Book 20: Chicago Blues

Chicago Blues

Edited by Libby Fischer Hellmann

Though I will only be calling Chicago home for another week or so, there is something about the city that has drawn me in and captivated me. New York and Los Angeles may be larger, but Chicago has a culture and a sprawling history all its own. Libby Fischer Hellmann may not have taken a drastic logical leap when realizing that the city in its various forms provides a perfect, ready-made backdrop for mystery stories- or when suggesting that this atmosphere is also particularly conducive to blues music- but the resulting volume, Chicago Blues, is a fitting ode to the city's darker moods. The stories themselves are a bit uneven and rarely helped by Hellmann's decision to group them thematically; the editor's heavy hand is most evident, perhaps fittingly, in the first and final sections. Though readers familiar with blues music and Chicago's importance to the genre will feel immediately at home, this opening salvo can easily turn off readers who are less well versed in this aspect of the city's history; the first few stories seem to require an unspoken knowledge and readers cannot be blamed for wondering whether the remainder of the volume will be the same. Similarly, while it is amusing that two authors contributed stories that take place on Lower Wacker Drive, placing them in direct succession at the book's end does a disservice to both. Both Brian Pinkerton's "Lower Wacker Blues" and Barbara D'Amato's "The Lower Wacker Hilton" do an excellent job of evoking the spookiness of their unique shared locale, but they seem to fade into one another despite being entirely different types of stories, leaving the reader unsatisfied and forcing the collection to go out with a disappointing whimper.

Editorial mistakes aside, this is a strong and varied collection that includes both the expected police procedurals and more contemplative stories that use crime and criminality as a jumping-off point rather than a central theme. The more typical stories, most of which are executed well enough to keep readers interested during the act of reading them, are punctuated by a few standout stories that resonate, largely due to excellent finales: Michael A. Black's "Chasing the Blues" brilliantly hides its emotional core in a solemn last line following a series of brash recollections by a long-serving cop; Sam Hill's "The Sin-eater" gradually reveals its true nature to its protagonist and reader at a similar slow-burning pace; and Sam Reaves's mafia-infused "The Test" keeps readers hooked despite (or perhaps because of) its reliance on old mafioso stereotypes. Many of the other stories may be relatively humdrum examples of their particular genre, but that genre begins from a point of strength with its focus on plot, and only one or two of the stories herein are truly bad.

For a collection with few distinguishing characteristics and fewer truly remarkable stories, Chicago Blues is noteworthy for its authors' clear understanding of- and affection for- the city. As natives and/or residents of Chicagoland, they don't limit themselves to the city's more iconic locales, which gives their contributions a kind of gritty credibility. As a recent transplant myself, I was pleased to see successful cameos by the Chicago Cubs, Jack Ruby, and my (marginal) local L stop. The characters, like the city's residents, run the gamut from old-timey syndicate criminals to high-powered executives, and though the plots may feel recycled at times most crime aficionados and casual readers alike should find enough within to sustain their interest. Chicago Blues may not be an exceptionally well-curated collection, but it does offer several welcome glimpses into the city's criminal tendencies.

Grade: B

Book 19: The Giver

The Giver

Lois Lowry

The Giver is undoubtedly my favorite book of all time, and it has been since I first read its incomparable final sentence. I revisited it after a long absence after reading a number of articles about the recent movie adaptation and I was, as expected, just as enthralled as I was as a preteen in the late '90s. The movie that runs in my own head is the same as the one I first envisioned so long ago, the characters as familiar to me as any from the books I've read more recently. As with most books that completely blow you out of the water, it's hard to say what, exactly, it is that makes The Giver so great, both as a gateway book into the world(s) of dystopian fiction and as a novel in its own right. Upon reflection, I think that the great power of the book lies in its simplicity, which sets it apart from the glut of similar stories. There is something to be said for the subtle cruelty Lowry's imagined community of Sameness and the way she presents it; who is the story's villain when it seems that the people have done this to themselves? More importantly, though, would the people make the same choice if they knew that they even had a choice to make in the first place? Lowry's great talent is that she writes accessible fiction for preteens and young teenagers that doesn't shy away from tangled ambiguities that are capable of tantalizing an adult mind accustomed to such stories, worlds, and problems.

