author offers numerous asides to the audience that do not play nearly as well. These nods to the narrator's own "what if" scenarios are few enough in number to be more annoying than actually troublesome, though they temporarily pull readers out of the narrative context and are particularly aggravating for readers who are less familiar with the original history's own particulars.

In Kantor's case, these winks tend to err on the side of tolerability because his knowledge of history is obvious through his meticulous concern to detail. The book is small but possesses a remarkable depth for those who have the background to recognize the many changed details within the book that characterize its wartime segment. Indeed, these are so numerous and trifling that readers less versed in the storied history of the 1860s may feel at times hard-pressed to continue amid the barrage of minor details that seems to reinforce such reader's claims of ignorance. Regardless, the general sketch of events hangs together well enough that the most meticulous portions of the book are worth its post-war vision of a tri-partite North America. It is here most obvious that Kantor has given his scenario a good deal of serious thought, despite a bizarre, wholly unlikely treatment of Lincoln's death. The post-war implications for racial segregation are briefly explained but not dodged, and indeed there are some sentences that seem to originate from a later sensibility than that of 1961 (I had to double-check the publication date after reading what I believed to be a sarcastic reference to presidential resignations), as well as the expected (but intelligently done) cameo appearance of the real-world Cold War. Despite a somewhat pedantic ending, the book satisfies with its enthusiasm and consistency. If the South Had Won the Civil War is a surprisingly rich novella, with bountiful rewards for knowledgeable readers on the subject and enough verve to sustain the merely curious.

Grade: A-

Book 5: Death in Venice

2011-02-12T19:18:00.002-05:00

Death in Venice
Thomas Mann

Immortalized for many by the few final moments of its famous film adaptation, Death in Venice is an intriguing, slightly inaccessible look at beauty and the intoxicating power of raw emotion over otherwise rational individuals. The inevitable decline of protagonist Gustav von Aschenbach is at once flamboyant and timid, maintaining an uneasy balance marvelously evoked by Mann when his full attentions are on the task at hand. Though frequent philosophical digressions routinely adorn the text and leave little room for ambiguity, they are often detached from the story at hand and seem to operate independently of Aschenbach. The intention behind these detours is pretty clearly to illuminate the depth of complications arising from Aschenbach's solitude and his growing fascination with a pretty young thing, but Mann's extended meditations on the eternal conflicts between the desire for beauty and truth in art, between the intuitive and the rational, or between the unspoken and overt come at the heavy cost of readers' attention and interest. These passages are illuminating but demanding both in their placement surrounding, rather than really integrated into, the narrative and in the richness of their topics. Death in Venice may be a short novella, but it requires far more attention than most novels I have read, and any lapse is likely to send the reader into a vortex of inscrutable confusion. That the book is short should not be surprising, given the small scope of a plot (insofar as plot exists), that feels abbreviated even after its natural concision is taken into account. The result is that the slender volume feels quite inflated with the author's insights and editorializing.

Not quite a character study and not quite a philosophical allegory, the novella flails a bit while attempting to strike a balance between protagonist Gustav von Aschenbach's increasingly obsessive, and not a small bit creepy, infatuation with a young teenager and Mann's observations on the nature of the human psyche. Despite lacking interest for a general audience, the book does display some deft skill. There are the usual clever turns of phrase that decorate most esteemed literary works, but what is best conveyed throughout the novella is a sense of foreboding, at once overt and subtle. Mann is not shy about setting the tone and deploying an array of repetitive cues to signify Aschenbach's most important observations; when these do come, they are not despite their obviousness in any way obtrusive, and indeed it is refreshing to get inside the fictional writer's head rather than his real-life author's.

Mann may be forgiven for hitting the theme heavily in those moments when the story advances, and indeed his consistency is refreshing and grounds the text after so many distractions. His view of plagued Venice is deeply unsettling, but he is able to convey strong, severe images of decay without relying heavily on meaningless exposition. The inevitable sense of deterioration accelerates meaningfully with the plot, though these tandem developments could have been handled with more skill, and the overall effect of the novel is as deeply intellectual as intended. Like the book itself, the month or so that occupies the bulk of the story moves by with a kind of dreamlike quality, each revelation fading into another until an irrevocable decision is reached and a fate duly sealed. Though it is difficult to actually read and enjoy due to a surplus of attention to unwieldy intellectualism, Death in Venice is obviously crafted with skill and offers rewards for readers who will have a chance to probe its surprising density in greater depth.

Grade: B

Book 4: Northanger Abbey

2011-02-06T22:31:00.000-05:00

Northanger Abbey
Jane Austen

Because the early nineteenth century is so far behind us, it easy to forget that the world of Jane Austen may in fact bear a striking resemblance to our own, if not in its particulars then certainly in some of the tendencies of human nature. To misread Jane Austen as predominately predisposed to epic period romances is perhaps to do her a slight disservice; though it is primarily concerned with romance and the follies and glories of love, Northanger Abbey is a hilarious, biting satire that should be lumped neither with Jonathan Swift nor with Fabio-adorned Harlequin romances. Set in Bath and then in the English countryside, the book is one of many faces, a richly textured work pleasing through both its social comedy facade and its frequent, finely pointed but never entirely mean-spirited wit. While Austen’s more salient points are offered by and large with little subtlety, her humor is effective and only rarely disrupts the plot. An offhand remark on the tendencies of gentlemen when wooing likely prospects often serves not only to satirize the silliness of enforced formality (and resulting uselessness) in courtship but also to disguise a more insidious, subtle remark about gender relations in the early nineteenth century. Blatancy is employed as a disguise and a diversionary tactic throughout the book, and readers will find themselves rewarded if they seek out meaning between the sharpest barbs.

Those lines themselves, however, offer no shortage of amusement and are reasonably unpredictable, though the ultimate conclusion will not surprise any seasoned readers. Though the novel suffers a bit from its awkward transition between the high society follies of Bath and the superbly gothic expectations of Northanger Abbey, its story is just cohesive enough to hang together. More importantly, nary a plot element passes by without comment, whether overt or subtle, from the author. From the opening introduction of her protagonist, Austen cranks the irony up to eleven, making comments throughout on the suitability of “heroine” as an appropriate descriptor of poor, naïve Catherine Morland. The author is full of snark, but is able to deploy it with enough subtlety that the novel is rarely overwhelming and, when overwhelming, is often at least amusing (a page or so about the merit of novels is entertaining and revelatory but ultimately misplaced in this particular narrative). Its population of characters displays an effective mixture of the expected and the nuanced, with caricatures such as Isabella and John Thorpe playing so effectively to type that they are nothing short of delightful. Indeed, Austen is at her best when openly riffing on the established norms of high society and of gothic novels, subverting each while deploying them effortlessly to create a novel that is, in some sense, at odds with itself. More than a period piece, more than another canned, predictable romance, and more than a bitter satirical jab, the book is enjoyable for its surface features as well as its deeper implications. All told, Northanger Abbey is nothing if not fun, often provoking audible laughter and wearing its age well by providing contemporary criticism of nineteenth century faults we are now quick to point out.

Grade: A

Book 3: A Geography of Time

2011-01-26T16:04:00.007-05:00

A Geography of Time: The Temporal Misadventures of a Social Psychologist
Robert Levine

The perfect nonfiction book may be a simply unattainable product: the few with more than passably good writing and fluid arguments are often distinguished by dry subject matter and delivery, while many with blockbuster concepts are undone by a complete inability to string together a decent sentence or two thousand. The latter are all the more tragic because they leave readers with the lingering feeling that an opportunity has been sorely missed, all the more important in nonfiction because, unlike good plots, good theses and interesting ideas often have few experts and the books that espouse particularly intriguing ideas often owe their genesis to the author alone. It is difficult to read A Geography of Time as anything but a painfully missed opportunity, an exhibition not of Robert Levine’s truly interesting take on the human condition but instead on all of the crucial errors he makes in attempting to create a high-impact pop-psychology bestseller out of his own experience as a Very Serious Scientist, Thank You. The result is a muddle of memoir, data, and that particular breed of arrogance showcased best when one is attempting hardest to avoid such accusations. This wouldn’t be so infuriating if Levine was writing a run-of-the-mill clunker, but the unique importance and ubiquity of time, his chosen subject, makes this painful result all the more tragic.

Levine wastes no time in demonstrating many of the ways a well-conceived book can veer dramatically off course, opening his preface with a personal anecdote about the flow of time in Brazil. This technique, of course, is a brilliant way to draw readers into an otherwise heavily fact-oriented narrative, but it becomes immediately apparent that Levine is no storyteller. The observations fueled by his recollections go incredibly wayward as he first attempts to embrace cultural relativity and then suddenly realizes his need to play to his audience, couching his language in ironically indicting, careful non-judgmental terms that play up his ignorance not only of Brazil, but of his audience as well. Levine clumsily dances around real issues throughout his book, absolutely unwilling to take a stand while simultaneously pretending to and offering value judgments where he promises objectivity. It is difficult to say what he is arguing at any given moment, particularly as evidence often contradicts facts due to his mishandling of English. Time and again, arguments are undercut while readers can only sigh and try to construct what Levine meant to say instead. In one particularly hilarious example, Levine reprints a story of a medieval duel left uncontested after one participant failed to show by noon and the other duly declared him a coward. What the author does not seem to realize is that the resulting intensive court inquiry as to the precise time of the challenger’s own departure does not, in fact, illustrate an "indifference" to time; rather, it demonstrates what appears to be his original point, that the understanding of time could be very fluid in a world without reliable, coordinated clocks. An indifferent court would have placated the duelist and needn’t have bothered ascertaining the precise time that the duel was abandoned.

This may appear to be a minor quibble, but this gross misunderstanding of evidence is just about the only consistency of Levine’s book. Despite being ordered into reasonably logical sections, the book bounces back and forth between subjects, repeating stories and observations and wholly unable to knit anything together at all cohesively on any level. Paragraphs are just as often non-sequiturs as enlightening follow-ups to those preceding, and the inconsistent deployment of line breaks and headings renders them almost pointless. The writing itself is often condescending and remarkably ignorant for all of the traveling Levine has done, his observations hollow in their inevitably numerous iterations and his eagerness to please undermining any scientific credibility he may have had.

Simply put, this book is ultimately undone by ambition and good intentions. It is admirable that Levine himself admits some of the flaws of a given data set, but after spending pages describing why, exactly, his data may be untrustworthy readers may be forgiven for failing to give it any credit at all. The author’s decision to include data this unreliable is questionable at best and perfectly illustrates the confusion that rests at the heart of this book. Levine wants so earnestly to write a pop psychology bestseller that his intent bleeds through where any semblance of a consistent thesis or even a reasonably reliable tone cannot. The book is at once organized thematically, chronologically, geographically, and not at all. Most galling, the end result of a globe-spanning exploration of the flexibility of human time perception yields no useful results. Interesting observations, such as the power associated with making people wait for you or the differences between individualistic and community-based societies, are illustrated with the same few bland anecdotes or are basically ignored as Levine remembers something shiny he either forgot to mention when it was relevant or simply cannot wait to divulge.

For all his misdirection and stumbling, Levine has constructed something useful. His enthusiasm for and appreciation of time as an under-recognized but crucial factor of the human experience is unquestionable and should motivate future scholars to follow up on his more interesting ideas. Unfortunately, Levine simply lacks the finesse necessary to make his ideas coherent and the good judgment to edit, well, anything. There is nothing wrong with embracing cultural relativity, and his decision to do so follows naturally from his experiences, but some things are just incomparable: it is beyond appalling that Levine quite seriously equates habitual Brazilian lateness with honor killing of women caught in adultery; this is no exaggeration. With that gem, Levine erodes any credibility he may have had only halfway through the book and readers can only grimace and prepare for the barrage of ill-supported, self righteous assertions that populate the text. A Geography of Time has the basic elements of success with a unique and important subject, combination of personal experience and scientific data, and the author’s unwavering enthusiasm; unfortunately, the last becomes so overwhelming that any useful insight can only be gained through sheer persistence as a reader wades through the muddled mess.

Grade: D

Book 2: Austerlitz

2011-01-14T13:06:00.001-05:00

Austerlitz

W. G. Sebald

It is difficult for me to make a kind of assessment of this book. On one hand, it is lyrical, poetic, moving; on the other, plodding, confusing, and pompous. Sebald has a gift for language, deployed wonderfully through translator Anthea Bell, and there are times when this talent is so luminous that it masks a digression or a lack of plot. At others, however, no amount of lyrical beauty can persuade the reader that the text at hand is anything but the author's indulgence, prioritizing a favored technique or Daring Literary Idea over the needs of the story being told which, all things considered, is quite a powerful one. Peppered with thematic and stylist diversions and distractions, the story is at heart a powerful exploration of identity and anonymity, strangely intertwined and the driving forces between both the erratic style and half-dreamed substance of the book. Constructed primarily of the patchwork narrative of Jacques Austerlitz, told to an unknown acquaintance over a period of thirty years, Austerlitz retraces individual and collective disturbances caused by the Holocaust and the ways in which the past can shape how one views oneself as an individual or within the context of a larger community.