Unlike many of its peers, The Giver doesn't rely on excessive moralization or on polarized views of Right and Wrong; though we have a hero in Jonas, it's not quite clear who the villains should be, or if they are even to blame for their misdeeds. More importantly, Jonas is a relatable dystopian hero, a boy of twelve who acts like a boy of twelve might in a similar situation, reflecting a younger readership's desire to file things neatly away despite the real world's reluctance to be so easily compressed and understood. As he experiences the greater complexity of the world beyond all that he has ever known, Jonas tends to approach problems first as black and white (ha), though they are always far more complex than the easiest, most comfortable conclusions might suggest. Lowry balances Jonas's (and the reader's) shoot-from-the-hip assumptions with the Giver's hard-earned wisdom, which forces Jonas (and reader alike) to fully appreciate the difficulty and depth of the problems he confronts. Rather than presenting a dystopia with a clear sense of good and bad and ugly, she writes about a future world that is just as messy as the one we currently occupy. Lowry's not one to pull punches, either, and the book includes fully realized depictions of physical and emotional pain, to say nothing of heart-wrenching tales of Release and examples of Jonas becoming quickly ostracized from his community, forced to play a role that is unexpectedly thrust upon him.

I think a large part of the book's greatness and a the fundamental reason for the enduring impression it has left on many readers is Lowry's refusal to condescend to her readership and her reliance on- and trust in- her readers' intelligence. The book's community is defined not with the broad strokes of expository authorial meddling but rather with a careful use of language and real-time examples. It is no accident that the book opens with Jonas carefully distinguishing fear and apprehension, and even when linguistic mishaps are played for laughs they reveal much about the way the characters- and the communities around them- operate. The language Jonas, his family, and friends use explains so much about the way they (have been taught to) view the world around them, and it offers even young readers quick and easy insight into the community's values and structure. And, importantly, our introduction to the community is as pleasant as Jonas's; on some level, it does seem like a pleasant place to live, again unlike the easy-to-hate hells that populate similar books.

If, then, the great strength of The Giver is the ambiguity that fuels its world-building, character development, and plot, there is no greater testament to its genius than its final sentence. It is a haunting, piercing piece of prose that so perfectly encapsulates all that came before it, though it alternately leaves the impression of the happiest and most tragic possible outcomes. Within the context of the book alone, it is, after all, impossible to know what really happened to Jonas, and each of the most popular interpretations offers a satisfying conclusion. Whether or not this final ambiguity is as intentional as the other examples found throughout the book, it is as fitting a conclusion as I've read, up there with (but existing as a sort of counterpoint to) the eerie finality of 1984's parting words. I don't for a minute believe that it is literary nostalgia alone that draws me back to this book time and again; perhaps its great power lies in the careful weight of every incident, every example, every carefully chosen word, or perhaps it is the book's unflinching devotion to hard truths and its resulting emotional core that drew me in and keep me there. Perhaps it is something else entirely. Regardless, it is, and remains, my perennial favorite. For me, The Giver simply is, as it always has been...back and back and back. 

Grade: A

Book 18: All the Light We Cannot See

All the Light We Cannot See

Anthony Doerr

I just finished this book moments ago and, while I'm sure that I loved it, I'm not quite sure what can be said about it; after all, I usually hate books like this, books that so prize style that plot falls by the wayside, forgotten. Not so with All the Light We Cannot See, in which Anthony Doerr proves that high-minded, poetic prose is, in fact, quite compatible with a compelling plot, fully realized characters, and the numerous other qualities that make the best novels rise above the remainder and lodge themselves permanently in your brain. Immediately after finishing this book, I wanted to pick it up and begin all over again, to lose myself again in Doerr's haunting prose that so perfectly captures both the depth of the darkness that fell over Europe in the 1930s and 1940s and the small beams of hope, of humanity that somehow managed to shine through, however tenuous their gleam. All of the standard clichés apply here and words like "transcendent" wouldn't seem ill-applied to this novel, whose lyrical, haunting prose lingers in my mind. Every sentence is a poem, yet, unlike so many other books with similar aspirations, the words combine to conjure characters the reader can care about and a plot that provides the story with essential motion, particularly through the use of carefully weighted cliffhangers.

All the Light We Cannot See could go wrong in so many ways, but somehow Doerr manages to use every potential pitfall to his advantage. Though book's brief chapters quickly alternate between Nazi Germany and pre- and post-occupation France, the twin stories are easy to follow, anchored firmly by the use of integrated flash-forwards to (or perhaps flashbacks from?) a few pivotal days in August 1944, which provide the novel's emotional and thematic climax. Time progresses at uncertain intervals, racing along and stalling at the author's whim, but Doerr provides just the right amount of context to keep everything from running together. Perhaps Doerr's most remarkable feat is his successful deployment of present-tense prose; though the book begins in 1944 and looks backward and forward and backward again, every moment feels suspended in its own time- aided, no doubt, by the sheer poetic weight carried by every word. I cannot say for certain how the risky narrative choice achieves its desired effect, but somehow the tense of urgency slows this story down and allows readers to be present in every moment.

Fundamentally, what Doerr has done in All the Light We Cannot See is not new- it is a World War II story that places the fundamental question of morality at its beating center, looking deep into the heart of a Wehrmacht soldier's path to France and at a young Parisian refugee's experiences on the Brittany coast- but somehow every page bears revelations that somehow feel new despite decades of literature exploring and re-exploring seemingly every aspect of the war. The twin themes of light and darkness are further illuminated by Doerr's rather blunt decision to make one of his main characters medically blind and his far more subtle explorations of willful blindness; wisps of metaphor are planted throughout the book, stronger than suggestions but mercifully left for the reader to discover and parse. Even the book's more cliché elements become new again in Doerr's hands, and the remarkable coincidence that ties the book's disparate threads together seems perfectly suited for an era so adequately defined by the thoroughness of its chaos.

All the Light We Cannot See contains elements of this chaos but is grounded and ordered by its author's formidable literary talents. Even after trying to rationalize my complete and utter fascination with this book and the trance it held over me, I can't say what, exactly, makes the book succeed. Even an ending that feels drawn out and unnecessarily (if not quite garishly) sentimental against the backdrop of the rest of the novel failed to break the hold it had (and even still has) over me. At its core, the book is a war novel that is deeply concerned with human kindness but that overcomes the base sentimentality that often chokes similar forays into the redeemable aspects of the human spirit; it is a quick-moving story told at an elegiac pace, ruminating and demanding careful attention as it moves readers forward; it is the embodiment of what literary fiction aspires to be while remaining accessible; it asks readers to consider the big questions but is never for a moment condescending. And, most importantly, All the Light We Cannot See possesses that bit of literary magic that somehow obscures the source of its greatness.

Grade: A

Book 17: Last Call

Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition

Daniel Okrent

I've been meaning to read this since a coworker recommended it to me about two jobs ago, and now that I've finally gotten around to it I must say that it was worth the wait. There's nothing earth-shattering about Daniel Okrent's thousand-foot view of Prohibition- which covers the early marginalized social movements that cascaded into a constitutional amendment, the culture and characters spawned by that legislation, and some of its lasting effects (suffice it to say that the law of unintended consequences plays a significant role in that particular chapter)- but he has successfully distilled his subject, locating and elaborating on both its most fundamental elements and those that persist in the popular imagination. Al Capone and Joe Kennedy naturally make cameo appearances (how could they not?), but the narrative (rightfully) focuses on some of the forgotten characters who defined the era in its own time, such as Mabel Willebrandt and the Bronfman family. There's an entire chapter devoted to the cultural impact of Prohibition (my personal favorite part of the book) that hews closely to the established modern perspective of the era, but Okrent focuses his book not only on the speakeasies and bootleggers but also on the (legal!) cider and "sacramental" wine that also helped to saturate the dry-in-name-only 1920s United States. This marriage of the known, the assumed, and the vital-but-nearly-lost-to-the-dustbin-of-history helps to create one of the most enlightening, yet entertaining, popular histories I've ever encountered, to say nothing of Okrent's wry sense of humor and his always sarcastic, often hilarious, and rarely intrusive asides.

Okrent's account of Prohibition is at once accessible and academic; he does not sacrifice substance for style and doesn't dumb down some of the more arcane aspects of his subject as much as relate them to the casual modern reader. A basic understanding of the constitutional history of federal versus state power, individual rights versus the government's interest in protecting the people at large, and other ongoing conflicts is crucial to fully appreciating the scope and impact of Prohibition; Okrent ignores the temptation to gloss over these battle and describes them by placing them within the context of the events in his book, illustrating both the issues themselves and the shape of the era. The result is a lucid account that informs without adopting the posturing so common to written histories, even from those that claim to appeal to the masses, and a book that meets its target readers- the casual history buff- where they are without imposing judgment. The research behind the book is evident in its thoroughness and its lengthy series of endnotes, but it permeates the book without any of the snottiness that often accompanies such books. Last Call is a rare popular history that is amusing and educational, an enjoyable book that has left me with a sense that I have a much better grasp on the Prohibition era than I did before: and, after all, what more could you possibly want from this book?