The ethereal nature of identity, its fluidity and inescapable insecurity, are captured effectively by many of the same literary methods that often make the book a chore to read. The displacement of the primary narrative, accomplished through ambiguous, unnamed first-person narration and deliberately evoked through self-referential third-hand quotation, makes the act of reading the book in some ways as unstable as its original telling. Constructions that call attention to the story's murky provenance are frequent and, though jarring, create a chord of thematic harmony as the narrator relays information across several channels of communication ("He said, Austerlitz continued…"). Though these reminders highlight how difficult it often is to remember who, exactly, is narrating at a given moment, the ambiguity reflects the questions of certainty that drive the story. Austerlitz is, in many ways, a man without a history, and his gradual uncovering of the past serves both to solidify his identity and to make him feel increasingly out of place in the world. Sebald's exploration of this dual-pronged result of historical inquiry is an extremely perceptive and appropriate method by which to examine the horrors of the Holocaust and the insanity that occupied Europe throughout the early mid-20th century.

Just as Europe could not, and to a certain degree still cannot, reconcile its past with its present identity, so Austerlitz re-traces his own history, both aimlessly and with an inevitable, inextinguishable desire to progress further. The journey, in Sebald's hands, is both painful and strangely beautiful. There is a lyrical sadness to the book and a heavy weight to both its words and images, many of which are reprinted in stark black and white throughout the text; frequent foreshadowing creates an air of constant slight unease paired with a desire to see where, exactly, the story is heading. The novel in its construction echoes brilliantly its theme, yet it is often cumbersome and seems to be intentionally difficult, much to its detriment. One sentence stretches on needlessly over the course of five or six pages until, exhausted under its own weight, it collapses and allows readers to glaze over. Moreover, the story is presented in large chunks of prose, without chapter distinctions and suffering for want of more than about five paragraph breaks. The structure may mirror the course of the conversation and the neverending flow of history and relational thinking, but a constant battering of words and images and ideas will exhaust many readers and will distract from the greater importance and, yes, beauty of the book. Austerlitz is, as is its central theme, in many ways a paradox, a brilliantly conceived, brilliantly constructed, and brilliantly written novel that suffers from the burden of its care and its uncompromising capitulation to form over substance and readability.

Grade: A-

Book 1: The View from the Seventh Layer

2011-01-07T23:55:00.003-05:00

The View from the Seventh Layer
Kevin Brockmeier

A week into the new year, I've finished my first book, Kevin Brockmeier's incredible story collection The View from the Seventh Layer. I was first introduced to his work after "The Year of Silence" was published in a Best American Short Stories collection, and the stories that accompany it in this collection showcase a similar emotional sensibility and Brockmeier's immense and unique talents. Though the collection is drips with the overly artistic tradition of MFA programs, Brockmeier saturates his stories with beautiful prose, and his language floats along effortlessly. This is a remarkable achievement especially in his stories that use nontraditionally "literary" genres, and his introduction of fantasy and science fiction elements only does a service to genre work, which Brockmeier shows can be every bit as subtle and well-constructed as mainstream literary darlings. There are moments in each and every one of these stories, even those that tug a bit too hard on the heartstrings, where a turn of phrase stops the reader dead in their tracks due to its sincerity, sorrow, or hope. Language is clay in Brockmeier's hands, and he is able to shape it precisely as he wishes with some of the best talent I've been fortunate to come across.

His stories aren't bad, either. The collection beautifully navigates that emotional space between sorrow and hope, so brilliantly interconnected that a single sentence can make the reader realize that a story is now operating in one realm rather than another. The effect of these already wonderful stories is enriched exponentially when they are allowed to marinade a bit, and their occasional surface simplicity unfolds to expose their true richness and complexity. There is a definite playfulness and humor to most of these stories, but this is balanced nicely with a hint of sorrow and, ultimately, these stories reflect reality with their mixture of the inalterability of the past and, yet, a delicate hope for the future.

In a collection with this much quality, singling out standout stories is akin to reciting the table of contents, but it is worthwhile to note Brockmeier's incredible range. "A Fable Ending in the Sound of a Thousand Parakeets" sets the tone for the collection with its final chord, and with its cousin "A Fable with a Photograph of a Glass Mobile on the Wall" adopts an overtly didactic story form and strips it of its overtness, showing rather than telling and being in the end far more illustrative and effective. "Andrea Is Changing Her Name" is a testament to love and loss that does not rely on the familiar clichés but instead shapes them to better reflect the layered complexity of emotions that unfold over time. Most daring is "The Human Soul as a Rube Goldberg Device: A Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Story," which indeed adopts that structure but which uses it to make a greater point about the human condition, with a delightful science fiction twist ending. This story, like some of the others, is entertaining as it unfolds but it is only after a bit of distance that its true meaning really hits home; this is, I believe, a mark of great literature, and these are stories that will stay with readers if not in their details then in their remarkable insight. Kevin Brockmeier shows that The View from the Seventh Layer is indeed one of loss and longing, but, ultimately, one of love.

Grade: A

2010 Year in Review

2010-12-31T17:29:00.003-05:00

What an eventful year for me, 2010, as I completed half of my graduate degree and took a trip to Ireland for, well, the entire summer. This distinctly colored my reading habits as I looked to read both nonfiction books in preparation and native literature of all kinds once I arrived. I was able to get my hands on the last book in the Millennium trilogy before it came out in the States, but I didn't read it until I was back on the shores of Lake Michigan (literally; I read some of it on the beach). Another prominent influence on my reading habits this year was my continued involvement in a science fiction and fantasy reading group, for which I am continually grateful as the selections take me in unanticipated directions and always toward something interesting, for better or worse. I also finished watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer and, therefore, there are a few selections from related books, as well as a couple of books obviously prompted by the World Cup. I didn't manage as many books from the 1,001 list as I would have liked, but I did knock off a few and, having read 59 books despite a December no-show, have kept apace with my book-a-week goal.

Next year, I want to knock out more 1,001 books and, hopefully, I'll be in a solid, full-time job with a healthy public library nearby to continue my voracious habits. This year, much of my reading took place in the summer when I hadn't much else to do and was limited by a lack of income. The experience was well worth it, and my knowledge and love of libraries continued to grow, especially as these same limited funds effectively prevented me from acquiring many new books (to say nothing of increasingly sparse shelf space). Some of my favorite books of the year were The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay, which well-deserved its Pulitzer; Alone in Berlin, a Dublin book club selection from Hans Fallada; The Ball Is Round, a superb history of soccer; and The City & The City, a book made far richer with invigorating discussion. There were some misses along the way, though I didn't read anything truly dreadful, and I believe I kept a good mix of genres, branching into mystery with Agatha Christie's classic And Then There Were None, which I was pleased to find as superlatively good as its reputation indicates. My main goal for the upcoming year is to focus more on reading roughly a book per week rather than reaching the proper number; December 2010 was an epic fail for my reading habits, and I look to do better starting, well, tomorrow.

Book 59: Talk to the Hand

2010-12-02T23:11:00.000-05:00

Talk to the Hand: The Utter Bloody Rudeness of the World Today, or Six Good Reasons to Stay Home and Bolt the Door
Lynne Truss

Readers coming to this book from Truss's previous bestseller Eats, Shoots & Leaves will be at once delighted with and, perhaps, slightly disappointed in this follow-up. Truss brings her trademark uncompromising crankiness to problems with rudeness and public interactions in modern society, with mixed results. Truss is occasionally at her hilarious, cynical best in this book, but there is an overwhelming feeling of desperation throughout the book, as if she is trying so hard to be crotchety that she forgets what she is saying and relies instead on the crankiest possible wording and reaction, to the point where she repeatedly undermines her own arguments. One moment she is celebrating an action and the next deriding it; should we be mindful of people's privacy or indignant that they don't want to interact with us? Truss doesn't come down on one side or the other, and in such an opinionated work as this the waffling quickly becomes annoying. This, coupled with the over-the-top tone and prose, often means the book feels like a gimmick, which is unfortunate because Truss is occasionally very funny. Her continuously offended tone works with the subject matter, but is stretched to the point of breaking the flow and effectiveness of what she is saying; the book becomes at some point a caricature of itself. Talk to the Hand is an occasionally witty look at some societal patterns of rudeness in the modern age, but ultimately the book is too self-conscious to be much more pleasant than grating.

Grade: C

Book 58: At Home

2010-11-26T22:01:00.002-05:00

At Home
Bill Bryson

I have read and enjoyed several of Bill Bryson's books, which successfully use humor and, where necessary, solid research to make science and history fun for the average reader or to craft unique topical memoirs. In At Home, he turns his talents from the geological timespan of the entire history of the universe (though much abridged) to a more focused look at the last hundred and sixty years or so. More particularly, he focuses on household objects, the myriad customs and objects that affect us every day and which we may not ever really consider due not to their obscurity (as may be the case with the Yellowstone caldera) but due to their omnipresence. Indeed, it is the absence of these things that startles us and yet, as Bryson points out in his introduction, they hardly seem to merit any special attention. The result in this specificity is a strangely unfocused collection, which blatantly and often violates some of the rules Bryson appears to lay out in his heading. He says, for example, that the book's focus is meant to be on the years from 1851-2009, but the histories he relates often date back far further than that. This is fine as the historical notes add significant depth to his stories, but it is unclear why the first chapter of the book focuses so heavily on 1851 when that focus does not successfully set up the following anecdotes.

This scattershot vision permeates the book, which is brilliant in overall structure but severely lacking in the minutiae. Bryson structures the book's chapters around the various rooms in his English house, which is at once a clever and natural way to organize a book about household objects. Bryson is also able to use these rooms in unforeseen ways: while the kitchen is, obviously, about food and dining, the cellar chapter focuses on building materials, and the bedroom on childbirth and death. These all make sense in retrospect, and though the connections are occasionally tenuous they make enough sense and allow Bryson to explore more facets of domestic history. He does not, however, stick to his stated topics, and many topics pop up throughout many chapters in unexpected and often distracting ways. The book maintains an oddly steadfast fascination with English manor architecture, which is interesting and perhaps deserving of its own chapter, but which feels distinctly like a disjointed subplot as architects pop up sporadically and as readers are expected to recall arcane details from earlier chapters. This is bizarre, as it very precisely undermines the point of the room-by-room structure. English countryside architecture is certainly fascinating, but without meaningful visual aids it is dreadfully misplaced in this book as Bryson seems to simply throw in stories he finds interesting for their own sake, with no eye toward the grander narrative he's attempting to create.

This lack of organization and focus is shameful, as Bryson is often at his funniest. Though he has a tendency to overly romanticize The Wide Arc of History (he is constantly referring to people as "the first/last man/woman/person in history to do x") and to wander far and wide from his own stated path, he has an eye for the interesting and bizarre and a knack for relating these stories with the wit they deserve. Bryson's prose is, when it isn't trying too hard to be, gut-bustingly hilarious and efficient for casual readers. For those of a more academic stripe or for those whose interest is piqued by a particular room, Bryson often mentions his sources and includes a much-appreciated bibliography of recommended reading, along with the research notes available at his website. Despite its missteps in construction and wandering attention span, the book does provide a lighthearted and informative history of those things we hardly take time to consider. It is obvious that Bryson has done proper research and he is usually able to deliver his punchlines without an overbearing sense of his own hilarity. At Home is, despite its flaws, an accessible and enjoyable history of domestic life that can be easily enjoyed by both more serious and more relaxed readers.

Grade: B+

Book 57: The City & The City

2010-11-12T16:53:00.013-05:00

The City & The City
China Miéville

All around us, every day, are worlds we choose, whether consciously or not, to "unsee" despite being on some level aware of their existence. Whole undercurrents of society constantly escape our notice and, though there is much psychologically at stake in preserving our comfortable notions of the world and how it is built, imagine adding a nationalist ideology into the mix; imagine, for a moment, that the community you choose to ignore is, instead, a bustling metropolis countering the slow industrial decay of your home country. China Miéville takes this premise literally, places a hardboiled mystery into a dual city occupying the same physical space, and explores the ways in which we build the world around us. That he does all this without the heavy-handed moralizing one would expect from such a heavy starting point is remarkable, and the overall product and its lingering aftertaste greatly overshadow its faults. For all of the book's fantastic pretensions, Miéville's choice to use a hardboiled mystery plot fuses cold, hard reality with the more whimsical elements of the book and, upon reflection, makes the book much more realistic and delivers an aftershock upon reflection that changes one's perception of the book entirely. It is interesting, then, that the main fault of the book lies in its most mystical elements, which seem over-played and far too confusing to be of any real service to the book. The presence of a mystical force is necessary for the book to function, and indeed resonates deeply upon reflection, but the way it is handled makes a first and/or careless read more of a burden than it ought to be with such well-constructed and otherwise well-handled material.