Grade: A

Book 16: Rally 'Round the Flag

Rally 'Round the Flag: Chicago and the Civil War

Theodore J. Karamanski

Though it has recently become apparent that I will soon be leaving my recently adopted town, I still feel a strong connection to Chicago and its history. After attending a library-sponsored event about Camp Douglas and realizing that I should keep up on my American history, I picked up Rally 'Round the Flag. All told, I wasn't really disappointed, which is kind of an endorsement. Though the book does have some fundamental flaws (alas), it doesn't fall prey to many of the pitfalls of that particular brand of nonfiction that aims academic inquiries toward the general public. What author Theodore J. Karamanski does is make the war era accessible, conjuring the muddy streets of Chicago and its people despite focusing on a few standout themes and individuals. Though he spends quite a bit of time focusing (probably unnecessarily so) on the Republican Party convention of 1860 and the kind of favors and bargaining that drove mid-century, he manages to do so in a way that is interesting and more or less understandable to the uninitiated. Throughout the book, Karamanski's descriptions of war-era Chicago are vivid and accessible, and he is always careful to attempt to place the people and events of his narrative in their proper historical context.

It is a shame, then, that Karamanski allows the book's thematic organization to overshadow some of the narrative threads he so carefully develops. The book is littered with non-sequiturs occurring both after and without section breaks; whether the printers simply missed a few page-ending breaks is unknown, but as a result the book often becomes choppy and confusing. Its most egregious error comes at the end of the Camp Douglas chapter, where Karamanski builds suspense (yes, nonfiction historical accounts can thrive on suspense (and the good ones often do!)) only to dissipate it by shifting abruptly away into another chapter. His thematic organization is a great idea given his general audience and does follow a general timeline that serves his story, but here he strangely adheres to chronology where he could have continued the story within the chapter or moved the chapter entirely- after all, it and the opening installment are the pieces that stand strongest on their own. Nonetheless, Karamanski is an academic who is refreshingly aware of his audience without condescending to him, and his history is explanatory without being condescending. If even I am on board with the descriptions of economic affairs, you know the author is doing something right. All told, Rally 'Round the Flag is, apart from a few non-sequiturs, a well-researched and engaging history of one of the country's fastest-emerging cities during its most troubling times.

Grade: B+

Book 15: Amped

Amped

Daniel H. Wilson

Despite being somewhat disappointed in Robopocalypse, I decided to give Daniel H. Wilson's novel Amped a chance, as the premise seemed solid and the narrative structure more straightforward than in the previous novel. And indeed, Amped does have a blockbuster premise, delivered with Wilson's obvious knowledge and enthusiasm: what happens when people can get brain implants to control certain medical conditions, and how does our attitude change when those same implants directly impact intellectual abilities? At first, it seems as though Amped will engage these topics in a meaningful way, given the narrator's first-hand experiences with these brain-enhancing "amps" and the inclusion of invented primary source materials (such as excerpts from Supreme Court decisions, legislation, and speeches); unfortunately, however, it all starts to come apart with Wilson's inability to effectively juggle thriller-paced plotlines with his intended level of introspection. Readers are left with a book that sits uncomfortably between genres: never quite thrilling, but not consistently philosophical enough to be particularly intellectually engaging. This is a shame; the first chapters are engrossing and, though they employ some stereotypical clichés, there is enough inherent promise in the premise to encourage readers along. After all, there's no need to reinvent the wheel in every novel.

As the book proceeds, however, it loses sight of its philosophical implications and becomes disjointed in an apparent attempt to become more action-oriented. Never mind that Wilson, whose narrator is wonderfully aware of ethical ambiguity early on, drops a bombshell that, while not unexpected, is never really engaged philosophically. This creates a kind of abrupt shift in tone and expectations; rather than a thoughtful exploration of what makes humans, well, human, the novel is reduced to the level of a brainless shooter. What's worse, Wilson maintains the pretension of philosophical engagement throughout the book, making the narrator's occasional intellectual curiosity seem at odds his actions (and, indeed, the story he's in) and creating a book that's seemingly at war with itself. Thus, while the faux-historical documentation seemed like an effective way to deal with necessary and enriching exposition between the first few chapters, it serves only to break up clumsy, unresolved cliffhangers later in the book. Far too often, readers leave a chapter with the hero dangling metaphorically on the ledge of destruction, only to discover a dry (but usually passable enough) imitation of a news report on the opposing page, dispelling any suspense. To compound his sins, Wilson often fails to adequately return to the scene of the action; most of the later chapters' cliffhangers are resolved off-screen, so to speak, resulting in a thriller that isn't thrilling at its climax and a philosophical science fiction novel that refuses to deal with the most interesting implications of its central technology. In the end, despite a strong premise, an encouraging start, and a few moments of promise, Amped falls flat and is ultimately disappointing.

Grade: B-

Book 14: Agents of Treachery

Agents of Treachery

Edited by Otto Penzler

With a sort of hectic work schedule (this is my 16th-straight day at one of my two jobs), I figured that a short story collection would be a wise selection for my next book. I was immediately attracted to Agents of Treachery because of my fondness for spy stories and my present reluctance to get involved with lengthy, ongoing series; I have always enjoyed the few espionage stories that crop up in the Best American Mystery Stories volumes from time to time, and I figured that an entire collection of high stakes escapism would be right up my alley. Happily, I was entirely correct. Though shades of Charles McCarry's "The End of the String" and James Grady's "Destiny City" (both absolutely excellent) were familiar to me because I had read the corresponding Best American volume, I enjoyed being drawn into these worlds again, particularly in the latter story, and found them just as suspenseful as upon first reading. There is, in fact, only one total dud in the book, Lee Child's "Section 7(A) (Operational)," which is filled to the brim throughout until an absolutely awful failed attempt at a gotcha ending- if that's even what it is.

Child's clumsiness is highlighted by those stories that successfully pull off the kind of plot twists and surprise revelations that make the best spy fiction work, even when they're a bit obvious, and many of the stories have pitch-perfect finales that made me want to immediately re-read them. Chief among these are James Finder's "Neighbors," a humorous take on modern paranoia, and "Father's Day," which offers a devastating glimpse of  the War on Terror. Likewise, Olen Steinhauer's "You Know What's Going On is a standout for its parallel narrative structure that proves, yet again, that oft-maligned "genre" fiction deserves far more credit than it gets and that good literature can be innovative, emotionally resonant, and, you know, entertaining. "The Interrogator" is an excellent example of this kind of self-aware fiction, using suspenseful story elements, a familiar genre setting, and a suitably ambiguous ending to form a moral exploration of interrogation methods. Many of the authors use more cloak and less dagger, but there stories are only the better for it, expertly balancing the fun of escapism with the moral ambiguity of the postmodern world. All told, editor Otto Penzler's all-star lineup exceeds all expectations, and Agents of Treachery offers an enchanting variety of spies, settings, and stories sure to please most readers.

Grade: A

Book 13: The First Tycoon

The First Tycoon: the Epic Life of Cornelius Vanderbilt

T. J. Stiles

Even though I've spent much of the past four years significantly immersed in 19th-century U.S. history, I realized upon picking up The First Tycoon that I knew very little about Cornelius Vanderbilt beyond a vague sense that he was one of the country's most successful robber barons. According to the pleasantly enlightening biographical note that T. J. Stiles appends to his meticulously researched biography of the transportation titan, this is partially due to the fact that Vanderbilt receives surprisingly little academic attention, especially relative to the class of magnates (the household names Carnegie, Rockefeller, and Morgan come to mind) that followed in his wake. Despite the fact that Vanderbilt has seemingly become merely an historical footnote, Stiles effectively utilizes the facts of Vanderbilt's life to highlight the sweeping economic and social changes that his subject experienced and influenced throughout his lengthy tenure as a steamship and railroad executive.