Overall, however, this book is truly amazing. The setting is utterly original, and revealed in just the right doses to keep readers abreast of what is happening but still allowing understanding to develop in an organic way that quite alters perceptions of both readers and characters by the book's conclusion. Miéville delivers a fantasy with a solid footing in reality, one that does not preach but rather seeps into the reader's consciousness at its conclusion or upon reflection. This is a book to be savored after it is finished, a book that requires reflection without actually asking for or requiring the necessary sustained mental effort. The City & The City will reward both readers who come for the fantasy/noir combination and those who want to probe a bit deeper into the world that is truly represented by the two cities, and what their secrets and the secrets of their strange intersections may mean in our own shared reality.

Grade: A

Book 56: The View from Castle Rock

2010-11-01T11:52:00.008-04:00

The View from Castle Rock
Alice Munro

Alice Munro is very nearly universally hailed as one of the finest short story writers of this time, and over the course of her career and various collections she has only come to build upon her outstanding reputation. It is clear that Munro has a keen eye for the short and sweet and an even better eye for a clever, deeply revelatory turn of phrase. It is boggling, then, how she manages to take an intimately personal set of linked stories, whose full arc plays out over the course of the book, and make them routinely dull, tedious, and uninteresting, though her use of atmosphere borders on brilliant. Even with that said, there certainly isn't a dearth of interesting, vibrant, and original material within the book; it seems, however, that for every relevant plot point or clever observation there are numerous hurdles that must be jumped to reach the next one. Most of these stories try, unsuccessfully, to balance two or more plots, often strained across generations; while there is nothing inherently wrong in this approach, and while it is an appropriate ambition for an extended family history, Munro seems to deflect attention just when the present story becomes interesting. Suddenly, dramatically, the lens whirls in a desperate attempt to focus as the reader's head is left spinning. It is almost as if Munro, the master of the short story, would have been better off structuring this book as a memoir, as it is done a great disservice in its present, scattered form. There are enough recurring elements and, understandably, enough links and consistent characters between the stories to justify a slight re-working and the construction of a more collected narrative than that brazenly attempted, but ultimately missed, in the book as it is.

The structural problems inherent in the collection mask and occasionally overwhelm its strengths, which come more often and far more consistently at its more intimate levels. Though plots and stories divide and collide at an often furious and frantic pace, Munro is able to construct compelling characters, even allowing her estimation of herself to slip into the tolerably objective. Her depictions of the pleasant familiarity- and accompanying constriction- of closely-bound families and social groups are poignant and effortlessly effective, along with her prose, which flows with ease despite often lacking particularly interesting or relevant subject matter. Among the jumbled storylines of the book are moments of clarity and delightful observation that immediately satisfy, only to remind the reader that so much of the book is bogged down by its weighty ambitions and, yes, its past. Despite a glut of thought and heavy construction, then, the collection is able to provide some satisfaction and enjoyment, though in its component pieces rather than its as a haphazard whole. An admirable singularity of purpose mitigates the ultimate failure to cohere, and the author's ability to see intimately into the private lives of a variety of characters is not always undermined by the stubborn, stale potholes in which they often become stuck. Showing a remarkable range, Munro is successfully able to evoke a number of convincing lives throughout a number of historical periods home and abroad and ties them together to produce a broad and far-ranging family history. Its ambitions are a dreadful mis-fit with its form, but somehow and despite itself, A View from Castle Rock forges an engaging,(if slightly overwrought) whole out of internally disparate material.

Grade: B

Book 55: The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

2010-10-21T16:48:00.009-04:00

The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death
Charlie Huston

This book, as the title suggests, is not for the faint of heart. If there is a single defining characteristic to this book, it is the coarse, direct delivery of dialogue and explanatory narration, snappy, gritty, and gory. Narrator Web makes no apologies for his decidedly antisocial behavior, and his inclination to swiftly destroy any semblance of normal human interaction is at first disorienting. It is indeed hard to sympathize with a narrator who is so deliberately, deeply unlikeable and alienating that even his closest friends have abandoned hope. There is, of course, good reason why Webster Goodhue acts the way he does, and sharp readers will be able to put the pieces together before Huston, just a touch too late, puts them together himself. The result of this delayed gratification is that the book feels a bit adrift; the plot is sufficient, but the characters and the language are so abrasive that it is difficult to get a firm grasp on the novel until the plot has kicked into high gear. Adding to this uncertainty and reader detachment is the tangled web of Web's life, which while making his actions understandable and ultimately ensuring that the thematic elements of the novel come together in its conclusion still takes a while to come together. Even so, however, it is not clear that a second reading would vastly illuminate anything, Web's personality tics memorable enough that their explanation in retrospect is sufficient.

This book is a strange mixture of the immediate, rough and tumble plot and a more reflective, somber undercurrent that emerges in brief glimpses before Huston launches into another violent, curse-laden crime spree. The novel is contemplative and has something to say about living and, more importantly, about erasing signs of death both literal and symbolic, but overall it is a novel of action. It feels almost as though Huston is attempting to slip the deep philosophy in amongst, and despite, a cracking story. The dissonance, however, resolves into a pleasant chord and the book is a surprisingly pleasant read, if one can get over the language and the often gruesome depictions of...well, gruesome things. Web's history as an intellectual and as an educator adds an extra layer of meta-cognition to the book: Web is dragged into the world of low-class, underachieving criminals much as the target reader is, for this book is aimed at a deep-thinking audience. It's an interesting transplant, especially as the alienation keenly explored throughout the book is at once offensive and redemptive. The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death is an ever-surprising juxtaposition of the abrasive and the vulnerable, of fast-paced action and sober reflection, and despite being a bit uneasy with itself at times, it somehow works.

Grade: A-

Book 54: American Slavery--American Freedom

2010-10-13T21:28:00.003-04:00

American Slavery--American Freedom
Edmund S. Morgan

A friend who was dissatisfied with my previous review of Morgan's The Birth of the Republic thrust this book at me along with a challenge, asserting Morgan's prominence as an early American historian and this particular book as a revolutionary work in the historiography of the Revolution. I must say that either the previous book was actually quite poor or I wasn't quite paying attention, because this book is an excellent and well-written, if slightly overreaching, history of colonial Virginia. Most astonishing is the fact that Morgan is able to write what amounts to a dry and slow-paced economic narrative in prose engaging enough to keep reluctant readers interested, though a strong interest in the subject matter may in fact be a prerequisite to any attempts on this book. The prose is far from remarkable, but in being adequate, let alone on the good side of adequate on which he falls, Morgan already vastly outpaces most historical academics. Unfortunately, he routinely falls into some similar traps, including some chronological zig-zagging that doesn't quite make sense thematically. It is understandable and expected, for example, that some figures will need to be borrowed from years in which records actually survive, but this can lead to achronological data that leads to distractions and which ultimately distances both Morgan and the reader from the narrative threads at hand. Many aspects of the book's timeline are, on reflection, somewhat puzzling. The book, which purports to be a history of colonial Virginia and the ideology of the Revolution fermenting among the tobacco fields and within a slave-holding society, but the bulk of the text centers firmly on the 1600s. This is important background, of course, but when Morgan finally realizes that he has a thesis to prove, there is a rapid 100-year jump that surely warrants far more than the two chapters devoted to it.

This lack of focus occurs repeatedly within the book, as Morgan confuses important- and relevant- background information with fluff. All of the information contained herein is interesting, and it all relates to other information within the book, but Morgan's thesis regarding the parallel development of representative government and slavery would be better-served with a more deliberate focus or with a longer narrative that more fully covers post-seventeenth century development. As it is, Morgan does an excellent job covering important attitudes that colored Virginian rhetoric through the turbulent 1700s but only pulls them together in what feels like a desperate last gasp for his thesis. The arguments he presents are compelling, but his rush to end everything so swiftly in the final chapter relies heavily on the reader's trust as he flings assertions around without nearly as much deliberation as previously. Despite a lackadaisical pace, however, American Slavery-American Freedom does make some excellent, original, and well-articulated points about the economic and ideological environment in which both slavery and liberty (though this is an afterthought in Morgan's book) concurrently took such a firm grasp. As a history of colonial Virginia, the book is an excellent resource for historians with a thorough look at societal attitudes both home and abroad that inevitably shaped the colonial experience. American Slavery-American Freedom may not live up to its billing, but it is nonetheless a reasonably readable book exposing, if not quite expanding upon, the ways in which freedom and slavery could become so inextricably linked.

Grade: A-

Book 53: The Begum's Millions

2010-10-01T10:20:00.000-04:00

The Begum's Millions
Jules Verne

It has been quite a while since I joined Verne on one of his fabulous scientific journeys, and on a recent trip to the library this title, heretofore unknown to me, jumped out. The jacket promised a juxtaposition of utopian and dystopian futures, and I was immediately on board for what promised to be an intimate look not only at Verne's own dual-pronged vision of the future but also of his own time. What emerged as the novel progressed was a book whose merits are derived primarily for its exposition of the author's own historical context rather than from its own literary or even imaginative merits, two qualities that are conspicuously absent despite the lasting enchantment of some of Verne's other works. The premise and plot are simple enough, with variations on either stemming directly from the racist overtones still resonating from the Franco-Prussian War of 1870, and the characters likewise leave much to be desired. The usual imaginative vigor one would expect from a Verne story is suppressed for the sake of politics, and while the book does have some interesting things to say about industrialization and mechanized war (along with a chillingly prescient view of German self-promoted racial superiority) they are often couched in the language of pure political hatred. Even for caricatures, the characters in the novel are drawn with the thinnest of strokes, too brittle to be subjected to even the most routine of twists or turns.

The main problem with this book is that nothing is ever in doubt, and without any semblance of a sustained plot, it's nearly impossible for the reader to maintain interest, and the interesting points that are hidden among the rote and routine stay hidden beneath the surface. Most egregious, perhaps, is Verne's sustained racism which, against Germans, may seem misguided but still fair given the time in which he lived. His blatant attacks on Asians, however, are bewildering and truly unnecessary, though one must commend the translator for leaving them intact in a politically correct day and age. Even these egregious actions, however, manage to fall by the wayside as the overwhelming banality of the plot takes over, and not for want of imagination. Even readers unfamiliar with Verne's better stories will recognize the missed opportunities in his dual utopian/dystopian future, where setting serves only to illuminate stereotypes instead of attack the ideas out of which they are constructed. Rampant militarism was fairly German in the time period, but Verne tips his hand way too soon and too often to make anything out of it, falling back on harsh and unrealistic portrayals to dehumanize the Germans in much the same way their puppet state dehumanizes its own workers. Somehow, I believe the irony is lost on the author.

Even his utopian society (which itself is rather unambiguously named France-ville) is radically underused, existing only as a foil to the Germans and with only a half-chapter explaining its central tenets: France-ville is great because, well, it's great! Verne likewise abuses his heroes, with lead man Marcel brimming with excruciating perfection and with the strange half-resolved story of Octave, perhaps the only character in the book who threatens to have a hint of actual depth. This, too, is wasted, as he is introduced as a slob and promptly ignored, only to reemerge miraculously (and utterly inexplicably) as a war hero and Good Man. And all of this bad writing and poor construction surrounds some interesting scientific speculation that is actually worthy of Verne. His visions of destruction and of the City of Steel are reasonably terrifying and not entirely inaccurate, and though his characters' motives cannot be trusted, the destructive forces they intend to utilize are sufficiently frightening even in the nuclear age. The book also provides some moments of great humor, though these usually come unintentionally and do not sustain the book, though its final punchline (before the requisite sappy and unsupported, though entirely predictable ending) resonates and is, indeed, as clever as it is bizarre. Unfortunately, however, fans of Jules Verne and of dystopian literature are set to be disappointed by an almost complete lack of literary merit that cannot be salvaged as interesting ideas are constantly upstaged by rampant racism and an overt political agenda. The Begum's Millions is, despite some good ideas, overwhelmed by questionable intentions and dodgy writing, though it may prove valuable as a historical text illustrating the developing European nationalism of the late 19th century.

Grade: C+

Book 52: Boychiks in the Hood

2010-09-27T21:24:00.001-04:00

Boychiks in the Hood: Travels in the Hasidic Underground
Robert Eisenberg

Upon admitting only the most passing familiarity with the ultra-Orthodox Hasidim, and indeed with many strains of modern Judaism, a friend recommended Boychiks in the Hood to me as a lighthearted, casual introduction to a growing facet of modern Jewish life. It fulfilled on both fronts, which can hardly be surprising from the immensely clever title, but lacked a strong editing eye from either the author or his own editors and is disappointing in aggregate despite some excellent moments. Boychiks in the Hood is, despite its singularity of purpose, oddly disjointed and often distracted, providing a haphazard and often confusing introduction to Hasidism and its many facets where Eisenberg promises simplicity. Indeed, there is a strange paradoxical feel to the book, at once simple and complex, straightforward and taking the most twisted of turns only to return to the point of origin with almost nothing gained of the temporary distraction. It certainly is not beyond the capability of a travelogue to entertain, but this book often seems confused as to what kind of narrative it is actually providing: one moment, Eisenberg is enjoying the company of a Hasidic family on the Sabbath, only to elaborate on the history of that sect's leaders. Fair enough, but all of this is accomplished in a fine frenzy, with nary a line break in sight. Paragraphs and topics materialize out of thin air, only to be absorbed the prematurely aborted narrative as if nothing ever happened; surely Eisenberg could have conjured the slightest of transitions, either thematic or visual?

It is this kind of schizophrenia which far too often characterizes the book both within page-sized chunks and on aggregate; it would hardly be surprising if the bulk of the contextual and historical information within this book is actually lost because of its poor and shortsighted organization. Despite some witty and wry observations (which occasionally become overbearing, shouting, "I'm so clever!" far too often), the book fails to capitalize on a built-in organizational scheme and instead languishes in a kind of purgatory. The good intentions inherent in the book's intuitive, geographically-based chapter divisions go to waste as Eisenberg cannot sit still long enough to tell one simple story without a barrage of confusing and ill-placed details. A crucial element of understanding Hasidic culture is recognizing some of the major differences that distinguish particular branches of Hasidim, but the pinball nature of description, elaboration, and comparison in Boychiks in the Hood makes it almost impossible to separate one sect from another. Instead of building logically based on the communities the reader has already been introduced to, Eisenberg focuses on groups yet to come, returning to previous information as erratically as he adds new points. This Frogger-type deluge is accompanied by some fervently reiterated points that make Boychiks in the Hood occasionally read like an ill-defended dissertation. Eisenberg seems almost obsessed with the population explosion of Hasidim, particularly in relation to secular Judaism (though he never makes it clear whether 'nonreligious Jews' are secular in the traditional sense or include those who practice within the more mainstream Reform and Conservative branches), but his repeated assertions that nonreligious Judaism is dying become distracting after the fourth or fifth feverish repetition.

These stylistic flaws and distractions are almost tragic, for Boys in the Hood begins with a noble purpose and does have a talented writer, if not a fully fledged author, behind it. There is, as I have noted, a lot of valuable information in this book, which takes a compassionate look inside a heretofore mysterious alternate lifestyle and does much to demystify its ways. Eisenberg makes his own views on religion clear throughout the book, but always disagrees respectfully and draws equal attention to shared cultural and historical elements of Jewishness as to the differences between the ultra-Orthodox and the completely secular. Cultural tidbits that linger long enough to make an impact are intriguing and do much to explain certain well-known elements of Jewish cultural and religious practices in further depth. While the history of and differences between Hasidic sects may be almost as elusive as a useful definition of Hasidism, shared practices across different Hasidic communities are clearly defined and explained as Eisenberg draws the reader into his own learning experiences. His biographical and descriptive portrayals of yeshiva students and Talmudic scholars may occasionally trend toward the dismissive, but the author's representations of their arguments may be taken at face value and provide interesting points for reader rumination.

Readers will, despite Eisenberg's repeated efforts at distraction, leave with an increased knowledge and understanding of modern ultra-Orthodoxy throughout the world. The geographic scope of Boychiks in the Hood may be its most important aspect, as far-flung communities illustrate the complex interplay between situational and more specifically Jewish customs. Eisenberg also has a mind for history, using modern communities in two very distinct parts of Europe (Antwerp and rural Ukraine) to illustrate the devastating effects of the Holocaust and to link modern practice to the flourishing pre-catastrophe centers of Jewish life. Indeed, this book's examination of the Holocaust and its effects on Judaism are some of the most insightful I have read, though their offhand nature often belies their subtly profound significance. Boychiks in the Hood is not, then, without many redeeming qualities. The book balances incredible frustration with incredible articulation, creating a singular reading experience that is hard to pin down. As Eisenberg bounces merrily from topic to topic, so the reader is alternately enthralled and maddened by the lively prose and simple editorial oversights, intellecutally provoked by the wry observations but emotionally provoked by moments of condescension that seem out of place given the general congenial tenor. Boychiks in the Hood is, like the modern Hasidic communities it presents, impossible to pin down completely, but represents a mildly rewarding experience for those who want a nonacademic and personal introduction to the Hasidim in most of their modern incarnations.

Grade: B

Book 51: Sandman Slim

2010-09-14T21:38:00.008-04:00

Sandman Slim
Richard Kadrey

Some books are designed to be, above all, fun, where others strive to connect with readers on a more intellectual level, provoking thought and engaging the reader at every twist and turn. Sandman Slim is, at a visceral level, and incredibly enjoyable book and a truly unique sarcastic fantasy-noir quasi-apocalyptic novel. The devil, however, lies in all of the details of this book, including the plot, the characters, and Kadrey's maddening inability to maximize the deep philosophical potential of his work. Sandman Slim deals with the devil and with heaven, including a hierarchy of angels and imps and a main character who firmly resolves to stand between the two ever-warring forces. This philosophical conflict, while evoked beautifully by the gruff and cynical first-person prose, is never fully realized as Kadrey seems more concerned with adding interesting plot elements than using them. The book seems in this way to be built toward an inevitable sequel, but readers may feel somewhat conned by the tantalizing hints of higher meaning and philosophical depth, which could easily have been offered regardless of Slim's potential as a series. There is a lot to be said about the themes upon which this novel only fleetingly touches, and though it seems Kadrey has something to say about death, love, and morality, which are easily the book's major themes, what it is remains uncertain after hints and miscues.

This problem with overall vision, whether too little or too much of it, is reflected in some plot holes and inconsistencies within the book. Death, injury, and immunity are key factors throughout, but are neither adequately explained nor consistently treated. Characters who should have immunity according to the book's internal logic (insofar as it exists) find themselves subject to crippling attacks, and other characters appear invincible one moment and vulnerable the next. It is as if Kadrey wished to introduce plot elements without paying careful consideration to how they would affect the believability of the world he has otherwise so realistically evoked. This, and Chekhov reigns supreme through transparent foreshadowing. Sandman Slim consistently hints at something bigger but is weighed down by minor inconsistencies that add up to a somewhat frustrating reading experience. This is incredibly unfortunate, as it is obvious that Kadrey is a top-notch author and provides a quirky narrative voice. Protagonist and narrator Stark may have the inconsistency imposed upon him, but damn can he tell a story. The language in this book is vivid and pitch-perfect, absolutely consistent and simultaneously creating a dark and dirty noir L.A. as well as a grungy ex-con (of sorts) whose primary motivating factors may surprise without becoming unbelievable or inconsistent.

Likewise, Kadrey's imagination is at once astonishing and terrifying, with some of the best and most evocative fight scenes I have read as well as an arsenal of weaponry that readers can't help but wish to see on a big screen and indeed, this book is almost screaming to be made into a film despite the prominence of language as its driving element. The tiniest of details combine to create a truly extraordinary view of the darker side of human nature and a much-maligned L.A., which makes it all the more maddening that other elements of the book are not as tightly constructed. The book is full of potential constantly showcased, only to crash in disappointment when its promises are not fulfilled or the author distracted from building theme or plot by a fancy turn of phrase or wry observation. Sandman Slim begins as a rough-and-tumble revenge story with celestial implications, and ends with a flimsy, under-explained apocalyptic aversion. It is a novel that attempts to explore the middle ground between good and evil, Heaven and Hell, but which too often gets caught up in its own cleverness. Sandman Slim will fulfill readers looking for a fun and unique thrill ride, but will frustrate those who hope for a little more weight behind its hefty themes.

Grade: B

Book 50: The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest

2010-09-03T21:55:00.000-04:00

The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest

Stieg Larsson

This, the final book in Larsson's sadly posthumous Millennium Trilogy, presents a captivating and ultimately worthy end to the intertwined stories of renegade journalist Mikael Blomkvist and the enigmatic Lisbeth Salander. Though it lacks a bit of a punch and, like its predecessors, may suffer from a lack of a more critical editorial eye, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest will please readers who bring high expectations and a thirst for further adventures with the extremely well-drawn and vivid cast. This book directly follows the concluding lines of the previous installment, and does not dwell too long on recapitulation before launching directly into an attack on Swedish society and people around the world who allow violence against women to drive their actions or policies. Larsson can be forgiven for his lack of subtlety as he sticks ruthlessly to this theme, allowing it to direct and shape his narrative while only occasionally allowing his passion, which is evident, to overwhelm the narrators. This is mostly a matter of obvious over-eagerness and does not overshadow the greater merits of the book, which builds wonderfully on the ideas, plots, and characters built so painstakingly through its successors. It is clear from the start that Larsson knows where his story and his characters are going, and his management and integration of several subplots is superb, with only the rarest small detail vanishing into obscurity. The Millennium Trilogy is both sharply and intricately plotted and the meticulousness of the author adds to its mystique and, ultimately, the strength and clarity of its moral message.

The durability of Larsson's characters through three large books, and the continuing revelations about their variously complicated pasts is a testament to his meticulous planning as well as his talent for building complex, rich characters who can handle the pressure imposed by strong thematic currents as well as the plot-centered nature of a crime novel. It's a shame that Lisbeth Salander, the girl on whom the series hinges, does not feature more deeply in the climactic episode of her life, and his decision to place the action most significantly on his (male) journalist hero is interesting given the attention paid to women, and particularly women in positions of power. Lisbeth is far from neglected, but though the issue of agency is strongly addressed throughout the novel, some of its conclusions appear to be at ends with its ultimate message. This conflict, if taken as unintentional, re-casts the entire thesis of the book in a different light, as even Larsson's headstrong and ferocious heroine must be saved by a man. In Mikael, too, Larsson is not all-forgiving, but it is at times too easy to see him as a Mary Sue, given the repeated assertions of journalistic integrity and Mikael's own self-importance. Again, however, these flaws in the book(s) are both hidden just beneath the surface and are actually referred to more blatantly by the supporting cast. The real progress of women remains ambiguous, which though it may be unintentional does suit the novel quite nicely.

These flaws, as with most found in The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest and in the greater Millennium Trilogy, are minor and detract only very slightly from the more present matters at hand. The books are incredibly well-written and captivating from start to finish. The characters are far from the cookie-cutter protagonists who haunt most crime series, and their individuality does not appear drawn from a checklist or forced upon them; these people seem, moreso than many characters, vividly real. Larsson can hardly be faulted for foreign readers' unfamiliarity with Swedish geography, which does generate some confusion, and the consistently high quality of the books is remarkable given their length. It is true that, with some editing, some extraneous matter could be removed, but the books always pick up just when they appear to drift into dullness and readers can always expect to be further intrigued. This final installment leaves a bit to be desired with regards to suspense, but Larsson's brilliant, if long, courtroom denouement is as satisfying for the reader as it must have been for the author to write it. There is nothing too unexpected after the first two books, but the Millennium Trilogy should nonetheless hold up as a classic and original series in a genre plagued by cliche. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets' Nest has, as all novels do, its minor flaws, but it is a worthy conclusion to the story of Lisbeth Salander, a brilliant and fiercely original character whose fame is, in the end, justly deserved.

Grade: A-

Book 33: Marching Powder

2010-06-14T16:55:00.001-04:00

Marching Powder: A True Story of Friendship, Cocaine, and South America's Strangest Jail
Rusty Young

An admitted drug trafficker may not seem like the kind of character one would expect to feel great sympathy for, but that is just the beginning of the vast weirdness explored in Marching Powder and is, indeed, one of the book's most normal aspects. The book chronicles the experiences of Thomas McFadden, an English cocaine trafficker who had the misfortune to be caught in the act in Bolivia, tracing the path from his ill-fated endeavor to his release from the bizarre world of La Paz's San Pedro Prison. Though there is nothing earth-shattering in this well-written, straightforward account, it provides a series of linked anecdotes that together draw readers into the alternate reality within San Pedro, which includes a surprisingly robust economy and a thriving cocaine business. Young is not out to shock with traditional hard-times prison stories, and Thomas is constructed as a likable guy, himself shocked at the conditions inside the prison and far from a hardened criminal. Told from Thomas's first-person point of view, the book charts his journey from jet-setting businessman to influential prison tour guide and presents San Pedro from a perplexed outsider's perspective. This allows readers to adjust to conditions alongside Thomas and to learn, as he does, the rules of this incarcerated life. Compelling and refusing to resort to familiar gross-out stereotypes, Marching Powder is an enthralling book successfully evokes and embeds the reader within an entirely foreign, but surprisingly familiar, world.