Indeed, if there is a primary complaint to be made about the book, it is that Stiles focuses almost exclusively on Vanderbilt's extensive economic endeavors, often ignoring his personal life or interrupting otherwise compelling narratives of personal feuds, corporate takeovers, and civil wars (not just ours) with non-sequitur anecdotes. Though Stiles attempts to relate these brief notes into relevant points of the greater narrative (and makes it quite clear that there exists little evidence of the man's personal life and private relationships), they often seem a bit ham-fisted; there surely could have been a more effective way of integrating them into the larger portrait of Vanderbilt. Likewise, Stiles seems fond of dropping foreshadowing hints before brief and long breaks alike, making it sometimes difficult to follow the thread of a particular story or business relationship across several chapters. His adherence to chronology does, however, give the book crucial momentum despite the inherent difficulties Stiles faces in relating stories that are strikingly similar to one another and that rely heavily on complex financial maneuvers that are almost certainly foreign to the bulk of his readership. This momentum, along with the author's consistent focus on his subject's forceful personality, make the book a strikingly readable account of business history that rarely becomes boring even to the uninitiated (such as myself).

The book's economic approach to Vanderbilt's life, though obviously warranted, necessitates frequent explanations and asides regarding the rapidly changing economic and political context of his times. Stiles handles these admirably, and the book is as enlightening for its insights into the world of 19th-century social customs and financial systems as it is for its retellings of Vanderbilt's various professional achievements. He clearly had a general audience in mind while writing the book, yet he strikes the right balance between explaining the obvious and becoming mired in tedious (and unnecessary) details. Some of the intricacies involved in stock maneuvers continue to elude my understanding in spite of his best efforts, but given my personal history with attempts to understand the period's economic theory I'm not sure it's quite fair to blame Stiles for that; in fact, he should be lauded for his success in making some of this stuff actually make sense to my notoriously business-averse mind. Those familiar with the era's politics will recognize and appreciate the ways in which Jacksonian laissez faire radicalism gradually became more stringent Democratic conservatism over the course of Vanderbilt's considerably influential career, and Stiles includes plenty of relevant context for those approaching the era decades after their high school history classes.

All told, Stiles has put together a compelling academic study of a man and his contemporary context that is far from dry, despite relying on the intricate economics of business deals for many of its most potent plot points. Somehow, in his hands the story of Cornelius Vanderbilt is continually compelling, both a vivid portrait of the man and a reasonably nonpartisan exploration of the monumental economic, political, and social changes he saw- and significantly contributed to- throughout his lifetime. The First Tycoon is a well-written, unapologetically academic, and appealing history, representing an admirable (and largely successful) attempt to understand the seemingly inextricable history of both Cornelius Vanderbilt and the economic climate of the 19th-century United States.

Grade: A-

Book 12: Comedy in a Minor Key

Comedy in a Minor Key

Hans Keilson (Translated by Damion Searls)

All books, to some extent, reflect the period in which they were written, and I thus find stories written around the time of major historical events to be particularly interesting. Having lived in the occupied Netherlands during World War II, Hans Keilson automatically brings a certain amount of authenticity to his work about the Nazi era, and Comedy in a Minor Key retains a particular kind of war-weary weight despite being published a couple of years after the end of the war. The novella traffics in a kind of weariness, conveyed through its consistently elegiac tone and its use of meandering sentences that frequently drop off into flashbacks or flashforwards. Past recollections blend in seamlessly with the problems of the novel's present, and everything coexists as though the characters and readers alike are experiencing a dream. This narrative structure fits the mood, themes, and plot perfectly, and when a particular phrase is repeated early in the book it seems like a particularly insightful testament to the banality and repetition of life in- and, to a certain extent, out of- wartime (I am not aware whether Keilson repeated the words verbatim or whether it is the translator's interpretation). None of the characters are explored in particular depth, but as the novella concentrates on an otherwise ordinary Dutch couple who agree to take in a Jewish refugee the vagueness actually reinforces the story's already considerable emotional power. Comedy in a Minor Key is a beautifully written (and aptly titled) contemplation of aspects of daily life under Nazi occupation, made more powerful by Keilson's decision to narrow his focus and subtly concentrate on the everyday heroics that occur when people simply decide to do the right thing.

Grade: A

Book 11: Worst. Person. Ever.

Worst. Person. Ever.