Grade: A

Book 32: Kafka on the Shore

2010-06-11T16:09:00.001-04:00

Kafka on the Shore
Haruki Murakami

Most fiction can be divided based on its priorities: some books try to yank readers out of dull lives, others just want to tell a good story, and a few attempt to answer the ultimate question, asking, "What is the meaning of life?" It is in this ambitious third category that Haruki Murakami and his often mystical Kafka on the Shore can be placed, though the novel is remarkable for its readability. Following the stories of two vastly different men, the book often moves effortlessly, pulled along in an unseen current like its characters and, indeed, the Greek tragedies to which it so often alludes. In these not quite parallel stories, Murakami explores the nature of fate and, accordingly, leaves much to be explained. Rather than resorting to obscure language and pretense, however, the author (and his vivid, excellent translator) provide a metaphysical exploration within what is first and foremost a pair of stories. The characters are never forgotten (save for one utterly baffling chapter near the end) and are crafted with care- one gets the feeling that they take priority over the questions raised through their existence, that they exist for their own sake rather than to drive the author's expression of a point of view.

This vivid realization of characters and a continually compelling plot threaten to overwhelm the philosophical musings that lie beyond the book, a pleasant reversal of my experiences with many Deep Books. The constant themes are woven throughout the narrative and an unexplained, but inexplicably appropriate, strand of the fantastic threatens to undermine the story at times, yet Kafka on the Shore remains readable. Murakami is incredibly deliberate, deploying subtle changes of tense and providing small details even for supporting cast members, but it nonetheless becomes easy for readers to get lost in the story even when alternating between two stories and styles. This, then, is a book that succeeds despite its ambitions. Just when the fantastic elements begin to seem overwrought, the story settles and dreams illuminate, rather than interrupt, the book's reality. Just when the potent narration threatens to overwhelm the action and the philosophy to interrupt the story, Murakami eases up and returns to the concrete, gradually inoculating readers in the meantime so the book's concluding journeys and (subtly presented) revelations can proceed as they must, with a hint of otherworldly magic. In the end, even skeptical readers won't require the intricacies of the book's mysteries to be concretely explained, lest the explanations detract from the experience. Kafka on the Shore is an odd success, at once meticulous and free-flowing, serious and silly. It is a book that will reward careful reading while providing entertainment, a rare case where subtlely, intelligence, and a knowledge of storytelling technique create a deep and intensely enjoyable novel. Ultimately, Kafka on the Shore is an exquisitely crafted and clear conundrum.

Grade: A

Book 31: The Dead Republic

2010-06-07T16:06:00.000-04:00

The Dead Republic
Roddy Doyle

This book marks the conclusion of Doyle's The Last Roundup trilogy, which chronicles the life and times of sometimes (Irish) republican, always interesting Henry Smart and, along with him, many of Ireland's 20th century growing pains. By the time this novel opens, Henry has had enough adventures to fill a lifetime, and the youthful exuberance that began to fade in Oh, Play That Thing! has given way to a more reflective, sober tone and a much calmer pace as Henry, though still full of energy, begins to seriously reflect upon his life. The prose still moves with occasional fits and stutters, a combination of Doyle's frenetic pacing and Henry's memory lapses, but the action proceeds, for the most part, at a reasonable clip. Doyle returns his star character and his readers to an Ireland changed by 30-odd years of relative stability, on the eve of the Troubles, and Doyle searches for the reasons behind the fighting. Henry's position as one of the original republican heroes of the GPO puts him in a unique position to view and criticize his heirs as, yet again but with much greater believability, he is thrust into the middle of history's important events. The author, however, employs thoughtful restraint and strains credibility most when describing outside events (such as a secret, complicit peace process behind the current violence), still an improvement over implausibly placing Henry in their midst. There is, too, a subdued element of magical realism, but it adds to the mythos surrounding Henry and helps cement his status as Ireland's own eyewitness.

With its more relaxed pace, action in The Dead Republic occasionally slows to a grinding halt, but conversations are crisp and Doyle manages to make sense out of a historical whirlwind stretching from the 1950s to the present day. The hints and forward glimpses of coming action are again deployed here, alternately to intriguing and annoying effect. Also evident in both supportive and detrimental ways is that Doyle is incredibly deliberate, taking care in crafting his characters and narrative but not always to the benefit of his work. Occasionally, it seems as though he is too aware of the scope of his book which, when given the chance to stand on its strengths of character development and attention to historical detail, often speaks for itself. The Last Roundup trilogy is Roddy Doyle's attempt at a sort of Great Irish Novel, and he has created a worthy main character in defiant Henry Smart, a man who by the end of his story has seen the promise, successes, and failures of the Irish Republic both as a native and prodigal. The Dead Republic may at times be too deliberate and too overreaching, but it provides a careful and worthy end to the story of a wonderfully rounded and indeed unforgettable Irish hero.

Grade: A-

Book 30: Oh, Play That Thing!

2010-06-05T23:52:00.003-04:00

Oh, Play That Thing!
Roddy Doyle

This book, the follow-up to A Star Called Henry and midpoint of Doyle's The Last Roundup trilogy, makes a worthy companion to its predecessor even if it lacks the same sense of verve that so successfully drives the preceding novel. Here, we see Henry on the run from, well, almost everyone, caught up in the glamour and glitz of Jazz Age New York and Chicago. It is interesting to see Henry outside of his homeland, and though he remains resourceful some of his youthful irreverence has faded into more sober reflection. The narrative here is packed with winks and hints, to varying success- at times, Henry's implication of outcomes has an emotional effect, drawing the reader into Henry's own "what if" mindset; at others, readers may just want to get on with the story. This effect, then, is slightly overused and is coupled with occasional whirlwind narration that may capture the era well but which nonetheless makes no sense. There are several parts of the novel that must be re-read to glean any sort of meaning, let alone the correct one; this is not a regular enough occurrence to assume that it's supposed to reflect Henry's own uncertainty and it instead falls in perfectly with Doyle's more reflective, self-referential style to varying degrees of success.

That is not to say, however, that the book is particularly onerous or even anything less than an excellent read. Doyle frequently recalls passages from A Star Called Henry, inserting them whole into the current narrative to elaborate and reflect, and also assist the reader's memory. This proves an effective method, used sparingly and illuminating the text as well as Henry's own inner thoughts. Historically, however, this novel also falls a bit short of (admittedly high) expectations set by the first book. Doyle often does powerfully evoke the sights and sounds of the Jazz Age (his descriptions of musical performances are outstanding and worth seeking out), but the plot leaves much to be desired. Following a tendency to simply insert Henry into important historical events, Doyle puts Henry through some believable motions (the immigrant arrival, the Mob, the Dust Bowl) but also launches him into simply outrageous heights of stardom and self-importance. It seems as though the author is stretching the historical record a bit too thin at times, though the centrality of Louis Armstrong does provide an interesting examination of race relations. Too often, Henry is bragging ("I was there!") and, unlike in his previous adventures, the swagger does nothing but raise skepticism and doubt.

This is, however, a book well worth reading for its moments of brilliance. Often, the plot seems to stand still or re-trace familiar steps, but suddenly Armstrong plays his trumpet (Doyle's ability to capture the inner effects of music is simply astounding) or Henry provides unforeseen insights or observations. The book can seem a bit uneven as a result, but the tricky and confusing passages are far from unbearable and it is obvious that Doyle rarely has Henry act without serious deliberation and purpose, clouded though it may be for the reader. Oh, Play That Thing! is an effort to provide a summation of 1920s and 1930s America that, despite a tendency toward the sensational, paints interesting portraits of this compelling (though fading) character and an inescapable era of change, corruption, and pioneering work in the world of music.

Grade: A-

Book 29: New Dubliners

2010-06-02T23:46:00.000-04:00

New Dubliners
Edited by Oona Frawley

Commissioned to commemorate 100 years of James Joyce's own famous collection about Ireland's bustling capital, this collection presents stories from a number of current prominent writers, all about different experiences of Dublin. Like most short story collections, the quality in New Dubliners can get a bit dodgy, with several of its stories simply meandering along without much consideration for plot or, indeed, for making sense. These stories, and the characters within them, wander without purpose and fail to make many poignant observations, let alone entertain. There are, however, a few excellent stories in this slim volume, and perhaps it isn't a coincidence that they tend toward humor. "As If There Were Trees," by Colum McCann, is an exception to this suggested rule, looking head-on at the ethnic diversity in an economically disadvantaged area in a powerful, quick story. Other excellent pieces use humor, or the appearance thereof, to mask and even illuminate darker themes. Ivy Bannister's "Mrs. Hyde Frolics in the Eel Pit" displays, as its title may suggest, a solidly ironic tone, and the audience's mirth at deducing what poor Mrs. Hyde must fail to realize masks the inherent tragedy, as her house of cards is surely soon to topple.

There is a different, sad kind of irony in Bernard MacLaverty's "The Assessment," which brilliantly uses narration to convey the self-assuredness, and latent anxieties, of those with Alzheimer's. Repeated phrases may seem humorous, but in the end, as the reader understands the cause of the repetition, it turns out that MacLaverty is writing not a joke but a brilliantly, painfully resonant story about loss. Other stories are competent, neither particularly revelatory nor agonizingly aimless: Maeve Binchy's "All That Matters" is a amusing, if trite (just as, incidentally, one of her main characters is), and "Martha's Streets," by Dermot Bolger, provides the almost obligatory direct Joyce tribute, though it stands too as a testament to the power of literature. Then, too, there is the purely joyful "Benny Gets the Blame," by Clare Boylan, an amusingly narrated story of childhood shenanigans. New Dubliners does not touch on a wide array of facets of Dublin life, but it is a competent collection; its slow stories go quickly enough and the gems are indeed worth finding.

Grade: B+

Book 28: This Charming Man

2010-05-31T22:06:00.000-04:00

This Charming Man
Marian Keyes

It is easy to dismiss books aimed at a female audience as chick-lit fluff, and I admit that I was ready to wave this book off despite its being named of the the Bord Gáis Irish Book Awards 50 Books of the Decade. Though many familiar chick-lit elements are present in This Charming Man, there is a far greater depth to this novel, which is, ultimately, about power. Using a pattern of horrific domestic violence as her core theme, Marian Keyes offers portraits of four very different women, each told in a distinct style. By doing this, Keyes reveals not only the most private thought of these women, and therefore their reasons for becoming enamored with the charming man of the title, but also her own range and talents. From a slightly ditzy stylist's stilted journal entries to a seasoned journalist's fluent cynical sarcasm to heavily personal third-person narration, Keyes effectively uses language to build her protagonists and by allowing each to tell her story allows the book to resonate very powerfully. The book's intimate portrayal of severe, self-feeding anxiety and alcoholism is absolutely riveting, a perfect depiction of a relentlessly self-critical and over-analyzing mind.

The book is not, however, all doom and gloom and indeed carries quite a sense of humor. Various running jokes prevent the book's dark moments- which are occasionally pitch-black- from becoming overwhelming and act to demonstrate the discovery that humor is never entirely gone (except, of course, when it actually is). The book, despite creating four powerful and realistic lead characters, can, however, drag at times, often opting for a slow reveal rather than offering relevant information more directly. It quickly becomes obvious that the book is about domestic violence, and there is no need to prolong several big reveals for as long as the book does; most readers will have figured out the most important "secrets" long before they are revealed (though Keyes very effectively deploys one giant red herring). Another large, plot-thickening event comes so entirely out of the blue that it strains credibility, being so inexplicably out of (thoroughly developed) character. Love stories are also easily predicted; though there is enough heart and good writing to sustain the novel, it drags on somewhat longer than it should in its denouement and cannot be in any way considered a narrative trailblazer.

This Charming Man is an odd concoction. It reads alternately as a traditional chick-lit story, a journalism-fueled mystery/thriller, and a stream-of-consciousness character exploration. It has bone-chilling depictions of violence and an army of rural Irish crossdressers. It is, then, perhaps an outstanding reflection of reality in some of its myriad facets. Despite some missteps in plotting, Marian Keyes puts her talents on display in depicting and successfully juggling the stories of four compelling modern women caught in the brambles of ages-old patriarchy. Add to this a slight hint of satire and This Charming Man becomes much more than the standard chick-lit fare; this book is a powerful novel that is, despite its stunningly realistic take on a very real problem, fun and edifying to read.

Grade: A-

Book 27: A Star Called Henry

2010-05-28T21:44:00.000-04:00

A Star Called Henry
Roddy Doyle

Having heard of the author of this book, I decided to read this wide-spanning work of historical fiction that begins a trilogy tracing the personal history of Henry Smart from, thus far, the streets of the Dublin slums to the ranks of the IRA. Doyle uses the powerful narrative voice of Smart to evoke a first-hand view of some of the worst neighborhoods in Europe and to present an alternative, less nationalistic, view of the 1916 Easter Rising and Irish War of Independence. Henry's voice may at times seem a bit more sophisticated than his self-reported upbringing would imply, but it is full of joyful cynicism and skepticism and more often than not rings true as he brings readers through important historical points in Irish history. There is a hint of magical realism to the book but it balances nicely with the harsh reality portrayed, actually grounding the book by remaining consistent with the way Henry must see things. the most egregious of the fantastic elements occur with Henry's grandmother, but she arises seldom enough that the oddity doesn't become overwhelming or unnecessarily distracting.

Doyle seems to have a firm grasp on history, but unfortunately goes a bit too far in inserting Henry into contemporary events- putting him in the GPO during the Rising makes sense, but making him the protegé of James Connolly less so. Nonetheless, Doyle is able, through Henry, to make keen observations about the Irish wars and, indeed, larger patterns of violence and social class. A Star Called Henry is not, however, a plot-driven novel, and it finds most of its narrative momentum in Henry's accelerated growth. Henry is complex and fascinating, full of anger and resentment but at the same time naturally intelligent and very intuitive. Roddy Doyle is able to bend Henry's language nicely, giving the novel a distinct feel and creating very vivid portrayals of the complex emotions wrought by rough historical waters. A Star Called Henry is a remarkable, personal, and accessible history of Ireland's growing pains juxtaposed with those of an unforgettable angry young man.

Grade: A

Book 26: The Gaelic Athletic Association, 1884-2009

2010-05-24T21:31:00.000-04:00

The Gaelic Athletic Association, 1884-2009
Edited by Mike Cronin, William Murphy, and Paul Rouse

It has been a longstanding ambition of mine to see a hurling match, and I decided to take advantage of the greater number of books available on the subject here in Ireland to familiarize myself with native Irish sports. I turned to The Gaelic Athletic Association, 1884-2009 as an academically slanted collective history of the organization that oversees the Irish games, choosing the book primarily because of its recent publication. The name, however, is a bit misleading, as the chronological coverage of the volume ends, for the most part, far before the present state of the games. Nor is this book particularly good as an all-around, basic introduction. With its essays concerning very specific facets of the Gaelic Athletic Association's presence in, and effect on, Ireland, The Gaelic Athletic Association, 1884-2009 fulfills the promise of its own introduction by prompting further academic debate, assuming basic familiarity with the history of the GAA and some of its social aspects. By this standard, however, the book largely succeeds in presenting well-argued, thoroughly researched, and generally readable chapters on a good variety of aspects of the organization. Background essays on the history of sport in Ireland are excellent, particularly Richard Holt's illuminating essay on the context of American and Continental sports against which the GAA originally developed in the late nineteenth century, nicely complicated by Dónal McAnallen's essay on the amateurism within the Irish sports. Also intriguing are essays offering competing views on the association's effect on, and concern with, outside political and historical events and attitudes, solidifying the book's academic credentials. The Gaelic Athletic Association, 1884-2009 may be slightly mis-titled, but it nonetheless provides a solid intellectual basis on which to consider the history of Gaelic sports in Ireland.

Grade: A-

Book 25: Winterwood

2010-05-21T11:24:00.000-04:00

Winterwood
Patrick McCabe

As the winner of the 2007 Irish novel of the year award, Winterwood comes with a set of expectations, though it's difficult to explain what, exactly, lies behind this book. McCabe used an erratic, unreliable narrator for his book which, while initially disorienting, gives the story a certain air of mystery that echoes its thematic journey into the depths of grief. This is not, however, a mournful novel- McCabe and his narrator take matters into their own hands and chart a rather twisted path through the rough "outlands" of madness. The book maintains a strong connection to its Irish setting, exploring the impact of folk myths on the modern country, and portraying a sense of a haunted culture. Redmond Hatch's journeys away from and back to his old mountain home are framed uneasily by narratives that waltz through time as McCabe reveals the backstory piece by painstaking piece. A lack of certainty may frustrated some readers, but as the book progresses it becomes increasingly clear that this haphazard construction is, in fact, another facet of the story, which upon reflection is rendered quite thoroughly by the uneasy narration. Winterwood is a far from concrete novel that looks at madness and loss and leaves the question open whether we can ever fully escape our past.

Grade: A-

Book 24: And Then There Were None

2010-05-19T11:13:00.000-04:00

And Then There Were None
Agatha Christie

Agatha Christie is a legend in the world of mystery for a very good reason- her imagination is incredibly inventive in this classic twist on the locked room mystery. The story opens with a series of brief sketches of the main cast, handy to refer back to later, as they converge upon Indian Island, to which they have been summoned (mysteriously, of course) from a variety of half-known acquaintances. The story unfolds from there as the guests, each of whom harbors a dark secret from their past, are murdered one-by-one in line with the words of a children's nursery rhyme. Christie's prose is straightforward and tells the story without distracting embellishments, moving swiftly from frame to frame without losing the reader. Her characters, despite a discouraging tendency to notice how things are "just like in books", adapt to the situation at hand and adopt an amusing rapport. Indeed, the dark humor in this book (usually at the expense of its characters) comes as a pleasant surprise and itself produces an interesting reaction in the reader when juxtaposed with very inventive modes of murder.

And Then There Were None employs a strange sort of suspense, for the ending is more or less exposed by the title. The fun comes from observing the increasing levels of paranoia exhibited by the colorful characters and in following their reasoning while attempting to pull the pieces of the puzzle together. The inevitable Big Reveal puts a philosophical twist on things while inviting a second, closer reading and speaking to the efforts employed in attempting to figure the mystery out. But within this starkly humorous story there lurks a philosophical examination of justice and of culpability. Christie weaves in a bit of deeper thinking without burdening the story, and at the end the book's various elements come together seamlessly, the author's ingenuity on grand display. And Then There Were None is a dark, funny look at justice and human nature that is a great mystery but, more importantly, a highly entertaining little book.

Grade: A

Book 23: Good Omens

2010-05-16T22:49:00.001-04:00

Good Omens
Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

Being vaguely familiar with each of these authors, but not wanting to get sucks into a series, I was happy to stumble upon this hilarious collaborative effort which, to boot, features an excellent sending-up of the traditional Christian apocalypse. Starting rather strong, Good Omens is a satisfying, often laugh-out-loud book that contains some sharply pointed barbs aimed directly at Christianity while delivering an interesting, mile-a-minute story. For beginners, the collaborative effect of the book is seamless- despite the occasional over-the-top showmanship, the book reads as the work of one coherent generative force, consistent in style throughout. The English humor adds a layer of depth to the book but may trip up some Americans; it does not, however, detract from the novel but rather serves to place it in a firm geographical context.

The story is fairly strong, though the book is best read in as few sittings as possible. Through many section breaks and distinct narrative threads, characters and plots multiply quickly and may be forgotten in the crowd. This speaks to a decline of quality in the book's second half, where the plot becomes a bit too odd and convoluted, with the accompanying jokes feeling far more forced than in the book's more successful opening. Regardless, Good Omens is fun throughout, and the post-climax wrap-up brings it back around to its previous good form after a few plot missteps in the final climactic buildup. The book features among its delightfully named cast the Antichrist as an eleven-year-old and several humans humorously involved in the world of magic, but none can compare to the wonderful angel/demon duo who drive the entire narrative- and who strike comedic gold time and again, inducing fits of laughter nearly every time they appear. Good Omens contains enough glorious moments and spot-on satirical observations that it is, overall, a fun and satisfying book.

Grade: A-

Book 22: The Course of Irish History

2010-05-13T22:42:00.003-04:00

The Course of Irish History
Edited by T. W. Moody and F. X. Martin

I decided, prior to and during my departure for the Emerald Isle, to read up on Irish history, complicated and controversial as it is, and The Course of Irish History was recommended to me as a thorough and relatively unbiased account. Editors Moody and Martin have put together a comprehensive collection of historical essays that, all told, create an intelligent and pleasantly readable history of the tumultuous island. There is the expected variation of quality amongst the essays, but each appears to be written by an expert in the time period, lending the volume intellectual depth throughout. Additionally, the project coheres incredibly well, and aside from a few spelling inconsistencies across chapters, reads as a singularly conceived and executed history rather than as a selection of essays. Each essay naturally builds and expands upon the ideas in preceding chapters and, generally speaking, the authors are aware of the overall aims and scope of the project. This ensures that a sense of balance and focus is maintained throughout the book, broken only in the final three chapters (which were, in fairness, each added in revised in expanded editions), which occasionally stray into the unnecessarily specific.

Regardless, The Course of Irish History is readable and informative for both scholars and those simply interested in, well, the course of Irish history. With its essays presenting a variety of perspectives, particularly the later chapters that address the divergent, yet intimately connected, histories of Northern Ireland and the Republic, this book provides a full and remarkably even story with intellectual integrity and easy prose. The Course of Irish History is an excellent introduction to the story of Ireland for those with limited preexisting knowledge as well as providing a useful jumping-off point for future study.

Grade: A

Book 21: The Living Great Lakes

2010-05-03T23:27:00.005-04:00

The Living Great Lakes: Searching for the Heart of the Inland Seas
Jerry Dennis

As I will shortly be leaving for Ireland, I decided to read about a subject very close to home: HOMES, or the Great Lakes. Though told with a somewhat uneasy combination of science, memoir, and history, The Living Great Lakes presents a loving homage to some of the planet's most astonishing (and perhaps under-appreciated) natural features. I remember once asking my mom why, if Lake Michigan was indeed a lake, I couldn't see Wisconsin from Grand Haven; she replied that the lake is almost as wide as Indiana. It's impossible to think of these lakes in any traditional framework, a fact that Dennis makes clear time and again throughout the book, particularly when he elicits the opinions of long-time oceangoing sailors who hadn't been on the Great Lakes before- the hardened salts are uniformly amazed at the power of these inland bodies. Dennis recounts these and other facts with a gushing sense of pride that borders between sincerity and self-aggrandizement; he is guilty of the latter particularly when mentioning time and again his lifelong credentials from living near the lake. It is, however, clear that the book is a labor of love, and his feelings for the lakes and the environment drive the book and serve to connect its sometimes straining threads of narrative.

The heart of the book is the oft-interrupted story of a journey from Traverse City to Maine, through the bottom four lakes, the Erie canal, and the Atlantic Ocean aboard a sailing ship. This story itself is fascinating, though non-sailors would benefit from a small glossary of jargon that is alternately defined condescendingly within the text or left ambiguous for non-sailors. Unfortunately, this narrative becomes increasingly tired as the text wears on, penetrated more often and for longer periods by side narratives that often appear out of nowhere and bear no discernible relation to the narrative framing it. Each chapter is at its head divided into constituent parts (a la Democracy in America), but within the text itself these divisions are ambiguous and often confusing, as they leap back and forth in time without a discernible anchor. Aside from a few uninteresting asides (particularly the repetitive environmental studies, which certainly have their place but are presented in a disjointed manner that makes Dennis come across as annoying), background information and even unrelated stories from Dennis's own experiences intersect well with the main sailing story and do provide a comprehensive, multi-layered view of the Great Lakes region.

The strength of The Living Great Lakes is its scope, as Dennis as narrator/memoirist eventually becomes tiresome. His forays into the geological, economic, political, and environmental history of the Great Lakes may not always be well integrated, but combine well to make the book an excellent introduction/love song to the area. Passion shines through every word of this book, for both better and worse, and the book is enjoyable for its thoughtfulness and for the very earnestness that sometimes sinks the prose under its own weight. Particularly informative are early chapters on Lakes Michigan and Superior, those with which Dennis is most familiar and whose identities are most strongly connected with Michigan. Historical asides on explorers such as La Salle and tributes to the many victims of intricately described weather patterns (such as the famous Edmund Fitzgerald) find a home amidst personal narrative, scientific exploration, and political pronouncement. The voyage of The Living Great Lakes can get a bit bumpy with a lack of clear transitions and some repetitive content, but it is nonetheless a moving testament to these powerful bodies of water that so thoroughly define the land and people they touch.