Douglas Coupland

Ever the master of cynical witticisms, Douglas Coupland's latest offering is full of the sarcasm one comes to expect from his works; unfortunately, however, this particular book relies too heavily on shock value and too little on effective plotting or character development. I've read several of Coupland's books and usually appreciate his biting insights, but Worst. Person. Ever. falls flat for me for a number of reasons. First and foremost among these is the penultimate plot twist, which is yet another in a series of unfortunate events to befall our narrator, Raymond, who is a truly loathsome creature indeed. But this twist, just when it seems that things might turn out okay for this utterly despicable man, is unnecessary and handled in such a way that it is easily the most offensive moment in a novel narrated by an unrepentant misogynist. My main problem with the "joke" is the way it is handled: just after Raymond encounters the pivotal fact, there is an abrupt chapter break and scene change, without comment. This exposes the author's belief that the audience will inherently understand (and implicitly agree) that, yes, this is a terrible turn of events that Changes Everything. I'm not one to call for political correctness for its own sake (or I wouldn't have made it past the book's second paragraph), but the implication that this particular characteristic supersedes every other aspect of the character's personality is at best a mishandled criticism of the attitude that the book itself accidentally fosters and at worst an outright hateful. Of course Raymond believes this turn of events disqualifies him from a happy ending (and on some level I can appreciate the character's consistency), but the fact that his feeling remains unstated requires that readers agree- and gives the book a sour aftertaste for those who absolutely do not.

Similarly, I assume (or at least desperately hope) that the novel is an attempt to comment on (rather than endorse) the abhorrent views that Raymond and his ilk espouse through exaggeration and hyperbole. In a way, the entire novel is a joke based on Raymond's initial affirmation in his belief in karma- and indeed, it is pleasant to see him constantly getting the comeuppance he so richly deserves, often in spades. However, it is sometimes difficult to parse the novel's rampant misogyny, and I would have hoped that Coupland would do more to deliberately call out and undercut Raymond's more odious beliefs and statements. I appreciate the neat trick Coupland pulls in making the reader almost want to root for this utterly horrid individual, and the consistency of Raymond's voice and character, but despite the book's obvious satirical take on the subject matter it leaves a lingering feeling of discomfort.

Despite its flaws, Worst. Person. Ever. is occasionally very funny and does display traces of Coupland's signature wit, as deployed in his best work. Here is an author who has a very pointed view of the modern world, and I always welcome his insights on subjects as diverse as the ideology behind reality show casting, pollution, the use of nuclear weapons, and Americans' vocal public distaste for f-bombs. At times I literally laughed out loud or silently smiled in absolute agreement. Likewise, some (but by no means all) of the plot twists are equally well conceived as things manage to go from terrible to somehow worse. Some, however, are far too bizarre even for a novel so clearly devoted to the utterly absurd. The humor is intended to be over-the-top, but it still must be delivered with a modicum of restraint that Coupland (and his editors) seem to lack; many elements of the story are so completely random that they end up distracting the reader. There's nothing wrong with having a number of very clever and outlandish ideas, but trying to cram them all into a novel (even a novel like this) rarely works to the book's best advantage. Thus the book contains one of the funniest and most bitingly satirical uses of nuclear weapons this side of Dr. Strangelove, as well as a completely unsatisfying, abrupt ending that rankles regardless of the reader's opinion of Raymond's own satisfaction with this conclusion. For every good idea in the book there are a handful of less effective sneers and would-be jokes that fall flat and detract from the narrative.

Though the novel is crammed with the type of caricatured (yet individualized) individuals one expects from this type of romp, there is a severe drop-off from the well-realized Raymond to the other main players. The idea for the primary sidekick- a previously homeless man who turns out (naturally) to be a total babe magnet- is solid and rife with opportunities for genuinely funny jokes, but the potential is wasted as Coupland runs this good idea (like so many others in the book) into a cliff. This character takes on traits and knowledge whenever the author deems it convenient, and though I know better than to assume that the book will be particularly realistic I still found myself frustrated by these far too common incidents. The lack of a straight man hurts the novel and ultimately contributes to a sense of utter ridiculousness that renders much of its insights moot. There are pleasant aspects of the novel (the integration of humorous factoid "sticky notes" is a nice callback to the footnotes of Generation X), but ultimately it lacks consistency outside of its main character's devotion to horrible ideologies. Worst. Person. Ever. contains glimpses of Coupland's genius and a few truly hilarious observations and situations, but overall the book is far too scatterbrained (and actually offensive) to make a positive lasting impression.

Grade: C