Grade: B+

Book 20: The Nice and the Good

2010-04-29T15:34:00.000-04:00

The Nice and the Good
Iris Murdoch

I fear that my response to this book is colored by the blurbs on its back, which promise an exploration of the difference between being nice and being good- an interesting distinction that does appear, however briefly, in the book. The man difficulty with this particular novel is that none of its characters, save for a pair of precocious and hilarious twins, are particularly likeable. The suicide mystery that provides most of the plot momentum (where the plot moves at all) is solved quickly and proceeds with little suspense. Indeed, the main cause for readers' uncertainty is the ever-changing coupling that simply fails to be interesting. Without any real appeal to readers, it is difficult to care about which of the characters are (shockingly!) in unrequited love or sleeping with one another. Even though they are clearly sketched and act understandably, it is simply impossible to care about the people who populate this novel. This meandering coupling and re-coupling and petty angst flows along until an absolutely ridiculous ending which, given the 300-odd pages that precede it, seems quite unlikely from this particular group of people. Filled with straightforward prose and simple, boring dialogue, Murdoch's writing is sufficient but not particularly illuminating or able to redeem the lull of the plot. The Nice and the Good isn't a terrible book, nor is it terribly interesting for either plot or philosophical reasons; it is, ultimately, more or less forgettable.

Grade: B-

Book 19: The Design of Everyday Things

2010-04-21T20:09:00.003-04:00

The Design of Everyday Things
Donald Norman

I approached this book as a pop-culture assessment of some reasons why many everyday objects cause befuddlement and seem to be designed poorly. I believe that Norman may aspire to this, but this is inherently a very thorough look at some design principles that is tailored more for designers than the public; this is not to say that non-designers won't get anything out of the book, but its numerous examples and occasional use of lingo leads to an arid feel at times. Norman also, sadly, appears to be one of those authors who believes he is launching a cultural zeitgeist in the most clever way ever; his snarky remarks about design awards are funny the first time, but thereafter he appears to be consumed with a bitterness that clouds the humor. The repetition of jokes mirrors the endless, almost mind-numbing repetition of the book's major themes, so that while they are useful they see almost no new or original applications after around the first chapter.

This is unfortunate, because Norman has hit on an interesting fact of everyday life, and certainly there is much more to be made out of this problem and more suggestions made than the few he repeats ad nauseum throughout the book. All of these factors combine to make Norman seem above all a bit unprofessional, with subject matter perhaps better suited to a more limited treatment. This feeling of naivite is assisted by Norman's utter fascination with, and complete lack of understanding of, computers; it's hard to fault writers for not foreseeing the Internet or the fact that there is a whole new field of study called human-computer interaction that focuses largely on designing good computer systems, but when he fawns repeatedly over a portable calendar (that can be hooked up to other computers through wireless infrared!) the book gets a bit silly to modern readers. Additionally, the book is rather poorly designed; Norman talks at length about standardization and about making visual cues make sense, but many of the book's sections are separated by right-aligned bold headings, which I have yet to see anywhere else, and the pattern of sub-sections seems ad-hoc and doesn't make sense. It's a pity Norman's publisher didn't follow the advice in the book.

Overall, however, The Design of Everyday Things is worth reading, at least for its first and final chapters. What Norman does well is extract his design principles from the environment and apply them to other similar situations, making design seem accessible and provoking readers (successfully) to re-think designs around them. While his prose can become a bit smug, even his notes about computers aren't entirely foreign to modern readers, and his focus on basic technology while only stepping occasionally into the realm of the ever-changing is a solid decision that gives the book some staying power. After all, designers are still making the same mistakes. Readers of The Design of Everyday Things are apt to shout, "YES!" several times throughout the book at good examples, even if Norman's book is best suited to a shorter format and the prose disappoints.

Grade: B

Book 18: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Philosophy

2010-04-19T23:25:00.003-04:00

Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Philosophy: Fear and Trembling in Sunnydale
Edited by James B. South

This collection of thoughtful essays seeks to extrapolate some of the deep, intrinsic philosophical elements from the first six seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and present them together in a well-constructed, thoughtful, and full volume. For the most part, James B. South has assembled a solid collection of essays that comment on various different aspects of the beloved cult show, and although there can be some repetition of themes between different essays, the fact that there are some points of conflict only serves to strengthen the collection and, in turn, reflect positively on the complex nature of the show. Most striking is the volume's final essay, "Feeling for Buffy: The Girl Next Door," by Michael P. Levine and Steven Jay Schneider, which seeks to undermine Buffy scholarship first (somewhat successfully) by arguing that critics take it far too seriously; they then, however, apply an overwrought Freudian analysis to the show and destroy their own low-key, non-academic credibility, falling prey to the same narrow academic focus that draws their ire. South's decision to place this essay at the end of the collection is, I believe, a thoughtful and good one, but the work itself disappoints in its latter half and makes the whole thing go out with a whimper instead of the intended, and quite achievable (and appropriate, given Whedon & co.'s tendency to undermine everything) bang.

Other essays, however, fulfill their purposes more effectively, though many simply fit Buffy narratives into greater philosophical frameworks, using the show to illustrate philosophical principles rather than examining the philosophy of the show. One of the best essays is the first, "Faith and Plato" by Greg Forster, which provides an overview of different philosophical principles evident throughout Buffy. Along with familiar explorations of Buffy as a feminist icon and, more importantly, as a woman, the collection includes essays about the treatment of religion and science within the Buffyverse. Most illuminating, however, are the essays that stretch the lessons of Buffy and project them onto pressing moral issues. "'My God, It's Like a Greek Tragedy,'" by James B. South, successfully explores the ways in which Willow's story arcs, which disappoint so many fans of the show, illustrate a very real phenomenon and perhaps hit closer to home than viewers would like to acknowledge. Also exceptionally strong is "Justifying the Means: Punishment in the Buffyverse," wherein Jacob M. Held uses the show to argue for a utilitarian view of punishment, where punishment is meted out to produce the best overall results for society.

This essay is a good example of using Buffy as an exemplar of philosophical principles, but though interesting is far outstripped by Jason Kawal's "Should We Do What Buffy Would Do?," which uses the show to build an interesting argument about the utility of moral exemplars, let alone Buffy Summers as a specific example. Likewise seeming to undermine a bit of the mysticism ascribed to the show by Whedon worshipers is Neal King's "Brownskirts," which paints a picture of a Buffyverse not so far away from fascism. These essays are merely the highlights in a solid collection that is accessible to newcomers to philosophy and which contains respectable arguments and well-written prose throughout. The main drawback of the collection is the fact that it only covers seasons 1-6; there are a few essays where examination of season 7 would have added quite a bit to the discussion (particularly the essays on feminism and sharing the female spirit). Blame, however, cannot be placed upon the authors for this and the collection is nevertheless a good and varied testament to the merits and depth of the show. Unabashedly taking difficult subjects head on and including essays that differ in perspective and conclusions, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Philosophy offers thoughtful and enjoyable philosophical insights into the Buffyverse and our own world.

Grade: A-

Book 17: A Traveller's History of Ireland

2010-04-03T17:02:00.002-04:00

A Traveller's History of Ireland
Peter Neville

I am eagerly looking forward to traveling to Ireland this summer, and I figured it would be worth my while to seek out a quick and more or less easy history of Ireland to supplement my existing knowledge of Ireland. Neville's ambitious volume, which seeks to present Irish history from the first known settlements through the early 2000s in approximately 225 pages, accomplishes a readable and fairly comprehensive history of Ireland that strikes a good balance between hitting the important events and going into sufficient depth to prevent the book from becoming a list of places, names, and key events. That said, however, Neville does not always give sufficient definitions for the people and political parties he describes, which can get lost between chapters and even paragraphs; the book would benefit greatly from a glossary to supplement its useful timeline and lists of Irish monarchs, presidents, and prime ministers. Neville also suffers from a truly horrendous plague of exclamation points that belittle the factual credibility he attempts to gain with the transparency given to areas of contention. These small flaws ensure that A Traveller's History of Ireland is not perfect, but they do not overwhelm the utility of the text, which is clearly written and which covers enough points of Irish history with sufficient breadth and depth to provide readers with an accessible history of the island. Neville is able to present the particularly difficult history of religion in Ireland with tact, only slipping a bit as the history winds its way into the present period. The book itself is arranged into small, tidy chapters with plenty of headings and sub-headings to orient readers who may be looking at the book on the fly. Overall, A Traveller's History of Ireland is an excellent short general history of Ireland that will provide a solid base of historical understanding to its readers.

Grade: B

Book 16: SuperFreakonomics

2010-03-29T19:42:00.007-04:00

SuperFreakonomics
Steven D. Levitt & Stephen J. Dubner

The intrepid Levitt and Dubner return with this follow-up to their smash hit Freakonomics, which explored many counter-intuitive phenomena observed in the real world through the theoretical framework of economics, a premise that drives this sophomore effort. Unfortunately, Levitt and Dubner attack this intriguing idea with a ferocious sense of self, inserting themselves into every paragraph and almost shunting the actual material to the side as they gloat and provide smug asides that show just how wonderful, funny, and against the grain they run. One of the book's opening explorations, for example, actively condones drunk driving because drunk walking statistically causes more deaths (or seems to) and drunk drivers are highly unlikely to get caught. This may be true to the data (though some of their numbers are suspect, like equating the number of drunk miles driven with drunk miles walked; I suspect the two are very different numbers), but instead of exploring ways to fix this situation, the authors bask in their audacity. There are many points throughout the book where the gloating, self-aggrandizing tone becomes actually disgusting and it seems like Levitt and Dubner deliberately sought out controversial topics just so they could break the mold and undermine the dominant wisdom. I am not against this idea; in fact, I embrace open-minded thinking and novel approaches to problems, as well as being fascinated by psychology. It's just that Levitt and Dubner could be a bit more scientific in their presentation rather than trying so hard to produce forced humor that is rather juvenile and distracting.

If Levitt and Dubner want to be treated as hard-nosed scientists, they should perhaps introduce fewer snide remarks that, instead of proving how hilariously snarky they are, merely seem immature and designed to make readers see exactly how hilariously snarky they are. And though attribution and context is important, the chapter of the book that focuses on global warming essentially becomes an advertisement for a select group of scientists and their company. I've seen much more subtle ad copy, and this from two authors whose mission is to introduce scientific thinking into the mainstream. That is not to say that there isn't some intriguing science or interesting observations within; indeed, they pepper the book (sections about prostitutes in Chicago and on altruism are particularly good). SuperFreakonomics is, however, a book obsessed with itself, and some of the data seems at least slightly suspect, to say nothing of resulting observations. Unlike the scientists they claim to be and over their own self-deprecating comments in the book's introduction, Levitt and Dubner appear to have come to the book with an agenda. Sections on prostitution and altruism, as mentioned above, are worth seeking out and reading, but overall SuperFreakonomics reads like a long ego trip that isn't particularly effective and is quite unpleasant to read.

Grade: C

Book 15: Bright Lights, Big City

2010-03-22T21:04:00.052-04:00

Bright Lights, Big City
Jay McInerney

There is great authorial risk when straying from normal literary mores and conventions, particularly those involving narrators (which tend almost exclusively toward first- and third-person singular narrators, even in cases where narrative may alternate between chapters or sections). Jay McInerney, however, achieves his desired effect when utilizing the second person present tense ("you are") as the main narrative voice in his atmosphere-heavy Bright Lights, Big City. From the first sentence of the book, the use of "you" as the primary narrative voice has a disorienting effect on the reader which in this book successfully mirrors and even enhances the confusion experienced by "you" during a mad rush of cocaine- and alcohol-fueled highs and hangovers. The book is heavier on atmosphere than on plot and even character development outside of the main character, but these are enough to sustain it through its short duration. Though the third act twist is a bit unsatisfying, unexpected, and leaves some loose ends, even this uncertainty seems to echo the (ironically?) brute driving force of the novel. Despite the main character's malaise and desire to escape, that desire seems at times frantic, culminating in many sudden blackouts and accompanying breaks in the text.

This, then, is McInerney's great achievement: he has been able to take a jarring, awkward narrative voice, a flat supporting cast, an occasionally tangential and repetitive plot, sudden unexplained breaks in the narrative, and a wholly unlikely Transformative Climax Moment and spin them somehow into a compelling narrative that is, despite the annoying elements that comprise it, enjoyable to read. The evil, out-to-get-you boss may be a bit overplayed, but here it somehow fits with the tone of the novel and with the main character's general outlook on life. And to create such a well-rounded main character out of the reader solely by telling "you" what "you" think is a remarkable achievement; McInerney allows readers just enough memory-based self-exposition while utilizing outside characters' reactions and assessments to create a fully realized second-person character. So many elements herein are cliche and tired- the struggling, self-loathing writer, escaping the past in New York City- but are given fresh life in the rapid-fire pace and persuasive voice of the novel, which is tinged with just enough dark humor to sustain the desired effect without turning into brazen satire or outright silliness. This is a serious book. Bright Lights, Big City is an absorbing reading experience almost despite itself, and successfully utilizes narrative voice and pacing to create a compelling and engrossing reading experience.

Grade: A

Book 14: Songbook

2010-03-20T23:46:00.012-04:00

Songbook
Nick Hornby

I take music very seriously, in that I cannot function without music accompanying me, whether it plays as I write my assignments or silently guides my walking patterns. I love talking about music and thinking about music and, occasionally, just basking in the glory that is the perfect Lady Gaga song. To read a book like Songbook seemed a perfect fit, and while Nick Hornby has clearly crafted a labor of love, the shades of pretentiousness that seep through the gushing prose overwhelm any sense of sheer joy this collection should have rightfully achieved. The essays in this book center on a number of pop songs that illuminate different aspects of the sensibilities of "pop" music and, in some of the more personal (and moving) essays, on his life. This writing is moving and powerfully conveys the importance of music to those who cherish it and who allow music to define and shape our views of the world. Hornby invariably stumbles, however, in attempting to justify his tastes. While this self-conscious love of undeniably pop (and often as un-hip as Rod Stewart) phenomena is unbiased, Hornby's continual need to defend his choices and showcase how truly hip he really is plagues the book. In nearly every essay, Hornby finds a way to name-drop some obscure group while frantically attempting to defend his love of the simple verse/chorus/verse structure of the everyday, brilliant pop song.

It is easy to understand why Hornby would feel overly defensive about his musical tastes; this is the man, after all, who gave us High Fidelity. Having spent an entire book discussing songs that move him despite being of a different kind of quality than, say, Mozart or even the usual critical darlings, Hornby then listens to the top ten Billboard albums of July 2001 and is insultingly dismissive of Destiny's Child and Alicia Keys, as well as all of the other artists. His broad dismissal of this music confirms the reader's building suspicions, nurtured gradually throughout the book, that Hornby is, despite his most forceful objections, a music snob. Simply put, if the song means something to him, it's wonderful; a song that does not impress him, however, cannot really have any merit. This revelation also retroactively colors Hornby's past selections, which are almost deliberately subversive and, on reflection, serve to create a sense of credibility to Hornby's music taste. At its end, the book reads more like an extended apology than a love letter, a carefully calculated argument to provide the author with hipster credibility as he claims to embrace that which is lowly and popular.

This pretentiousness ultimately pervades the essays to an extent where it is far easier to deconstruct Hornby out of this book rather than construct a fresh understanding of the merits of pop songs. Though there are some wonderful song recommendations in this book and some intriguing insights into the ebb and flow of popular genres and movements throughout the years (Hornby writes with an understanding of context that illuminates his essays), Hornby's self-consciousness ultimately overwhelms the book's more literal content notes. The autobiographical notes within these essays are more often self-serving than honest, and even the interesting historical notes are presented with a holier-than-thou air of all-knowing. Songbook is a tribute to a series of important songs and moments that have influenced Nick Hornby, and there are some insights into the history of pop culture and, indeed, critical dismissal thereof that are worth finding (particularly Hornby's assertion that critics may be more effective when they are actually fans of the artist in question). Despite two passing mentions of Hanson that defend them as a worthwhile listening enterprise (which I wholeheartedly support), Songbook falls prey to the air of pretentiousness that so often clouds memoirs, essays, and music criticism.

Grade: B-

Book 13: Shanghai Girls

2010-03-19T13:54:00.016-04:00

Shanghai Girls
Lisa See

Not every book is going to capture both character and historical book as well as, say, A Tale of Two Cities; in fact, such an achievement is nearly impossible, but surely it is not too much to ask that historical fiction, even when rigorously researched, be supported by more than a skeleton highlight reel of Important Events in This Idiom. Such is the main problem with Lisa See's Shanghai Girls which, despite the depth of the research that clearly went into creating the well-described worlds of Shanghai and Los Angeles around World War II, is driven purely by a cast of egomaniacal characters and the historical merit is thrust uncomfortably to the forefront. From the second paragraph of the book, main character and narrator Pearl is revealed to be petty and self-indulgent, and things only get worse as she is exposed to harrowing adversity. Events like a prolonged gang rape are relayed in a flat, even tone, removing any power or (horrifyingly) sympathy that may arise in readers. Worse still, it seems that See is exploiting the brutal power of such a traumatic event, having characters refer to it in passing occasionally but otherwise treating it as, well, one of those things, refusing to have Pearl deal with it in a realistic or even particularly interesting way. This seemingly major plot point, like others, fades into the noise of the background and only arises when it is necessary to make a (usually petty) point.

This illustrates the fundamental problem of Shanghai Girls: its characters are horrible people and it is nearly impossible to feel any sympathy for them. Pearl and her sister May throw out the required Character Development Lines (complete with an insultingly predictable and unconvincing Reversal of Understanding Argument at the book's utterly dissatisfying climax) without showing any real growth throughout the novel. Instead of feeling sorry for Pearl and her (unbelievably) even more petulant younger sister May, or even feeling sympathy for the terrible trials they see as they flee war-torn Shanghai for the horrors of the mid-century Chinese immigration experience, readers want to reach into the book and slap some sense into these weak and petty women, who hilariously seem to be seen by their delusional author as Strong Role Models. Most egregiously awful is Pearl's uncanny ability to forget her own opinions and See's propensity for one-liners of the very worst kind. One moment, Pearl laments her lack of advancement in America. Fair enough, but not when a few pages later sees her unflinchingly proud of all she has achieved; reversals like this (and Pearl goes back and forth without retrospective insight) are lazy and plague the novel, taking an important and often ignored immigrant narrative and using the worst possible kind of characters to represent it.

I understand some of what See was trying to do; obviously, immigrant narratives are rich with the tension between a desire for assimilation and love for one's home country and culture. There are ways, however, to write about this conflict without petulance and there are ways to deal with the ambiguity of these complex emotions without the black-and-white platitudes that populate this novel. One moment Pearl's father-in-law is an unrepentant dick and the next they reach An Understanding of Each Other; this, too, may reflect some elements of real life but for the rest of the novel Pearl is 100% understanding of the man and never shows any shades of gray in her estimation of him. This is absolutely maddening, especially when placed in the hands of an annoying narrator. See's choice of present tense for the sweeping book, which sees decades pass in awkwardly phrased catch-up sentences, is disastrous and makes no sense, often inducing confusion when the narrative leaps so quickly to reach its next Illustration of History. I believe that Lisa See's heart is fundamentally in the right place, and that her decision to tell a difficult story is brave, but the execution in Shanghai Girls is terrible. There are interesting descriptions of place and moments where even the narration cannot stand in the way of powerful events occurring (see especially Pearl and May's time on Angel Island), but ultimately my distaste for these two women made Shanghai Girls a real struggle to get through. The sibling tension is over-hyped, the narration is terrible, and Shanghai Girls suffers from interesting content matter, good research, and horrible storytelling.

Grade: C-

Book 12: Lush Life

2010-03-14T15:02:00.004-04:00

Lush Life
Richard Price

I bought this book at the Strand in New York, after realizing that I had neglected to pack a book for my Spring Break trip; what better, I thought, to set the mood than a gritty murder mystery set in the city I was exploring? Lush Life is just the kind of book I was looking for, a rich mystery with layers of character depth and an unflinching portrayal of the class conflict engulfing neighborhoods like Manhattan's Lower East Side. Lush Life may attempt a bit too earnestly at times to enhance the conflict between those living in the projects and the shadow of the neighborhood's tenement past and the ultra-cool hipsters who use the grime as a marker of credibility, putting it into the words of his characters or, worse, in his exposition instead of allowing it to develop more naturally. For the most part, however, Price nails character development in a way very rarely seen in mystery novels. Each of his characters leaps off the page in full three-dimensional reality, and its easy to underscore the praise he receives for his dialogue, which is entirely realistic and which beautifully serves its dual purposes of advancing the plot and developing the characters speaking and responding.

Likewise, Price's decision to tell Lush Life with a shifting third-person focus rounds out his Lower East Side, presenting each of its entangled worlds and characters with a first-person familiarity that rounds out the complete picture of modern New York. We understand at once the necessary persistence of detectives Matty and Yolanda and the way that it slowly deteriorates Eric Cash. We understand the quiet desperation of the gunman while watching the havoc it wreaks on the murder victim's father. All bases are covered and what readers experience is akin to these stories as they manifest themselves in the real world. There is clearly a sense of right and wrong throughout the novel but there is also a hint of something more, a glimpse at the system that produces senseless killings like the one in the novel without heavy-handed moralizing or long soliloquies from the author. The characters get into this kind of discussion from time to time, but these discussions appear mostly to be in the vein of the characters and, with a few exceptions, do not infringe upon the story being told. Though the crime at its core is simple and the resolution quick as it comes, Lush Life excels as a study of New York's Lower East Side and the complex ecology of characters that inhabit it. Richard Price presents an unapologetic glimpse into this neighborhood and into the effects that murder has on the human psyche in many forms.

Grade: A

Book 11: All-Star Superman

2010-03-11T22:09:00.013-05:00

All-Star Superman
by Grant Morrison and Frank Quitely

All-Star Superman is intended by and large as a re-imagining of the man who may be the world's best known and most popular superhero and is designed for readers who are at least familiar with the general ebb and flow of the Superman comics throughout the years, summing up his origin story in 1-3 pages and including a wealth of in-jokes for those well-versed in the comic's history. How do I know this? I was lucky enough to experience All-Star Superman as a book club suggestions, and the room was filled with a lively discussion about the way that this two-part book fits into the Superman canon (quite well, from what I gathered). As an absolute newcomer to the comic, however, who has never even seen any of the movies, I felt a bit lost throughout the book, which is not an ideal entry point for n00bs like myself. The art was sufficient and the overall story arc, which involves Superman facing the fact of morality, is an interesting direction in which to take a long-lived and beloved character. This story, however, takes a backseat to various cameo appearances of other Superman adventures, and while the uninitiated can appreciate the thematic effects of the appearance of a gaggle of Superman doppelgangers, issue-long diversions do not add any real depth to the overall story and serve only to distract. All-Star Superman may be a rare treat for long-time fans of the Man of Steel, but those new to the legend may be better served by boning up on Superman's history before approaching this patchwork book.

Grade: B

Book 10: Rock Bottom

2010-02-24T22:48:00.012-05:00

Rock Bottom
Michael Shilling

Blurbs are usually somewhat uninformative, simply self-serving little sentences praising a work. The information available on the cover of Michael Shilling's Rock Bottom, however, is quite revealing, including blurbs from colleagues at Michigan and proclamations that, due to the fact that he was once in a Rawk Band, Shilling Totally Gets It, Dude. While there is certainly a can-do spirit about the novel, which chronicles the awesome rise and demise of a four-piece joke outfit, the over-eagerness and author's desperate search for credibility are its most striking aspects. Yes, more striking than the constant over-the-top attempts to gross-out the audience (really, the bass player's eczema is overplayed) and his brave (and annoying) attempt to use the word "fuck" in every single sentence of his book. It's very easy to see what Shilling gets wrong, from hopelessly stereotypical characters to the clear fact that the book is obviously a Mary Sue-type experience for its author, but there is some talent throughout. Shilling takes five characters who loathe each other and alternates the narrative's perspective to make each of them, except for the bass player, Bobby, more or less sympathetic in a matter of minutes. This ambiguity is the truest chord struck by the novel, which shows many sides of a situation without calling undue attention to the fact that it's doing it.

Overall, however, it's hard to really appreciate this novel. Interesting enough and with its moments of wit (and occasional good digs at showbiz), Shilling's authorial flaws simply draw too much attention to themselves. Constantly referring to his characters as "the singer" or "the guitar player" in places where names or pronouns would be more than sufficient, Shilling comes off as pretentious, an air echoed when he mangles the renegade sex-maniac drummer's Coming of Age experience. The author's desperate desires to be at once Very Cool and Hip and a Good Writer collide often in this novel, with hilariously wrong depictions of the world of rock and roll, particularly a party scene so disjointed that it seems nearly impossible Shilling has ever been to a party in his life. Strangely, however, despite its structural flaws and obvious wannabe attitude, Rock Bottom is oddly compelling. Shilling does bring to life a cast of characters who are, despite their typecasting, interesting enough to follow around Amsterdam for a day. Rock Bottom has its moments of great humor and insight, and deftly handles its multiple perspectives. This book may be laughably far away from the real thing, but there are glimpses of wit and talent and, overall, the ride isn't so bad...until the hangover.

Grade: B-